#a frayed thread of hope has been and is still about two or three chapters away from completion.

[wanderingchocolateeclair]

*gripping the google docs for my fics* why won't you write yourself you f u ck

[the-painted-siren]

Glass Houses

Chapter 2 of Serpents and Shadows <<Previous Chapter Next Chapter>>

Summary: Lloyd wakes up, safe within the walls of the monastery and his family’s embrace. Or so it seems.

Funny thing about this chapter. It got so long that I had to split it in two. Which, along with the fact that I added three more chapters to the outline, means more content for everyone. Isn’t that great?

Warnings in the tags, be sure to read them if you think something might upset you. This fic’s rating is T.

When Lloyd wakes, it’s to the scent of cool mountain air. Sunlight, warm and gentle, pools across his body in an encompassing wave. A breath works through his lungs, rising and falling with his chest. Slowly, the bear beginnings of a smile pull at his lips as all the sounds of the monastery hum around him, full of life.

‘Alive, alive, alive,’ he chants to himself. 

By some sheer miracle, he and his teammates made it through the Oni's invasion completely intact. Even when they'd been on their last fraying threads of hope, even when they'd thought they'd lost it all—even when Cole had fallen—they scraped by and made it out. And that realization floods through Lloyd hard and fast, first welling up in his throat, then releasing in a broken sob.

"Thank goodness,” He whispers, his voice splintered and hoarse. "Thank goodness."

He doesn't know how long he lays there, throat thick with a deluge of relief, and eyes burning with unshed tears and heartache. It’s like he’s a kid again. Young and scared and unable to process the sea of emotion always frothing within, never understanding the need to let them flow through him but learning to all the same.

‘Breathe,’ a voice from a faded memory tells him. Its deep, warm tone rings as clear as a spring day. ‘Breathe, Lloyd.’

In 2, 3, 4… Hold for seven seconds… Out for eight.

‘Breathe.’

1… 2… 3… 4…

‘Feel the air moving through you. Through your airways and through your lungs.’

Hold for seven seconds… Out for eight.

‘This will pass. Breathe, son.’

“In and out,” Lloyd murmurs. A thick ache blooms in his head as he grinds the heels of his palms against his eyes. “This will pass. You’re alive.” 

Once the trembles in his body have stilled and his heart has calmed, Lloyd fully lets the warbling birdsong and his teammates’ rowdy chatter pull him into the land of the living. With a groan, he pushes himself upward, and finds himself doing a double take.

How he didn’t see or hear the telltale shoji sliding open he doesn't know. But there Nya stands, eyes wide and steam curling around her from the piping hot cup of tea in her hands. 

“You’re awake,” she breathes out. 

She doesn’t hesitate. Her long, confident strides carry her toward him, weaving around the threshes of house plants that Lloyd’s crammed into every nook and cranny of his room. No movement of hers is wasted, even as one of the bigger, leafier ferns tries to smack her in the face. With a few swift motions, she sets the cup down on his dresser and plops down onto his mattress. Immediately, she pulls him into a hug.

Lloyd stiffens at the sudden contact. Panic blitzes through him before gradually making way for comfort and warmth and the peace of mind to fall into her embrace. He goes slack against her frame, his body finally resting for the first time in over a month. In spite of it all, after so much turmoil, he can relax. He can feel safe again. 

He supposes that’s always how Nya is. How she’s always made him feel. 

She’s strong and sturdy, a calm harbor in a raging storm. A lighthouse shining in the distance, guiding the way home. A grounding presence during the long and lonely nights spent in the resistance. She’s his sister and one of the most important people in his life and she’s… she’s crying, Lloyd realizes. 

It’s not the audible sort of crying, of course. Nya has never been an obvious crier. No one in his family is—blood-related or not. Either due to training or other unspoken reasons. And that… they’re confronting that later, Lloyd decides. Or at least, he might. After he does a headcount. But for now… 

“Hey, hey,” he whispers, bringing his arms up around her. “It’s okay. I’m okay.” 

“I know.” Nya’s voice wobbles as she speaks. But when she pulls back to look at Lloyd, her expression seems at ease. “But you need to stop having so many close calls. No more getting crushed by buildings.” 

Lloyd returns her relief in earnest— “No promises- ack!” —and promptly earns himself a punch to the arm for his wit. 

“I mean it,” Nya says, eyes narrowing. “I’m too young to be getting grey hairs.”

And with that, she flops backward and all but crushes Lloyd’s legs underneath her weight. 

From where he’s still rubbing his assaulted arm, Lloyd shoots her a look of the utmost displeasure, one eyebrow raised. Grey hairs will be the least of her worries once he’s up and about. “Hey, Wojira-incarnate. Do you mind?” 

“Nope,” Nya remarks. She snaps her fingers and points at the still-steaming cup of tea nearby. “Do you mind? Drink your tea. It’ll help.” 

Lloyd rolls his eyes so far back he gets a headache. Nevertheless, he plucks the cup off the dresser and sips carefully at the rim. Right away, its warmth flows through him, along with a contented purr starting in his throat. Chamomile, with hints of vanilla and honey. Exactly the way he likes it. Fine, he’ll forgive her this time.

It almost surprises him how easily they’re able to slide into this atmosphere of peace. But between the small comforts of home—of hot tea and friendly banter, of the happy look on Nya’s face as she basks in the sun, Lloyd can’t complain. War and vengeance have disappeared over the horizon. Silence no longer means the difference between life and death. “For now,” takes a masterful stroke with a mental broom and leaves everything in a fulfilled solace, far from anyone’s mind. 

“How long have I been out?” Lloyd asks at length. There are only dregs of tea left in his cup when he sets it on his dresser. 

Nya’s eyes slide open. She seems thoughtful, with her eyebrows creased, lips drawn into that deep-thinking frown that only she and her brother are known for. “A couple of days. You’ve been drifting in and out of consciousness since then.” 

Lloyd nods along. That’s… a lot better than he expected, considering everyone in his family has spent upwards of a week in the hospital before, save for Zane. The way the battle against the Oni had been waging—the hair-width scrapes from death, hope devoured and tensions running high—it could have been much worse. It could have ended in blood and tears and total annihilation.

But it didn’t. 

This time, everybody lived. And it’s with a sure amount of satisfaction that Lloyd credits his team—his family, for this victory. The other ninja, always two steps behind him, powers and weapons at the ready. Pixal, coming in clutch with the entire Ninjago national arsenal packed into one mech. His uncle and mother, who hurried to evacuate as many people from the city and surrounding villages as they could. 

And Lord Garmadon... 

Lloyd frowns. 

Garmadon is due a lot of the merit of their accomplishments. 

Loathe as Lloyd is to admit, it’s mainly because of Garmadon that they managed to grasp at the straws of survival. Garmadon, who Lloyd mulls over with no small amount of broken trust and righteous anger, came through for their little rag-tag group with the Armor of the Golden Master and the Tornado of Creation. He had saved them all. 

There’s a sort of clarity in the realization, one that comes with a sudden understanding of why the ninja hated hearing about his father defeating the Great Devourer all those years ago. 

Speaking of…

“Where is he?” Lloyd asks in a hollow tone. “My… father…” 

The word tastes like burnt cinders and coarse sand. 

Nya’s eyes spear into him a little too intensely. Even sprawled back over Lloyd’s legs—which are starting to go numb now if he’s perfectly honest—she manages to convey herself. There’s a dark swirl there, something like concern or worry. Then the space between her eyebrow’s wrinkles and oh, Lloyd knows all too well what that means. By instinct alone, he braces himself for the inevitable tsunami about to wreck his mental state all over again, as if he hasn’t had enough of that the past couple of months. 

With a sigh of the utmost pity, Nya pulls herself up. 

“He’s here in the monastery,” she tells him. Zero enthusiasm available. Zero. “He never left.”

A bolt of shock shoots through Lloyd.

 “What…” comes in a stunned whisper. “He’s… he’s here?”

Garmadon had stayed? 

“Ye-aaah… It’s hard to explain.” Nya plants her feet on the ground and offers Lloyd a reassuring smile as if it could chase the dark clouds in his mind away. “If you don’t want to talk to him, that’s fine. None of us will make you. But it won’t do you any good to make decisions like this. We should go join the guys, get you something to eat.” 

Decisively shoving down his complicated thoughts on all that, Lloyd opens his mouth to retort. “I’m not hungry.” 

He only lies there long enough to regret it, what with his stomach disagreeing rather loudly. Nya giggles in response and Lloyd knows it has to be because of the pink flushing up his cheeks. 

“Sure, bud,” she says, reaching over to ruffle his hair. Oh, she’ll pay for that later. “But Zane made pancakes and I don’t know about you, but I really like Zane’s pancakes.”

“With chocolate chips and peanut butter?” Lloyd asks, nearly drooling at the prospect. 

Nya's lips curl up in disgust, even as she reaches out to help Lloyd to his feet. “Heathen. But yes, that’s always applicable.” 

All the better, Lloyd thinks. Because truth be told, he misses his family and he figures that any excuse to see them is all worthwhile, seeing as he’s going to need a metric ton of support from them in order to deal with his father. 

It’s an unspoken thing as they travel to the kitchen, that Lloyd leans on Nya for support, that she lets him do so without trouble. That trust is silent but understood and expressed only through the light shove Lloyd gives her shoulder and the much harder one she returns that almost knocks him off his feet. It’s touched upon only by muted, muffled snickers that carry them toward gleeful shouts and… clanging metal? 

“Ha! Take that!” 

“Oh, you are so in for it now!” 

Lloyd has his answers soon enough. As he and Nya enter the kitchen, they’re greeted with the morning light-filled sight of their family all comfortably squished together into the same space. Kai, like always, is the first to notice him. He gives them both a blinding grin, mid-clash with the Sword of Fire holding back the Nunchucks of Lightning.

“Hey, there you are!” 

With an almost whip-like quickness, he feints back with the Sword of Fire and whirls in the opposite direction just to kick Jay to the ground. He strolls over to them with all the casualness in the world, almost instinctively sheathing the blade to his back as he ignores Jay’s wails of despair. 

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” he continues once he’s drawn Lloyd into a close embrace. Kai radiates heat like a furnace, toasty and comforting and happily so. Lloyd can’t help the wave of quiet joy that rumbles in his throat and sinks down to his chest. And he doesn’t mind the muted chuckling that resounds back from Kai. 

Realizing no one has acknowledged his display of melodrama, Jay hastily pops up and layers himself on top for his share of cuddles too. 

Before long, the rest of Lloyd’s family gathers around to exchange words of assurance and affection with him. Cole, of course, wastes no time in sweeping Lloyd up into a bear hug. It doesn’t take long for his mother to do the same.

“No lasting injuries?” Misako asks after she’s got ahold of him. 

“No lasting injuries,” Lloyd confirms. “Surprisingly.” 

“Thankfully,” Misako amends. She frowns briefly, a miserable look if one’s ever seen it, then opens her mouth as if to tell him something. Her voice escapes her and even though it does, Lloyd can guess what she wants to say. He doesn’t spy his father anywhere near here, but he’s bound to be an important topic of conversation. Sooner rather than later.

“I believe this is cause for a celebration,” Zane interrupts. He lowers a stack of pancakes down to Lloyd’s eye level, leaving the thought of Garmadon to dissipate from his mind. “The only major wound sustained was Cole’s concussion. Which he should be resting.”

The temperature in the room drops a few degrees as Zane offers Cole an icy glare. Cole, not missing a beat, simply folds his arms and matches him eye for eye. 

“It’s a minor concussion,” Cole replies.  

“A concussion nonetheless.”

Lloyd rolls his eyes so far back that sparks shoot across his skull. For his part, he’s just glad that the spotlight has swerved over to someone else. Quickly, he slips out from the team’s little cluster dedicated to harassing Cole and finds a seat at the kotatsu. Seconds later, Kai and Nya sneak over. As silent as the touch of a feather, they take up squishing Lloyd between the two of them, each nursing a cup of bitter coffee while they watch tv—which they’ve termed Jay’s beat-up, old laptop for the time being.

There is, for a brief moment’s time, a collision between Lloyd’s shoulder and the hilt on Kai’s sheath that kindles a bunch of questions, so much that Lloyd finds his eyes darting between the dull gleam of the Sword of Fire and the news report right in front of him. 

Eventually, Gayle Gossip’s sunny personality wins out. He can find answers later. 

“Continuing on, as you can see here, Borg Industries has taken a hard hit to its north side with what seems to be the remnants of foreign vegetation. While most information has eluded us, we can make one thing certain: the ninja have saved us again, vanquishing these Bringers of Doom. For now.”

“Aw, man, we’ve seen this already,” Jay gripes. He fumbles for the trackpad on the laptop, muttering something about unwanted reminders as he tries to play something more lighthearted and manages to start the opening theme of the Starfarer movie. 

If there are complaints about Jay’s choice, they fall on deaf ears. Lloyd hums along to the music much to the obvious disgust Kai radiates to his right and the gushing over Lieutenant Andi that Nya lets out to his left. 

‘This is nice,’ Lloyd thinks, as all his favorite sounds and people come together again. It’s a kind gesture from the world that some things are beyond doubt, such as the fact that everyone will survive. 

That everyone he loves will be okay in the end. 

They’ll always find their way, no matter how long it takes. 

The Starfarer end credits come faster than Lloyd would like but by that point, he’s gone through two servings of pancakes, a plate of fresh strawberries, and almost three cups of Longjing tea. He can already feel Master Wu’s stare of disapproval at the fact but the part of him that usually cares shrinks down to a speck of dust as he approaches the sink with his dishes. He chitters something to himself that matches the chirping birds and windchimes carried by the current of air flowing into the monastery.

One particularly noisy bird with blue and orange plumage makes itself known on the windowsill. Lloyd moves over to the little thing in one fluid motion, holding his hand out to offer it a perch. Though an animal lover at heart, Lloyd can never explain why they love him back. 

“It may be a gift of your heritage,” his father remarked once when this same species of bird visited their house. 

“I thought my heritage had four arms and a lot of attitude.” 

“Now you listen here, you little-”

Lloyd hears the laughter he shared with his father so long ago. It’s a soft sound, accompanied by compassion and fatherly love in the form of hair ruffles and side hugs. To some extent, Lloyd can still see the outline of his father’s face and waves of hair that were so much like Lloyd’s own. As the bird flies off, he pulls back into the kitchen to continue washing dishes when a flash of grey and black shifts outside the window. 

A shot of ‘hold on’ races through Lloyd’s muscles and effectively freezes him in place. Soapy dish still in hand, he steps back over the window and peers outside. 

Adjacent to the window, standing on the unshaded veranda, the angles of a familiar figure blur then come into focus. Grey-white tresses of hair, hunched shoulders clad in the usual dark colors, and a jacket Lloyd hasn’t seen in years caught in a tan—golden tan—grip. All things from a time long past. 

Lloyd feels something ugly and fierce swell up from within, rolling like thunder and churning like the sea during a storm. 

The sound of a plate shattering rings out from far away. 

Lloyd stumbles back, nearly tripping over his own feet. A whole myriad of emotions rains into his bloodstream. Fury, hot and burning. Sorrow, cold and encroaching. Joy, fleet and flickering. 

‘That’s… it was…’

A strangled breath tears out of Lloyd’s throat before his hands can go up to muffle it. A sob hitches in his chest, scrapes around in his lungs like sand, rises up to cloud his vision. Before he can process, the walls start to rock and wheel about. The inside of his mouth tastes like copper. An instinctive, scorching hum begins in the cavity of his heart and spreads out to his shoulders and hands and the tips of his fingers. His powers claw at his skin, howling to be let out. Screaming. Protective.

Somehow, so quickly, a rush of red grabs him by the shoulders. 

“Lloyd! Lloyd, what’s happening?!”  Kai sounds distant when he shouts. “Talk to me!”

“Oh, sh-” Nya’s curse breaks off. “I forgot to tell him.” 

Kai’s expression contorts and a garbled mess of words spills out of him. “Nya!” 

Lloyd can hear birds chirping. He can hear the singing forest and the roaring waterfall and the foaming of the waterwheel as it creaks outside the old Monastery of Peace, lulling him to sleep on an otherwise still night. He can see the gardens and the river path he used to tread so diligently, side by side with his father. Those were memories that the Sons of Garmadon couldn’t take from him. 

“Lloyd!” 

“No!” Kai’s octave-higher screech pierces through. “You get out of here!” 

“Kai! That’s not helping.” 

“He’s not helping.” What must be Kai’s hand rubs circles into his back, soothing and grounding. “Hey, buddy. Have you come back to me? Do four, seven, eight. Breathe in and out, okay? Four, seven, eight.”

Vital life force. Four, seven, eight. Lloyd can do that. He had just been doing that this morning, right?

‘Alive, alive, alive.’ 

In two, three, four… Hold for seven seconds… Out for eight.

“Breathe, Green Machine. It’s gonna be okay.” 

That’s right. This will pass. Everything will be okay. Lloyd will be okay. 

Everything sharpens around Lloyd with a forceful breath and comes crashing down onto the hallway floor. His mind, though numb with the constraint of fading panic, latches onto the sensations around him. He sees the scars on his hands, the ring on Nya’s finger, the gloves on Kai’s palms. He can feel the stroke of Nya’s comb as it brushes through his hair. He can hear Kai’s dampened murmuring. He can detect the scent of ash Kai always seems to have. 

“Hey, you doing alright?” 

When Lloyd looks up, Kai’s brow is furrowed with worry. With his tongue tied in his mouth, Lloyd can only offer a nod. There’s a huff from Kai that almost, almost escapes Lloyd’s attention. 

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell him,” Kai says, his gaze going somewhere behind Lloyd. It’s with stilted recognition that he can feel Nya wind up for a comeback and the urgency to settle it summons the rest of Lloyd’s senses back from his stupor. 

“She did tell me,” Lloyd says, laying his head down on Kai’s shoulder and effectively enacting Lloyd’s Law—no being on the planet shall move from their position if the Son of Garmadon has claimed them as a resting place. “She told me that my father was here. I just…” 

“I just forgot to mention that he was… back to normal,” Nya finishes. She sinks down onto the floor next to Lloyd. 

Understanding opens out across Kai’s face. “Oh.” 

“Oh,” Nya echoes back. “Sorry, Lloyd. I should have told you. I guess I was already so stressed out, I… didn’t think to bring it up.” 

“It’s okay. I understand why you didn’t say anything. It happens.” 

“Still. My stress doesn’t outweigh the fact that I should have told you.” 

Lloyd shrugs, hoping to communicate that he doesn’t want to continue. He doesn’t blame Nya. She didn’t mean to forget. She apologized. It happens. Thankfully, she seems to get it and drops the subject along with the weight originally sitting on his shoulders. He blows out a wisp of exhaustion from where he rests against Kai’s shoulder. 

Though there’s no one to see it, Kai’s absent stare bores into the closed kitchen shoji. Lloyd feels Kai’s shoulders shift beneath him before he speaks. 

“Well, so much for it being a good day.” 

Lloyd glowers at the same spot, now irritated with the statement. Sure, he knows Kai can be pessimistic, untrusting even of the most innocuous things. But it’s not like Lloyd needs more negativity right now. Not after what just happened. Extra thankfully, Nya seems to get that too. Because she reaches across the way and punches Kai in the stomach.

[makeste]

BnHA Chapter 294: A Half-Assed Escape

Previously on BnHA: Mirio was all “SURPRISE I’M BACK THANKS TO OUR RESIDENT SEVEN-YEAR-OLD WHO RECENTLY EARNED HER BACHELOR’S OF BEING A TOTAL BADASS.” Kacchan was all, “you know what, Dabi’s been trending long enough, time to remind the fandom what a real G looks like,” and he blasted his little bleeding body back into the fray and was all “FROM HERE ON OUT CALL ME DYNAMIGHT!!” Mirio was all, “AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA... oh, you’re serious,” and Kacchan was all “!!”, and so that’s the story of how my son got murdered twice in one day. Meanwhile in the Todoroki Drama Zone, Deku was all “STOP MURDERING MY FRIEND” and Dabi was all “THAT’S NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS” and fandom had a whole big debate about Whether Or Not Dabi Trying To Murder Deku’s Friends And Mentors Is Any Of Deku’s Business, which went exactly how you think it went. Anyway, so then Deku yelled at Dabi, and Endeavor was all moved by his manly words and randomly went to go uppercut Machia in the chin. And, seeing as how the Momoserum finally chose that exact moment to kick in, Machia is now down for the count.

Today on BnHA: The Miriosquad handles the Nearly High End Noumus, freeing up Jeanist to jasphyxiate (okay that one doesn’t really work so well) the rest of the League. Compress is all “TIME FOR THIS MILD-MANNERED SIDE CHARACTER VILLAIN TO SHINE”, except that by “shine” what he actually means is “use his quirk to punch a literal hole right through his own ass to free himself.” The rest of the chapter is basically just a back and forth between him and Jeanist, with Jeanist trying to recapture him, and Compress repeatedly thwarting him by chopping more holes out of himself because HE’S FRESH OUT OF FUCKS, AND THE ONES AT THE STORE ARE ALL SOLD OUT, MOTHERFUCKERS. Anyway, so with Compress basically dying and all, Horikoshi is all “you know what that means”, and delivers a freshly-baked villain flashback revealing that Compress is a descendant of Harima Ouji, a.k.a. the Peerless Thief, a.k.a. some famous guy whom Gentle mentioned this one time for like two seconds back in the day. The chapter ends with Compress finally demasking himself and dumping Tomura back onto the ground, a.k.a. The Worst Possible Place For Tomura To Be. ( •﹏•)

WHY IS CRUST HERE YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD

-- OH WAIT, SHIT. OH

AIZAWAAAA you’re alive and receiving medical help thank GOD. HOW MANY EYES DO YOU HAVE. AND MIRKO!! HOW MANY LIMBS DO YOU HAVE, OMG

so is this Aizawa dreaming about Crust’s final moments, then?? jesus. with All Due Respect to Crust’s memory, does Aizawa not already have enough misplaced guilt on his conscience as it is?? “nope, we’re gonna keep piling it on. that’s all he is now. three limbs, an indeterminate number of eyes, sexy hair, and Guilt” well shit

motherfucker y’all really out here placing an oxygen mask on Gran Torino’s corpse. fucking shounen characters. each one comes with a lifetime warranty

DAMN YOU HORIKOSHI WHY DO YOU KEEP SHOWING THESE CLOSE-UPS OF HAWKS’S UNCONSCIOUS FACE ALL WHUMPED OUT AND EXHAUSTED. HOW MUCH MORE OF THIS ARE WE GOING TO GET. ARE YOU PLANNING ON KILLING ME WITH THE UPCOMING CONVALESCENCE ARC, BECAUSE IF SO, AT LEAST HAVE THE DECENCY TO TELL ME AHEAD OF TIME SO I CAN MAKE A WILL

for a moment I considered going back and checking my previous recaps to count how many times I’ve already made a joke about Dabi’s fire incinerating Hawks’s wings but not touching so much as a hair on his five o’clock shadow, so that I could calculate whether or not I could possibly get away with making that same joke one more time. but then I realized I could just do it in this kind of roundabout way I’m doing right now instead. so there you have it

FFFFFFFMT LADY AND MIDNIGHT NOOOOO

PLEASE BE ALIVE. PLEASE RESPECT THE SIGN ON THE FRONT OF THE BUILDING. THE ONE THAT SAYS “NO LADY CHARACTERS ALLOWED TO DIE”, WITH THE FINE PRINT AT THE BOTTOM “AT LEAST NOT UNTIL HORIKOSHI GIVES US LIKE TWENTY-SIX MORE OF THEM FIRST IF THAT’S THE WAY HE WANTS TO PLAY IT.” IT’S A GOOD SIGN, PLEASE RESPECT ITS WISHES!!

so anyway though, Jeanist is giving a speech about how god knows how many people all worked together to bring Machia down. and now RHA is getting in on those fabric puns too, I see. “A SINGLE STRAND MAY BE THIN BUT TOGETHER THEY FORM A STRONG ROPE” oh so you think you guys are funny eh? I’m a frayed knot

MEANWHILE EXCUSE ME BUT WHY ARE YOU FUCKING CRYING BLOOD, HOLY SHIT

fffffff. so much for him taking over as the Number One once all this is over. so let’s just recap real quick, because Horikoshi has long since made it clear that one of his plot goals for this arc is to wipe out every single member of the Billboard Top Ten. so how we doin?

Endeavor - was just figuratively eviscerated in front of the entire nation by his homicidal zombiepunk son. also burnt half to death and possibly down a lung. will almost certainly be forced to retire after this one way or the other

Hawks - lying prettily in a medical tent. wings status: gone. hair status: still perfect

Jeanist - WELL I THOUGHT HE WAS FINE BUT APPARENTLY HE’S OUT HERE DYING, JESUS CHRIST

Edgeshot - MIA, last seen fighting Re-Destro. I really want him to have kicked RD’s ass because fuck that guy, but realistically they probably fought to a draw at best

Mirko - alive but in critical condition and missing something like 1.5 limbs

Crust - dead, currently haunting Aizawa’s traumatized dreams. now he’s gonna be triggered the rest of his life by people giving him the thumbs up, THANKS A LOT

Kamui Woods - was set on fire which is His Weakness. thoughts and prayers

Wash - last seen floating hospital patients to safety as Tomura’s wave of decay descended towards him. probably dead ffff

Old Man Samurai - haven’t seen this fucker in a hot minute, who even knows where he’s wandered off to

Ryuukyuu - currently being treated for her wounds, looked pretty bad off. but it’s hard to tell how hurt she is since most of the injuries were acquired in her transformed state. SHE BETTER GET WELL SOON

anyways, so yeah. so much for the top ten. guess that’s another reason Horikoshi brought Mirio back now, huh

so there’s a big panel of everyone fighting the Noumu while Machia lies there all “blurgh.” good riddance my dude. it took like twenty chapters and a hundred people to stop this guy so I really fucking hope he stays down. you’ve had your fun

anyway so Jeanist is sending another steel thread towards Dabi! and he’s all “just a bit more!!” fklklj this is gonna go real well isn’t it

meanwhile Mirio’s fighting a Nearly High End with all of these weird rock formations jutting out of its skin. go on and kick his ass then, Mirio

“each of these guys is probably just as strong as the Noumu from Kyuushuu” hold on I thought Ujiko or Tomura or someone said that wasn’t the case? not that Mirio would know I suppose. anyways let’s just hope he’s wrong cuz if not these kids are probably screwed

kLSDKFHLSKHGLKLK OH MY GODDDD

IIDA FUCKING TENYA YOU’RE A PEACH. THINKS THE NAME IS OUTRAGEOUS, CHECK. USES IT ANYWAY, CHECK. “JUST BECAUSE I DON’T UNDERSTAND DOESN’T MEAN I CAN’T BE SUPPORTIVE.” WHAT A CLASS ACT

AND KACCHAN IS RESPONDING WITH AS MUCH DIGNITY AS HE CAN MUSTER

WOW, SON. IT’S ALMOST AS THOUGH YOU HAVE A HOLE IN YOUR TORSO, OR SOMETHING!! although listen up, real talk, the fact that Kacchan of all people can’t muster the energy to yell at someone questioning his ability to kick ass is HIGHKEY troubling and we may be in need of an intervention here soon :/

now Jeanist is finally turning his attention to the League! was... was it not already on the League. omg

ACTUAL SCREAMING AHHHHHH FUCK FUCKLK LK AHHLKHKFFFF

hey so um. what the actual fucked up hell. my soul left my body. imagine if you saw the reflection of this panel on your bedroom window. you would never sleep again

OKAY RHA TRANSLATORS ARE YOU HAVING YOURSELF A LAUGH AGAIN

THIS CANNOT BE WHAT HE’S ACTUALLY SAYING RIGHT. BUT IT’S RIGHT IN THAT UNCANNY VALLEY OF NOT BEING QUITE SURE, THOUGH... (　ﾟдﾟ)

(ETA: just a next-day clarification here, apparently my sleep-deprived ADHD word-skipping brain completely skipped right over the “a” in that last panel, so what I read was, “and Shigaraki’s limp noodle.” so yeah, the moral of this story is always read the speech bubble carefully before you start making running jokes throughout the rest of your post, folks.)

oh wow he’s really freaking out lmao

to be fair though, I’d argue that Dabi has gotten pre-tty close at this point :’) thrilled for him, really I am

but anyway, well then figure something out you big dramatic robot-armed fiend. didn’t you just say you could touch your own ass? can you not just Compress yourself to break free?? does it not work on you? or would you be stuck afterwards lol

(ETA: I was picturing him compressing his entire body at once, not just chunks of it. ghhhlkh.)

um

holy shit Jeanist. are you stupidly trying to cut off their air, or are you going for more of a sleeper hold (jleeper hold??) thing instead. the latter would be way smarter and faster and probably safer as well just saying

but unless Spinner is just being super dramatic, it sure looks like he’s fucking strangling them djslkjlk. this will certainly cement his popularity among the villain stans. good thing you’re not running for office any time soon bud

anyway so I have no idea what these guys are trying to do now. what is this

do you even have till the count of 5 at this rate. I mean

OH MY GOODNESS

HE’S REALLY FUCKING DOING IT!! HE’S COMPRESSING HIS BUTT!! OMFG. TOMURA HIDE YOUR NOODLE!!!

WHAT THE FUCK

DID YOU COMPRESS A PIECE OF YOUR OWN ASS. FUCKING WHAT. PUT THIS MAN’S PICTURE IN THE DICTIONARY NEXT TO THE WORD “LOYALTY”, HOLY CRAP

HOLY SHIT COMPRESS

“HOLY SHIT DID THAT GUY JUST PUNCH A HOLE THROUGH HIS OWN ASS IN ORDER TO SAVE HIS VILLAIN PALS. FUCK IT, HE DESERVES TO ESCAPE”

jeez, talk about... A HALF-ASSED ESCAPE ATTEMPT :D :D :D hahaha. but real talk though, Horikoshi has clearly never tried to leap twelve feet straight up in the air multiple times in succession with only half his glutes though. everyone, I regret to inform you that this panel right here on the left may be slightly unrealistic

also where the hell is he going to go?? did you pack a jetpack away in one of those little marbles sir. and what about Dabi?? and Skeptic too, I guess, but we don’t really care about Skeptic

(ETA: at this point I had to stop reading for about two hours because I had to go out and take care of something; that’s also why this is being posted later than usual lol. anyways so where were we.)

oh my lord

the existence of a translator’s note here implies that the earlier line about Compress being able to reach Tomura’s junk was not, in fact, ad-libbed. hmm. hmmmmmmmm

anyway so now he’s grabbing Compress again because OF COURSE HE IS, so now we’re right back to square one! except now Tomura and Spinner are secured inside of little marbles, and presumably Compress is the only one who can release them

oh nevermind he’s just maiming himself again instead, SHEESH

Skeptic a man is dying please have some goddamn respect

so, uh. is he gonna die, though??

I really can’t tell wtf is going on here, this is the most confusing the art has been in a while. Horikoshi put all of his spoons into that creepyass close-up panel earlier, that bastard

OMG WHAT ARE YOU SERIOUS

DON’T FUCKING TELL ME THE “COMPRESS IS RELATED TO THIS THIEF GUY FROM OLDEN TIMES” THEORY IS ACTUALLY TRUE WHAAAAAAT. OH SHIT

so apparently Harima was a Robin Hood type guy who stole from... heroes?? wtf. are heroes the 1% in this scenario. y’all didn’t have any Fortune 500 CEOs to steal from?

THAT’S THE BLOOD THAT FLOWS THROUGH YOU, OH SHIT. and in a related oh shit, the fact that we are getting a Compress flashback now of all times doesn’t bode super well for him. ffff

MEANWHILE THE TODOROKIS ARE STILL TODOROKI-ING

listen here boy if you touch one freaking hair on Shouto’s candy cane head I swear to god --

WHAT DID I FUCKING SAY!!!

SHOUTO NOOOOOO. WTF YOU’RE LITERALLY THE ONE GUY WHOSE WEAKNESS IS ABSOLUTELY NOT SUPPOSED TO BE FIRE. DABI YOU SHIT, YOU BETTER WATCH YOURSELF!! I’M PRINTING OUT A COPY OF THAT COMPRESS PANEL!!! KEEP AN EYE OUT ON THAT BEDROOM WINDOW YOU PUNK!!!

SO NOW POOR SHOUTO IS UNCONSCIOUS AND FALLING!! SOMEONE SAVE HIM!! WHO CATCHES THE CATCHER

COMPRESS LITERALLY HOW ARE YOU STILL ALIVE RIGHT NOW, WHAT IS HAPPENING

PLEASE DON’T CALL TOMURA LEADER OF THE “PLF” YOU KNOW I CAN’T TAKE IT SERIOUSLY WHEN YOU DO THAT. ARE YOU DYING. ARE YOU JUST A FUCKING HEAD NOW WTF

(ETA: “masks are removable, makeste” you know what it’s been a long day okay lmao. or I suppose Compress is really the one who is lmao.)

GASPPPPPP

okay. okay. looooool okay then

WHY WERE YOU COVERING THIS SEXY MOP OF HAIR UNDER THAT HOOD YOU TOOL. IT WOULD HAVE LOOKED SO GOOD WITH THE TOP HAT. I’M SO MAD AT YOU RIGHT NOW

as if it wasn’t enough for him to demask himself, he also had to get all shirtless and then do this weird attempt at a sexypose too huh

hard to say exactly how much of his torso is currently missing, but safe to say that’s proooooooobably not good. :///// fuck

on the other hand, Kacchan also has a torso hole and he’s still flying around like he just drank a dozen red bulls, so

this man lost his ass and he’s still out here monologuing like it’s the last two minutes of The Prestige. one might say he is monologuing his ass off

so he let Spinner and Tomura free, but is Dabi still trapped in his marble?? wasn’t he all on fire and stuff?? hopefully he can still turn off his quirk in there because if not that’s a pretty fucked up way to die. somewhere out there Snatch’s ghost is all “YEAH I’LL SAY.” oh how the turntables

last but not least, sooooooo. Tomura. back on the ground. that’s. um. ...shiiiiiiiit

[luxekook]

chapter four.

⇥ pairing: ot7 x reader

⇥ genre: college au with fluff, smut & angst

⇥ summary: a series in which the reader meets (and falls for) seven members of the Beta Tau Sigma (BTS) fraternity

⇥ word count: 3.3k

⇥ warnings: 18+, cursing, dirty talk, noona kink, general chaotic energy, poly relationships, slight implications of switch!reader and sub!jk, jin being a beautiful mess, make-out sesh with multiple people oops

⇥ beta reader: the lovely @shadowsremedy​

© luxekook. please do not repost, modify, edit or translate.

characters | prologue | one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight | nine

Chapter Four

Taehyung’s Room, BTS House – 10:49pm

“Alright. What do you want to know?”

Namjoon’s question fills the room. The boys all stare at me with anticipation, leaning forward with furrowed brows.

I ponder my course of action for all of two seconds before launching into my well-practiced rant, “I want to know what sort of sick prank you think you’re playing, because I am not falling for it. I mean – all of you wanting to date one person? Date me? Seems fake, but okay.”

Some of the boys move to interrupt me, but I thrust up a palm, “No, please let me finish. I know I don’t really have the right to make judgements about you guys, but I have seen some misogynistic behavior from your frat. So, I feel like it’s not that far-fetched for me to think that you’re probably playing me.”

“Messy gymnast behavior? What’s that?” Jungkook whispers to Hoseok who just shrugs, looking equally as baffled.

“Misogynistic, Kook, not messy gymnast,” Namjoon pinches his nose in frustration, “It means prejudiced against women.”

Seokjin and Jimin descend into fits of laughter. Hoseok still looks mildly perplexed, and Yoongi takes a large sip of soju from a bottle he procured from god knows where within the last few minutes.

Covering his face, Jungkook dives behind Jin in hopes of further hiding his embarrassment.

“I think I know what she’s talking about.”

The room quiets at Taehyung’s interjection. He reluctantly sits up from his relaxed position on his bed and explains, “When we met at our party last semester, she found out about our old pledge tradition.”

“Oh, damn,” Jimin sighs, “So that’s why you motioned to remove it from the chapter’s history at the last meeting.”

“Yeah,” Tae looks me in the eyes, “We voted removed it, (y/n) ... A little too late though, it seems.”

Jungkook peeks his head out from behind Jin’s shoulder, “We’re sorry, noona.”

Trying not to internally melt in response at the youngest’s display of classic puppy-dog eyes, I slump against the wall and slide into a sitting position on the floor. “Look, I’m not going to say that ‘it’s okay’ because it’s not. But I do appreciate that you removed it.”

The boys hang their heads, looking properly chastised.

“That’s fair,” Namjoon finally says quietly, “We know as a frat we fucked up. We’re not perfect. We make a lot of mistakes. But we’re trying to get back to being respectable and move on from here.”

“We’re trying to get back your respect,” Yoongi rubs the back of his neck, looking at me with wide eyes and more attentiveness than I’ve ever seen from him.

“But that’s the other thing,” I look away, pulling at a random thread fraying off of the sleeve of my sweatshirt, “Why does it matter so much that I respect you? Why are you all so invested in me all of a sudden? In all honesty, I haven’t said more than two words in conversation to half of you.”

“Yeah, that doesn’t really matter,” Namjoon shrugs, shifting to lean casually against the wall.

My eyes narrow, “How can it not matter?”

“Because we date as a group, (y/n)-noona,” Jimin smiles down at me from his perch on Taehyung’s bed, all squishy cheeks and crinkled eyes, “Tae thought we’d all like you, and then Jungkookie and Joon-hyung agreed and—”

Hoseok excitedly chimes in, arms swinging wildly, “And finding someone who we all like hasn’t happened in so long, and I’m so happy!”

“Yah, Hobi!” Jin reaches over Jungkook to shove the bouncing boy, “We’re supposed to be playing it cool. We have to woo her.” He winks and blows me a kiss.

Instinctively, I swat it away and then giggle at Seokjin’s indignant gasp.

“I take it back! She’s mean!” Launching into a passionate rant complete with head shaking and wild eyes, Jin continues, “Consider that kiss null and void. I have never been so insulted in my entire life, you know!”

Tears stream down my cheeks as I collapse from laughing alongside the rest of the boys. Namjoon’s dimples are out in full force as he drawls, “Hyung, that’s what you said yesterday when I beat you in Overwatch.”

Seokjin splutters over the now-renewed laughter of his younger brothers, “I thought I told you to never speak of that again!”

Trailing off in mumbles of how he needs new friends and how disrespected he is as an elder, Jin resorts to pouting in the corner.

“You’ll have to excuse Seokjin-hyung, (y/n),” Taehyung smirks at me with raised eyebrows, “He’s skated by solely on his looks up until now.”

Seokjin’s pouting intensifies.

“He is handsome,” I instinctively respond, fully focused on the beauty of Jin’s pouty lips. And when those lips break into a huge grin, I cringe at my lapse in judgement for the thousandth time that night.

“My faith in humanity has been restored!” Jin ambles back to his original spot next to Jungkook and thrusts a paper heart that he apparently had been carrying on his person for quite some time in my direction.

“Hyung,” Hoseok eyes Seokjin with a concerned frown, “Where did you even get that from?”

“That’s one secret I’ll never tell.” Jin barely finishes that sentence before a flurry of pillows, water bottles, and other miscellaneous items are thrown at him from all angles.

“I thought we agreed no more quoting Gossip Girl, Jin-hyung!” Jimin cries as he continues to hit Jin with a pillow from Tae’s bed.

Miraculously still even able to speak under the assault from the other boys, Jin replies with complete sincerity, “XOXO.”

Chaos reigns.

Watching all seven of them in - presumably - their most natural state, I sigh in amusement, “Y’all are too much.”

Somehow the boys hear me, because they all turn to face me once more with various expressions of playfulness and mirth. Jin still lies under the pile of them laughing slightly as they slowly shift off of him.

“Nah, I think we might be just enough for you, noona,” Jungkook pipes up as he plops down on the edge of Taehyung’s bed.

“Yeah? And how do you know that?” A sudden thought occurs to me, “Wait, why do you all even date one person anyway? Don’t you realize like half the campus is in love with each of you?”

“You’re included in that half, right?” Taehyung grins and then shrinks under my withering glare, “I mean, it’s a long story?”

“Oh, hold on,” I check my wrist, which noticeably has no watch, “Mhm, that’s right. It’s story time.”

Jimin snorts and then burrows under the covers in mortification.

“Cute,” Hoseok sighs, staring at me, “I want to keep you.”

And there’s something about having Jung Hoseok’s full attention and adoration that brings me to peak devastation. I pull my hood up over my head and burrow into my sweatshirt.

“Aw!” Various yells rebound around the room. I flip them all off.

“Hobi,” Yoongi teases, “I think she likes you.”

I peek out of the safety of my sweatshirt to eviscerate him with my eyes, but Yoongi just raises one brow coolly and calls me out, “Well, am I wrong, jagi?”

All eyes are on me, and the room is suddenly so quiet that all I can hear is the muffled party downstairs and the beating of my heart.

“... I want my lawyer,” I finally declare, re-emerging from the depths of my sweatshirt and crossing my arms.

“Oh, come on, noona!” Jimin shuffles across the room and kneels in front of me, causing me to descend into a panic, “You like Hoseok-hyung, right? Well, what about me? Do you like me?”

Jimin peers down at me, pink hair tussled and eyes shining. How could I ever say no to that beautiful face? That angelic human?

Must.

Deflect.

“I’ll answer your question if you answer mine. Why do you all date the same person when each of you could have anyone you want?”

Jimin deflates and sits back on his heels, frowning at my non-answer.

“But we do already date everyone we want,” Hoseok cuts in, giggling, “Well, almost.”

They’re already dating people? My mind wracks through all my knowledge of the seven boys sitting before me, but no evidence of them dating anyone pops up. “Wait, I’m confused. Who are you all dating then?”

I can’t help but feel like I’m on the outside of an inside joke as the boys all exchange looks that are all too smug for my liking.

“Seems like we did a good job, boys,” Namjoon chuckles, “People on this campus are pretty oblivious.”

“Nah,” Yoongi shakes his head, “They just choose not to see it. They want us all to be fully available.”

The lightbulb finally flickers on in my mind.

“Oh my sweet baby Jesus,” I whisper, “You’re all dating each other, aren’t you?”

Various nods answer that question. Jin, of course, being Jin, wipes an imaginary tear from his eye as he dramatically laments, “And she’s smart, too? How did we get so lucky, boys?”

“Yoongi,” I say calmly, “Please pass me that soju before I commit murder in this very room.”

Without a word, Yoongi hands me the bottle before settling down in the space next to me against the wall.

Suddenly hyperaware of my positioning, I realize I’m sitting in between Jimin and Yoongi. Jungkook, Taehyung and Hobi now sit together on Tae’s bed, while Jin remains on the floor surrounded by various pillows and debris.

Namjoon is still leaning against the opposite wall, looking way too intimidating and perfect that I’m forced to look away.

That is, until he starts to speak. “(y/n), the seven of us have always been close. We grew up together; and, somehow, we just work as a unit. We work together. It may seem odd or untraditional. Maybe it is. But, it’s who we are. And it’s how we love.”

Namjoon continues, “We don't want to lose what we have together, this dynamic we've spent so long building. But, we’ve been feeling like something has been missing from our relationship lately. We’ve been looking for someone to help complete us.”

“And you think that person is me?” I suck in a jagged breath, “You really want to share me? Do you know how crazy that sounds?”

"There are crazier things," Yoongi shrugs, taking back the bottle of soju from my grasp, "Like how Namjoon has an IQ of 148 but can't seem to live one day without breaking something."

Namjoon, looking affronted, opens and closes his mouth, but ultimately settles on just smiling bashfully. My heart almost explodes at such a display of cuteness.

"It's really not that crazy, (y/n)," Taehyung interrupts my internal fawning, "You seem like a girl who’s intimidated by no one and nothing. We really, really like that. And we figured since you kissed me and Jungkook that you might be interested.”

Embarrassment washes over me. I steal back the soju from Yoongi, who just smirks knowingly.

“Besides, polyamory is actually more common than you think,” Hobi smiles in that pretty heart-shaped way of his.

He has a valid point. Who am I to be the judge of what love looks like? Who am I to criticize these boys who clearly love each other and just want one more person to love? Who am I to deny myself the opportunity to be loved by seven people?

“Can I think about it?" I ask, still fighting the inevitable for whatever reason, "I'm not saying 'no’. I just need a bit of time to think it over."

"Take all the time you need, baby," Namjoon murmurs, looking like I just handed him the keys to the entire world.

"No,” Jimin groans, burrowing his head in the crook of my shoulder, “Please, please, please don't take all the time you need, (y/n)-noona! I can’t wait that long!”

I reach up to stroke my fingers through his pink hair in an attempt to soothe the poor angel.

“Do we have permission to continue to woo you during this ‘thinking’ period?” Jin inquires, casting a look of jealousy at Jimin who is now nestled even further into me.

“Continue?” I ask, “When did you start?”

“Yah!” Seokjin exclaims, “Why does she keep roasting me?”

“I think it’s hot,” Jungkook grins at me with stars in his eyes.

“That’s because you’re a masochist, Kook,” Taehyung cackles from his perch on the bed.

“Ah, hyung!” Jungkook jumps on Taehyung in an effort to silence him, “She doesn’t need to know that yet!”

“I mean, it is pretty obvious,” I pause dramatically, dropping the pitch of my voice, “Baby boy.”

Jungkook yelps and takes off out of the room.

“Shit, was that too much?” I ask, staring at the door thrown open in Jungkook’s wake.

“No,” Tae replies, still laughing, “I think he just needs a second to calm down. I’ll go see where he went.”

Taehyung gets up from the bed and shuffles out the door in search of Jungkook. The open door allows for more sounds from the party to seep into the room.

Namjoon sighs, “I should probably check on what’s happening down there, shouldn’t I?”

“Good luck, man,” Yoongi tears the soju back out of my hand and lifts it up in cheers to Namjoon. Chuckling, Namjoon ambles over to where Yoongi, Jimin and I are crowded together and grabs the soju.

After taking a long sip, he crouches down in front of me and grasps the hand that remains unoccupied by Jimin. Bringing it to his lips, Namjoon places the lightest kiss on my knuckles. “I’m so happy you showed up tonight, baby. I can only hope that my future holds more of you in any way you choose to give me.”

Pressing his lips to my palm this time, Namjoon smiles in that completely devastating way of his and then saunters out of the room. Still gaping, I realize I never even got to say a word to him in response.

“You are so whipped for him already, jagi,” Yoongi says lowly, lips brushing my ear.

I blink. My senses are on overload. Jimin is still curled into my side, with my hand stroking his hair and his lips accidentally grazing the skin of my collarbone every so often. Now, Yoongi is closer than ever. I can feel his breath against my neck and his stare focused on my lips. Meanwhile, Hobi and Jin are slowly but surely shuffling closer to where the three of us are bunched together.

“So what if I am?” I finally answer, “Aren’t you all whipped for him, too?”

“Oh, you have no idea,” Jimin mumbles into my shoulder.

My mind explodes.

“She’s not ready for that yet, Jiminie,” Jin giggles, “I’m pretty sure she’s still half convinced I worship Satan in the basement.”

“Well, I wasn’t before, but now I am,” I jokingly eye Seokjin up and down with an amused smile.

He grins back at me. I melt. And he knows it.

“Can I kiss you?” Jin asks, the slightest smirk curving his lips, a look of hunger burning in his gaze, like he could just eat me up, “Please?”

I swallow and his eyes latch onto the movement of my throat.

Before I can reconsider, I remove myself from my sitting position against the wall, much to Jimin and Yoongi’s dismay, and straddle Jin’s lap, immediately capturing his lips with my own.

The effect is instantaneous. Various groans echo around me as Jin smiles against my mouth. His hands find their way under my sweatshirt and squeeze my hips, dragging my body even closer against his.

The way Jin kisses is life-ruining in its unhurried, yet passionate deliberateness. He kisses me like he’s claiming me, and the possessiveness of his actions send a ripple of excitement through my body. Releasing my mouth, he works his way down the length of my exposed neck, and I gasp in response.

Suddenly, I feel another pair of hands twine around my body from behind as Hobi pleads into my ear, “Can I kiss you, too, (y/n)?”

I nod wordlessly, wondering what I did in my past life to deserve such affection in this one.

“No fair,” I vaguely hear Jimin pouting, “I want to kiss noona.”

“We’ll have our turn, Jiminie,” Yoongi’s voice causes a shudder of anticipation to race down my spine.

“Oh, she likes that idea,” Jin laughs, obviously having felt the tremor that shot though me in response to Yoongi’s suggestion, “Come get a taste.”

“Only if that’s what she really wants,” Yoongi says, meeting my eyes, “Don’t feel pressured to do anything you don’t feel comfortable with, kitten.”

“Kitten?” I growl, eyes narrowed sharply in his direction.

“Yep,” Yoongi’s answering smirk is slow and antagonizing, “All cute and cuddly with a hint of claws.”

“I’ll show you claws,” I say darkly, getting up, “Stand up.”

Yoongi’s eyebrows raise in surprise, “Why?”

“I won’t ask again,” I move closer to him and Jimin.

Yoongi pulls himself to his feet, acting like it was the most physical activity he’d ever done.

When he’s finally done with the dramatics, I move closer until he’s backed right up against the wall, “Min Yoongi, I’m going to shut you up now.”

His breath stutters as I slowly move my mouth closer to his. “Please do—” I cut him off.

Kissing Yoongi is just as intoxicating as kissing Jin, but in a different way. Yoongi tastes like soju and spearmint. His body melts under my touch, completely fine with letting me lead. An idea springs to mind and I slide my hand into his hair and tug lightly. He jolts with a moan.

Bingo. I smirk before kissing him deeper. My other hand winds around him to scratch my nails down his back. This time, I’m awarded with a small whine.

The fact that I’m wrecking this boy is simultaneously wrecking me. That impact doubles when I feel a small hand begin to wind its way up my calf towards my thigh. Tearing my mouth away from Yoongi, I open my eyes to see Jimin smiling up at me, “Can you kiss me like that, too, (y/n)-noona?”

“Why couldn’t you wait your turn, Jiminie,” Yoongi sulks adorably, sensing that my resolve against any request from Jimin was nonexistent.

“Well, aren’t you supposed to be showing me the perks of dating multiple people?” I joke, “Jin and Hobi just shared. Can’t you two?”

Jimin springs up off the floor faster than anyone I’ve ever seen, “Yes! We can share!”

“Good,” I reply, turning in Yoongi’s arms so that my back is pressed against him. He hisses in a breath. “Come here, Jiminie,” I open my arms to the eager boy who all but leaps into them.

“You’re so beautiful, noona,” Jimin sighs, pupils dilated, tongue darting out to lick his bottom lip.

“So are you, baby,” I sigh, bringing a hand up to brush his cheek fondly, “So are you.”

I kiss Jimin gently, treasuring the feel of his plump lips against my own. I trace the tip of my tongue over his bottom lip and his mouth opens in a silent gasp. I use the chance to slip my tongue inside to twine with his.

Through my thoroughly fucked-out haze, I feel Yoongi’s hands settle onto my hips, grinding me slowly against his crotch. I moan into Jimin as Yoongi’s mouth sucks on the side of my neck, surely for the sole reason of marking me.

“Well, shit, JK,” Taehyung’s voice shatters the bubble of pleasure I had been residing within in the middle of four beautiful men. My eyes flutter open to take in the sight of Taehyung holding a box of pizza and a case of beer, with Jungkook right behind him. “Looks like the party started without us.”

a/n: oops, another slight cliff-hanger? *laughs evilly*

taglist: @catsandstrawberries​​ @h5naaa​​ @meowmeowyoongles​​​ @leftflowerprunedonut​​ @rjsmochii​​ @athletes-of-god​​ @karissassirak​​ @cage7241​​ @weallhavesecretsinthebestway​​ @cvbachacbitch​​ @bewitch3dforivar​​​ @honeyspillings​​ @xxonyxpearlxx​​ @valiantcollectorofsandwiches​​ @fivesecondsofsarang​​ @oii-f-eli-x2​​ @joonsroses​​ @theevilyouknow​​​ @jooniescupcakes​​ @expensive-grl​​ @i-dont-even-know-fck​​ @doingmybestalltheftime​​ @elraeee​​ @fangirling-all-the-way-tbh​​ @laced-brds​​ @aokay1010​​ @breeeeh17​​ @lpayne612​​ @peachyharmoney​​ @rilakoya​​ @chulchuchi​​ @tabula-rasa0​​ @guccishookv​​ @nomimits7​​ @i-like-puppy-mg​​ @s-noir​​ @anna-sorel​​ @im-a-space-child​​ @yeontanismypresident​​ @drowning-in-oxygen​​ @team-wang-puppy​​ @lvvegood​​ @anongirl007​​ @may114​​ @r-e-d-i-s-h​​ @unatempesta-dipensieri​​ @dragon-rider-with-a-book​​ @blueberrygeniejam​​ @wondrsblog​​ @heterophobez​​ @vi-hoshi​​ @kirbykook​​ @queen-of--roses​​ @blu-butterfly69​​ @katemwatson​​ @kawaiikpoplover268​​ @amsteramyy​​ @sami4life​​ @a-feeling-of-euphoria​​ @the-jackals​​ @bubbletae7​​ @btsenchanting​​ @platinum-grenade​​ @bunnyboyenthusiast​​ @brightly-byun​​ @oofmeintheheadpls​​ @sadboibts​​ @lidda​​ @goldenwidow3​​ @t-mel19​​ 

blogs that wouldn’t let me tag them for some reason: @awkwardhumambean @seablueberry @sunxxxflowers @tardis1967 

[sabraeal]

All That Remains, Chapter 7: The Flower Garden of the Woman Who Could Conjure [Part 4]

[Read on AO3]

Written in honor of @claudeng80​′s birthday! I’m only a week and change late this time, but everyone knows what they’re getting into when they request this fic for gifts-- aka, me dithering for weeks on if a chapter needs to be cut and where it inevitably needs to happen. But here is an almost 5K labor of love...and a little bit of hope... :3c

It would easy to speak of good and evil, would it not? To condemn a sorceress for her conjuring, to pity a girl and her deception. That is the way such tales are crafted: for simplicity, moral lines drawn in the sand.

But life does not fit so easily into the pages made to contain it. A line of prose may distill it to its essence, but a word spoken, an act done by a living creature-- these contain multitudes.

“Well.” Lady Mihoko fixes a shrewd glance over the rim of her teacup, pinning Shirayuki to her chair. Bombazine may creak with her every breath, but when Mihoko sets her demitasse upon its saucer, it is silent. “You are much improved.

The words alone would make a compliment, but with the way her ladyship threads them through her teeth, it is an accusation. Her eyes narrow even now, a proctor determined to catch her pupil filching answers from across the aisle.

Still, it’s the kindest words Mihoko has ever managed to spare, and Shirayuki seizes them with both hands. “Thank you, Lady Mihoko.”

All her ladyship’s fine graces do not restrain her from a humorless grunt. “Do not think it so fine a feat. You could hardly have gotten much worse.” With another contemplative sip, she adds, “But your progress is at least...heartening. You might not be entirely hopeless.”

Polite, tea-appropriate smile firmly in place, Shirayuki casts her eyes down at her plate. How fortunate she is to be able to experience such a fine example of being damned by faint praise.

He mouth does not twitch; by now, she knows better than to allow any of her facial muscles free reign in the presence of the lady-- but it does waver. It was not her own voice lilting those words.

A toe nudges her ankle; the consort’s countenance is carefully composed of bland inquiry across from her.

“You are too kind,” Shirayuki manages, smile polished back to its original brilliance.

“I am.” She settles back in her chair, spine straight as a rod, conveying that her enjoyment of the meal now resides firmly in the past. “You are lucky indeed that Her Majesty deigned to take a girl like you under her wing. How fitting it is that my best student is responsible for righting my worst.”

“It is only because I had such a good tutor that I could even attempt to teach.” The consort sets her own cup onto its saucer, mouth rounded in a pleasant curve. Shirayuki’s never mastered the art of it, to smile to brightly with so little teeth or crinkling around the eyes, but on Haki the effect seems natural, right. “But I must say that Lady Shirayuki is a pleasure as a student. A quick mind and a dedicated learner.”

“What she lack in aptitude she certainly makes up with vigor,” Mihoko allows grudgingly. “In my day, that would not be near enough to make a lady.”

It would be easy to condemn the sorceress, would it not? To raise the roses from their bed and cast the bright light of truth upon them, to drag her into the village square and expose her as a deceiver, a most vile villainess to lead this stray girl astray. We would stretch our hands through the pages if we could but shake our girl awake, if we could put our hands around the throat of the conjuress and see she never bent another illusion--

But that would miss the point entirely. You were told, so long ago now, that life does not fit into the narrow confines fiction demands. Surely you have not forgot?

There is a reason for every action. Unfortunately.

“That is true enough.”

The consort speaks in honeyed tones, mouth composed in a thoughtful pout. But that, Shirayuki knows, is merely an inoffensive mask she wears, one that may be discarded at a moment’s notice. It is always her eyes betray her, burning with an intelligence she can never fully quench.

“But was that not also the era of the former Viscount Yuris? Or the Counts of Sui and Lido?” It should be an accusation, a condemnation, but from the consort’s mouth, it is little more than a polite conversation, small talk between two peers. “So many traitors in so few years.”

Shirayuki may have gained some dominion over her face, but not near enough to keep from glancing at Lady Mihoko.

“That is the nature of the peerage,” her ladyship says after a long moment, mouth pursed in a moue of discomfort. “There are always some that choose to overreach their bounds. It is up to every lord to manage his lands in his own way. Though I know Your Majesties have...newer ideas about such things.”

“Better ideas,” the consort reminds her, both silk and steel entwined. “Under the late king, the court grew indolent, as did the crown. If he had not passed when he did, Clarines might have become another Tanbarun.”

Shirayuki’s teeth grit down, stemming the tide of protest that crashes against  them. She had fled her home with little pride or trust in its royals, and it’s not as if she cares for the institution, but-- Raj was no longer the embarrassment he’d once been. It’d be a long time before he’d earn as lofty a reputation as Izana or Zen, but, well, he was trying. And as long as his father remained on the throne, that was enough.

She doubts either of them would appreciate the opinion. It’s not as if any of this is about Tanbarun after all.

Mihoko clucks her tongue. “I would not venture to say we had fallen so far as that.”

“No,” Haki agrees, so pleasant. “But I would.”

A silver spoon clatters to a dish, Mihoko’s aged fingers trembling above it. “That would be your prerogative, Your Majesty.”

“It is my prerogative to see to the quality of my husband’s court, my lady. While once this may have referred to the breeding of its members, I believe we have come beyond that. After all, Lord Zakura was hardly born with silver in hand, or Lord Sui, or Countess Yuris.” The consort hums, delicately setting aside her demitasse. “There would be worse things than to see one of the finest minds of our time raised to a position which suited it.”

Her ladyship does not smile-- a terrible business, nowadays, she would cluck, spoon chiming against the rim of her cup, men should know that every smile returns tenfold in ten years’ time-- but there is a softening in her face. Not of agreement, but allowance.

“We shall see,” she sniffs, waving away another tray of sandwiches. “In time. But none of that removes what a wonders you have wrought with this one, and in less than a month’s time.”

Haki dips her head, the barest bow. “Imagine what a lifetime might bring.”

“Yes.” Mihoko narrows her eyes above the rim of her cup. “Quite unforeseeable.”

What does it mean to conjure, to summon something from nothingness, to breathe life where there once was none? It is no mere illusion; not smoke and mirrors and lies shined until gleaming. Not just a lady’s magic, no substance nor thought, made of wishes and air alone.

No, it is creation; the act of sinking one’s hands into clay and forming something utterly unlike its origin, to take one’s will and give it form. It is any surprise that it is the provenance of women?

But that is the thing, is it not? For every creation, there must be a will, must be a spark. For man to be made flesh, there must first be clay. For illusion to be made real, there first must be a wish.

“One, two-- a sprightly pace if it pleases you, my lady! Lift your feet--”

Sweat spirals down her spine, but Shirayuki picks her heels up of the floor, her sashay the barest whisper of slipper sliding across wood. Far from the ethereal wood nymphs cavorting across the palace’s walls, but it carries her across the floor with far more grace than she’s ever managed before. Like flying, provided it was a hen across the chicken yard.

Shirayuki careens more than glides to the next sequence-- the turn, three, four, return, one, two-- and her heart lodges firmly in the vicinity of her throat. She’s never managed this one before, not without stomping on Arundo’s toes or gravity ruthlessly asserting it dominion over her, dragging her to the earth where she belonged, but--

Haki’s hand squeezes tight around hers before lightening into a lift, pulling right over her head. She curls under it, up-up-down, before swinging back, far less measured, but a thousand times more triumphant.

So many of these story children start with nothing-- unloved and unmissed, abandoned by their parents, scorned by those meant to replace them. But this girl--

This girl was loved. She did not have the mother and father that so many other had, one taken by fate and the other duty; but her grandparents tended her in their place. While other little girls were scrubbing floors, or chopping wood, or being chased into the forest with only the bread in their pockets, she was adored; a treasure on her home’s hearth.

And then, in a breath, it was gone. No time for tears, for contemplation. No time for grief.

She does what all bold little girls do: she moves forward, she adapts. All those fears and grief she locks away; a little drawer inside her mind that only opens in the dead of night, when sleep won’t come to her. How worn those memories are by now, frayed about the edges, folded and thin from neglect.

Strange how it is always children who bear the heaviest burdens. Stranger still that they can grow to used to them, that they can bear them even unto adulthood and hardly realizing they are carrying them at all.

That is, of course, until they are lifted.

“You did it!” Haki catches her arms, stopping Shirayuki’s body from crashing into hers, a smile stretched wide across her face. “With not a step missed.”

“I did,” she bursts breathlessly, nearly sagging in relief. “I did!”

A clap cracks in the cavernous room, but it is only Arundo, his own mouth parted in delight. “Brava, my lady! I am most impressed.”

“As well you should be!” The consort steps back, letting her stand on her own two feet. “There are plenty young ladies I have seen on a dance floor that have not done half so well as Lady Shirayuki.”

Even flushed with victory, Shirayuki knows that for an exaggeration; a thick bit of flattery to bolster her confidence. But it hardly matters, not when she traveled the whole floor without a single misstep.

“I truly despaired of ever teaching Lady Shirayuki much more than swaying in place.” Arundo glances at her partner shyly, color high in his cheeks. “I see it merely took a deft lead.”

“Ah, Master Arundo, it takes a woman to understand how difficult a lady’s part may be.” Haki huffs out a laugh that is far less dainty than one she uses in front of courtiers, sweeping long strands of gold from the frame of her face. “If I knew which place to help, it is only because I remember where I most needed it. As my dancing instructor used to say, we all start at the same place.”

“Still,” Arundo insists, “for you to be able to dance the man and the woman’s part-- a most impressive feat!”

“Not at all!” Haki loops the last of her wisps around her ears, and just like that, the consort’s smiling mask slips into place. “This is but a simple waltz. You yourself must know a hundred or more, and dance both parts with skill besides.”

The dance master waggles a finger at her, playful. “Ah, but in the realm of grace and elegance, Your Majesty has far outstripped my paltry skill.”

With the high drama for which the Viandese were known, Arundo swept into a deep bow, bending near in half. Over his back, Haki glanced at her wide-eyed, mouth twitching, though any proof of it was gone before he rose.

“Please, Master Arundo, I am merely well-practiced.” The consort’s mouth tilts, a wry smile playing at her lips. “Izana and I often switch when we...”

Haki’s eyes pulse wide, her cheeks blossoming with a delicate pink. “In any case, I would not have done so well had Lady Shirayuki not already been through the best instruction.”

You see, Miss? Obi’s laugh is bright in her ears, as if he were only right beside her. Anyone can do it. And if you stumble, only stand on my feet and I’ll guide us both through it--

An arm slips through hers, the consort leaning close. “Won’t my brother be surprised to see such progress?”

Shirayuki cannot fathom why Makiri might care about her dancing. He’s seen it before, both of them often pressed into the same endless dinner parties at Lilias, the sort that always seemed to turn into dancing and awkward moonlight professions. He’d been light on his feet when any of the girls dared to approach, not a born dancer like Haki, but a competent one; when she’d clomped past him, dragged by regretful partners, he’d only raised an eyebrow-- an improvement upon the usual sneers she garnered from fellow revelers. He’d never been forced onto her dance card, but still--

Haki slips her a wink, and oh, it’s not her brother she means, but Zen.

You’re supposed to be learning to dance with him, after all. Even in memory, Obi’s smile cuts like a knife’s edge. No wife dances with any man besides her husband.

Shirayuki’s palms sting where her nails cut crescent into them. This room, it’s-- it’s far, far too small. Too tight. So confining, little more than a cage--

“Shall we break for a moment?” Arundo’s jovial lilt crashes through her thoughts like a bird to a window. “And then we shall start the next!”

“A perfect idea, Master Arundo.” Haki smiles down at her, so bright that the shadows of her thoughts burn away. “I dare say my sister has earned a break.”

It was always just enough for this little girl: a grandfather, a grandmother, a loving home and hearth. There had been no dreams of another there, not even when she lost them, not even when she pruned her roses and found another set of hands to take hers. Not even when those hands became a home in themselves.

But with a single word, uttered so casually, a drawer springs open.

Sister. The word echoes through Shirayuki’s head as they walk. There’s an itch of irritation beneath her skin, a pebble in her metaphorical shoe, but still--

Sister. She’s damp, not gently dewed like Haki, so drenched in sweat that her dress clings to her. Fatigued too, every muscle aching, including a few that hadn’t been in her textbooks. She has every reason to want to bury herself in her covers, to try to find the reason her skin feels too tight.

But that’s not what her attention’s caught on, not in the slightest.

“I’m not your sister,” she says, wishing she hadn’t at all. It would be so easy for it to be taken away, for that soft glow in her chest to be snuffed out.

“No,” Haki agrees, looping her arm through hers as if it belongs there, as if she belongs. “But you will be.”

In the morning the girl rose, the cottage empty save for the scent of honeysuckle and forsythia. Her small feet padded across the floor, right to the window latched tight against the night. She pushed up to tip-toe, fingers flicking against metal, and--

And her first sight was a garden, piled high with blooms; a paradise that belonged on a canvas in oils, not at her fingertips.

Do you see? the sorceress asks, rising from where she tends her beds. I awake to this glory every morning. You could as well, if you wanted.

I can’t, the girl says, certain.

The sorceress blinks. And why not?

I... The girl stares out over all this beauty, its scent surrounding her. I do not remember.

Ah, well then. The sorceress smiles, the way she always thought her mother would, had she known her. Then stay a while, and perhaps we will help you remember together.

“May I...” Shirayuki hesitates, biting her lip as they take another winding curve through the halls. The longer she stays within the palace, the more she’s certain: she could live a lifetime here and never knows all the twists and turns it takes. “My I ask you a question?”

The consort peers down at her, both eyebrows lifted in gentle question. “You may.”

“How do you do this all day?” Shirayuki restrains herself from sagging in her stays, whalebone the spine that keeps her upright. “It’s hardly evening and if I hold my shoulder back a moment longer, I think I’ll...”

Collapse, she means to say, but it lingers at the tip of her tongue, too sweet, too untrue. Scream is close, rend this dress to pieces closer still, but closest--

Her mind snaps tight around the thought, a steel trap with a wolf’s paw between its teeth. From the murmurings she’s heard since she first came to Clarines, Wistal has seen enough madness for a lifetime.

“Ah, you see, the secret is--” Haki leans in, looping her arm through hers-- “I don’t.”

Shirayuki blinks.

“You are still learning,” the consort continues, setting herself upright, setting their arms into the proper form ladies strolling. “And thus, you must memorize protocol every day, eat your meals under supervision, and practice the mazurka. I, however, have mastered all this, and thus, I cannot remember the last time I waltzed outside a ball.”

“But the etiquette--” the poise, the presence, the elocution-- “surely..?”

“Well, of course.” She shrugs, jostling their elbows. “But those lessons were a part of my childhood, much like how you probably learned to cook and clean and pick herbs instead of poison. It all becomes second nature to you, in time.”

Shirayuki doesn’t have the heart to tell her how easy it was to mistake mushrooms, but her point-- well, it’s a good one. “I’m not sure that will ever happen for me.”

“Perhaps not,” the consort allows mildly. “Certainly they will never seem as natural to you as they might to a lady born to manors and castles. And had you continued to try to learn manners from a book, than you would have had no hope at all. But--” Haki pulls her closer to her side, mouth curled with satisfaction-- “you are not alone, you have me.”

Her cheeks flush with heat; the very same as the flame that warms her chest. “Do I?”

“You do.” The consort nods, the sort that says she expects her will to be followed to the letter. “I have always wanted to share these things with someone. Alas, I was given but a single brother, and he my elder. But now I have you.”

What was it we said? A human heart has four chambers, beating in concert. A complex thing, a puzzle box of wants and desires, one buried beneath the other, a dangerous tower of longing crushed inside a container too small to hold it. And all of us live our lives never knowing its depths, not until a drawer springs open, and oh--

Oh how easy it is for our longing to sneak up on us, all unknowing. How easy it is to be blinded by it.

When the consort smiles-- really, truly smiles-- it’s too bright, like looking into the sun, and Shirayuki has to duck her head or be blinded. She’s light-headed from only a moment of basking in its radiance; she can’t imagine what might happen if she dared to look more.

“Besides,” Haki continues blithely, skirts brushing their slippers as they walk. “You could drop an entire tureen on my brother and I think he would adore you just the same. Maybe even more, if you dropped it on the right person.”

A laugh bubbles up from her, and oh, oh, it has been far too long-- it leaves her, a cage thing finally freed from its chains, and rampages through the hall.

Haki stares down at her, pale eyes wide and almost wary. For a moment her mouth works, rounding as if she might say, a lady laughs like a bell, not a gong, just like Mihoko--

And then she joins in, just as wild.

But how can she forget about her precious boy, you might ask? How can she forget about her home?

The answer is easy enough: one must only provide a new one. Oh, how easily a heart may be fooled when the illusion is so pleasant, when it is so wanted. Men on the verge of death imagine entire cities in the desert, oases just over the horizon, luring them yet another step to their doom. When there is no relief, no hope, when only doubts encompass us--

That is when we are most in need of fiction. Of an escape, of respite. How simple it can be to close ones eyes to harsh reality when it is paradise that lays before them.

But take heart-- such things never last. They cannot. It is folly to suggest there is no life without suffering-- an excuse to give breath to all kinds of evil-- but for plenty to have meaning, there must be a lack. To know joy there must be sadness, to know wisdom there must be ignorance, and when all one’s days are filled with a mindless, monotonous bliss--

Well, there is no paradise from which man does not escape, and no garden that will keep a little girl from what she seeks.

“Ah!” Haki’s jolts ahead, a filly at the end of her lead. Shirayuki nearly is dragged with her, her feet stumbling over the hem of her gown, but the consort extricates herself just in time, setting her to rights.

“Just-- just wait here a moment, if you would,” the consort tells her, fingers wound tight over the rounds of her shoulders. “It seems as though there is, ah, someone waiting for me at the door. I’ll only be-- a moment.”

Shirayuki blinks as the consort scurries away, skirts sweeping against the carpet in a rhythm and pace too hurried for Clarines’ stately queen. “But, your room is...”

Around the corner, she almost says, a better shorthand for not yet visible, which is what she means. Both points are moot; the consort springs away long before she can speak, the only part of her that remains the lagging lace of her train. And then even that is gone, all disappeared down the hall.

Perhaps it is the angle, Shirayuki allows. With her on the inside of the turn and the consort on the outside...?

Well, it hardly matters. She huffs out a breath, straightening her shoulders, and comes to stand in the intersection. This is a safe enough place to wait; the consort’s chambers are the first door on this hall, and--

And there is someone waiting. Or was, since all she catches of them the flash of a white coat.

The girl knows every inch of this garden in time, every undying bloom. For that is what they must be, at least for them to be so many, for so long. There are daffodils and daisies, dahlias and tulips, marigolds and gardenias, lilacs and lilies of the valley. A hundred flowers and more, too many to ever name crawling up lattice and sprawling over the bounds of their beds.

And yet, there is something missing. It sits at the tip of her tongue, begging to be said, but she cannot find the word, no matter how long she thinks on it. The only thing that comes to her is the memory of loam, and the warmth of hands brushing hers.

Don’t ever leave me, the sorceress would say, a smile on her lips, fingers tangled in her hair.

How could I, the girl would laugh, an inexplicable knot of dread tightening in her belly, when everything is so beautiful here?

“Shirayuki!”

Haki approaches her, smile wide and warm but also-- strain lingers at the corners. Maybe even displeasure. “I thought you were going to wait.”

“I was,” she says, wide-eyed. “I mean, I am. Who was...”

“No one.” The consort waves her off. “Just a delivery. A tisane. For my migraines. I ran out just the other day.”

“Oh.” Her mouth works, grasping for the words that had come so easily no so long ago, but now were like grinding glass. “From the pharm--?”

“Come!” Haki sweeps her arm up into her own, pulling her firmly against her side. “It’s time for dinner, isn’t it? We must see that you’re ready.”

It ends like this: she finds a petal.

It is no crimson red, no passionate pink, but instead a simple and clean white, not so unlike the gardenia. But it is too small for such a flower, too rounded, too plush. She presses it between her fingers and it is familiar as her own skin, as the scent of vanilla on the air, and yet she cannot find the name, nor envision the bloom from whence it fell. Surely it is nothing in this garden.

What it that you have? the sorceress asks, her voice suddenly sharp, like a blade placed between skin and bloated tick. Give it here.

The little girl has not reason not to. It must have blown in from elsewhere.

The sorceress takes it in her hand, slender fingers curling into a fist around it. When they unfurl it is gone, merely dust in the wind.

We need none of that world here, the sorceress says, kinder but firm. You will never leave me, after all.

Of course, the girl says, turning to her with a wide smile. The sorceress has a new hat on, black and covered in flowers, even finer than the ones she’s worn before. Why would I, when--?

Her teeth snap down, words stuck between them. It’s the only way to be safe, the only way to stop herself from saying now what she knows she cannot. Right there, painted on the cloth, next to a blood red dahlia--

--There is a rose. The sorceress’s hat has roses, and this garden does not.

Of course, she says again, stilted. This is where I belong.

Shirayuki stands frozen in the hall, mind churning like a mill’s wheel in the storm of her thoughts. The summer months mean whites and creams and ivories are in season, a playful palette that the consort’s court adorns with floral embroidery. But she did not see a floating train of silk, or the fluttering layers of linen, but instead--

A white coat. A brown paper package done up with twine and ink scrawled illegibly on the outside, passed so quickly from one hand to the next. The scent of herbs is fresh on the air, valerian among them.

She misses it. Almost as much as she misses...

“Shirayuki?” The consort tugs at her, a question writ across her brow. “Is something wrong?”

“Haki...” Her hands clench at her side. “Has there been any news of Obi?”

That is the thing about magic: it is easy to weave wishes into illusion, but to maintain it-- a different matter entirely. A woman may send all her roses underground, never to be seen again, but to remember to remove them from every vase, from the back of a brush, from a hat--

Impossible.

“Obi?” The consort’s grip tightens, even as her smile spread wide. “No, none at all.”

[ayo-cowbelly]

when the fire goes out, how do we stay warm? part 2/?

previous part ~ next part ~ masterlist

this chapter is just SkySnips fluff and then *angst*. hope you enjoy ;)

the chapter count has changed- this story will definitely be more than two parts. it just went in it's own direction and i was powerless to stop it.

Warning: descriptions of injuries and a panic attack

***

When Anakin wakes up, he sees sterile white walls and bright lights filling his vision. Everything is blurry. It reminds him of being unconscious, except instead of darkness all he sees is blazing white.

The first thing he registers is that his body, especially his right eye, feels like it’s on fire. Then he realizes that his right side feels suspiciously light. Anakin knows he must have injuries, somehow, but he doesn’t remember exactly how he got them. Usually, when he wakes up in MedBay, the memories come rushing back within a few seconds; sometimes it even makes Anakin nauseous. But this time, there’s nothing. No flashes of battle, no cut off sentences, no ringing of an explosion in his ears.

There’s a blankness filling the space where the last few days (or weeks, he doesn't know) should be. It makes Anakin more unsettled than the nausea would.

He closes his eyes, reaching for the memories, but all he can remember is having a meeting with the Council- about what, he doesn’t know. But he recognizes the feelings that come with it; irritation, resentment, anticipation. The emotions feel stronger than they would normally be. Whatever he’d been doing, it hadn’t been good. He dives into his head again, and almost gets past the Council meeting; but when he tries to get farther, he meets a wall. As Anakin bangs against the structure, it keeps pushing him back. He’s not sure if it’s meant for protection or to deceive him.

Maybe Obi-Wan knows? Now that Anakin was awake, he should comm his master- Obi-Wan would surely be aware Anakin had been unconscious (and it must have been caused by something bad, if Anakin’s stinging limbs are any indication). Anakin looks down at his body, inspecting the injuries. His left arm has red scars running down it, along with his legs. Some look newer, and he knows how to differentiate those from his old ones from Tatooine- those he is intimately familiar with.

There are the small ones on his fingers, from when he was a child reaching for machinery his mother couldn’t reach. There’s ones on his legs (which are currently bare, due to the hospital gown he’s wearing) from the lashings Watto and Gardulla gave him, and of course ones he earned for running through Mos Espa trying to get away from said lashes.

But these new marks… he’s not sure where they’re from. Anakin reaches up to his right eye, trying to discover the source of the pain. He runs his fingers over the scar, wondering why it feels… longer than it used to be. Anakin follows the stitches (why he needed stitches on an old scar, he had no idea), dread swirling in him as he traces them down to just above his jawline. His cheek feels swollen and numb.

Anakin counts about 15 new wounds on his left arm, and those are just the ones he can see (some, he notices, run under his sleeve. He doesn’t want to know where they go). There are some bandages on his legs and he thinks he senses one on his left shoulder. Anxiously, he slowly turns his head to his now-weightless side. The sight before him shocks him to his core.

His right arm. It’s gone.

Not just the prosthetic. His entire right arm. Is not there. His limb just... ends at his shoulder, a small stump the only thing left. Anakin slams against the wall in his head, demanding answers, but the damned thing stays strong. The effort almost exhausts his already ragged mind. What happened to me?

As he surveys the MedBay, it’s seemingly empty- save for a few other sleeping troopers, so it must be during the night cycle. His eyes land on the bacta tank. In it is Rex, eyes closed. His body is covered in marks as well. But they’re not as bad as Anakin’s, not even close. The Jedi looks closely at the other troopers in the room, checking if they have anything resembling lashes or cuts- but they don’t. It’s just him and Rex, from what he can tell so far.

The door to the MedBay opens, Kix striding in. When he sees Anakin, he almost drops his datapad. “General! You’re awake!” Judging by the tone of the medic’s voice, Kix is genuinely surprised- just how long had Anakin been out?

“Yeah, I am- Kix, what happened? Where did my kriffing arm go?” As he talks, his throat aches with soreness- Anakin doesn’t try to figure out why (he knows he won’t like the answer).

Kix walks forward slowly. “You… you don’t know, Sir?”

“No,” Anakin says, disgruntled. “I can’t remember anything from before my last meeting with the Council.” His stomach drops a bit when he sees Kix’s eyes widen.

Swallowing, his head medic inspects the bandages and marks on his body. A tense silence fills the room. Anakin hates it.

“Kix. Where did Rex and I go?”

“Sir, I- I’m not sure I’m the right person to tell you.”

Anakin feels a flare of anger. Kix means well, he knows that; but when you wake up with new scars and a missing limb, with your captain in a bacta tank- well, you’re bound to have questions.

“Just tell me why my arm’s gone, Kix, if you won’t tell me where we were.”

Kix lifts his head, looking Anakin in the eye grimly. “Your prosthetic was gone by the time I got to you. The rest of the limb was too infected and torn up to be saved.”

Anakin looks back to the stump at his shoulder. Eyes closed, he whispers, “Why was my arm torn up?”

“General Skywalker, really, I don’t think I’m the best person-”

Anakin silences Kix with a wave of his left hand. “Fine, then, just- can you get me Obi-Wan?”

At his General’s words, Kix pales but doesn’t say anything. “I’ll- I’ll get you Commander Tano, Sir,” Kix says shakily, before turning and walking out.

Anakin has more questions than answers.

He waits, fidgeting with his hospital gown, wondering why the hell Kix seemed so unsteady around him. As he sits in his bed, he tries reaching out to Obi-Wan in the Force. Anakin locates their bond- but it’s unstable, the thread fraying on both sides. He pulls on it, and is met with a wobbly burst of surprise, distress, love, and sorrow from Obi-Wan. Anakin sends back feelings of confusion and slight impatience. He doesn’t receive anything in reply.

He’s about to reach out again, but is interrupted by a shout of “Skyguy!” Anakin turns to Ahsoka, her feet pounding over to him. She throws her arms around him, holding tight.

“Snips?”

“Oh, thank the Force you’re awake- it’s been awful, Master, without you or Rex here- please, don’t ever do that again-”

“Ahsoka,” Anakin says. He gently pries her arms off his, but still keeps her close. His Padawan- his little sister- has tears in her eyes as she looks over him. “What happened to me? Where’s Obi-Wan?”

Ahsoka’s eyes overflow. “Master, he’s- they- I tried to tell-” The sentence is cut off by her broken sobs. Anakin pulls her into his chest again, and she gratefully holds on. He runs his hand over her Lek, making soft shushing noises.

“It’ll be okay, Snips, whatever happened- it’ll be okay,” He whispers. Ahsoka only cries harder. Anakin wonders if his Master is- no, he can't be, Anakin felt him through their bond- Obi-Wan is not dead.

~

The next day, Anakin sets off to the bridge, intending to get answers.

Well, he tries. Whether or not he actually got there is a different story. Ahsoka, Kix, and even Cody (who has apparently been on the Resolute for as long as Anakin’s been out- the Commander looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks) all sternly ordered him to stay put.

“Master, you just woke up last night; you need to rest.”

“I can’t rest, I need to know where Obi-Wan is, where I’ve been-”

“Sir, as head medic, I’m respectfully commanding you to stay put,” Kix finishes replacing a bandage on Anakin’s leg, sternly giving him a look.

Anakin, knowing not to argue with Kix, tries a different tactic. “Cody, you agree with me, right?”

Cody, who looks incredibly worn out, just shakes his head at Anakin, making the Jedi sigh.

“Please, just tell me what happened,” Anakin begs, looking around at the three of them. The two clones share a glance before saluting quickly and walking away, nodding to Ahsoka.

She stares at the closing doors, hands twisting and pulling at her clothes. Anakin’s eye catches on an angry-looking line on her uncovered right shoulder. Had she been on the mission, too? Anakin hopes she wasn’t; whatever mission this was, it had been catastrophic, if he was missing an arm and Obi-Wan was gone- No. Don’t- don’t think about that- he’s alive, you felt him, you’ll find him-

Ahsoka takes a deep breath. Then another. She wipes her eyes, turning to face him. “Master, we were on…” she pauses and takes his left hand, as if telling Anakin to brace himself. “You, me, Rex, and Obi-Wan… we were on Zygerria. But after that-”

He can’t hear the rest of her sentence. The word ‘Zygerria’ triggers a myriad of emotions in Anakin. Anger, fear, sadness, pain, despair, hopelessness- he doesn’t know what to make of them. He feels numb and overstimulated all at once. His heart twists in his chest. Anakin wonders if he’s about to float away or sink into the floor, and he distinctly remembers yelling and crying and wondering where the Root was-

“Master?” Ahsoka says, but her voice can’t bring him back. He faintly registers a tentative brush of sympathy and love in their bond, but he can’t reply- he’s lost in his head.

Anakin is stuck in an ocean, and he’s going to drown, why can’t he swim- where is Obi, how can I get out, DON’T TOUCH ME- where is the Root, I want Obi, GET AWAY FROM ME- I want to rest, I’m so tired, let me sleep, LEAVE REX ALONE- why can’t I see the Dunes, they’re supposed to be here, I can see Mom again, I HATE THIS PLANET- let them swallow me, I TOLD YOU TO STOP- I want to help, STOP PLEASE STOP, STOP, DON’T DO THAT, STOP- Obi please help me-

The thoughts that must be from the mission whirl around his brain, but he can’t grasp onto the memories they hold. Anakin wants them to go away, he wants them to stay put, he wants to make his hand stop shaking. Why is he burning if he’s about to drown? His heart pounds and he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, his legs don’t work, he is going to sink-

Suddenly, his spiraling mind is gently pulled at with a sweep of affection and love. The feelings aren’t his, but from someone nearby (he can’t remember who). The person keeps building up the sentiment, until they become a thick blanket that is laid over Anakin, shielding him.

He finds that his eyes are closed. He slowly comes back into his body, and realizes his left -his only- hand is tightly gripping something.

It’s another hand. Ahsoka. He opens his eyes, breaths regulating. Anakin releases her, and turns his head to look at her. His little sister looking at him worriedly, questions in her eyes.

“Anakin?” She breathes.

“‘Soka?” He croaks out. His throat is even more sore than before. “Where- where’s Obi?”

A heavy pause. “The queen has him, Anakin,” Ahsoka says quietly.

 Anakin can't help but be relieved that Obi-Wan has been confirmed alive. But the Zygerrian queen has him- and Anakin knows that that is so much worse than his Master being dead.

  I would rather my child be dead than be a slave like me.

But this time, it's his brother.

"'Soka... what happened... after we were there?" Anakin asks, part of him not wanting her to answer.

"You- The guards, they found you and Rex, and they shipped you off- They put me in a cell," She says. Searching his face, his apprentice knows he needs more details. Sadly, she continues, "They took you to Kadavo, Master. The queen made Obi-Wan her servant."

Kadavo. A place all slaves knew, even on Tatooine. It was the planet that everyone had nightmares of. He had been sent there- The thought almost sends his mind spiraling again, but before it happens, Ahsoka takes his hand and fills their bond with comfort. Anakin meets her eyes. "How long- how long were we-" He can't bring himself to finish. It doesn't feel real- but it must be. They made him into a-

 Don't finish that thought.

Anakin turns back to Ahsoka. Another pause. Eyes closed, Ahsoka mumbles, "It was about a month before we were rescued, Master."

He doesn't know what to say to that- he had been on Kedavo for a month? "H- how did they find us?"

"It took them a while to figure out where you were, but once they did, they sent Master Plo to get us. Once they got you, they went for me and Obi-Wan- Rex told Master Plo where we were before he went unconscious, apparently. They found me, but... nobody knows where the queen put Master Obi-Wan."

Red fills Anakin's vision. Obi-Wan, his brother, is missing, in the hands of some slaver queen-

 She will pay.

[gofancyninjaworld]

OPM Manga Chapter 131:  Won’t Lose

Story:  You Can’t Keep A Good Hero Down

No need to ask: this chapter is not about the showdown between Tatsumaki and Psykos-Orochi.  In fact, it’s not immediately about fighting at all.  It’s about the other thing One-Punch Man does so well -- look across its very large cast and develop who they are.

Within the universe, the last few days have been crazy.  Three days ago, Saitama went to visit Mumen Rider after the latter was beaten up by the then-unknown Garou and life was normal if you didn’t keep up on hero affairs.  Two days ago, the Monster Association announced its presence by launching synchronised attacks on multiple cities and then following up with an ultimatum delivered in blood to the Hero Association.  Yesterday, the newspapers were full of the Monster Association’s attack on the Hero Association and City S was imperiled by a crazy-huge monster.  And today! Today!  City Z is in shambles as a giant tower, topped with a giant glowing monster, is hauled up through it.  It’s visible for miles around.

Four days from ‘normal’ to ‘just pray’

If to the general public the warm-up act to the Apocalypse seems to be tuning up for a performance, then to the heroes injured in the events of the last few days, it is an insult.  One they’re not prepared to ignore.   The action in the first half is centred in the Hero Hospital in City S, which is close enough to City Z that both Garou and Saitama had no trouble getting there for a meal.  Close enough in fact that Metal Bat could see the tower from a vantage point.

the most unlikely HQ ever: the Hero Hospital in City S

We go from hero to hero answering that call.  First, Metal Bat!  He gives Zenko the slip and gallops off in the direction of the obscenity.   We then follow up to see that Mumen Rider has come to a similar conclusion and has slipped out to cycle off to the stricken city.  Tank Top Master joins him, the two making an unlikely, but most wholesome equipage.

Onward!

I thought that the Way of the Tank Top sounded a bit cultish, boy howdy are they!  I want more of them. It’s interesting to see the Tank Toppers debate what to do before resolving to follow after their master.  Not to be outdone, the Blizzard Group stops moping and runs off after them.  Finally, we see Snek, Lightning Max and Heavy Kong jump up and go too.  Heroes may be prepared to work alone, but being outdone by another just won’t do!

a bit of professional jealousy has its place

Suiryu putting RESPECT on Snek and Lightning Max, perfect. Saitama may have beaten the monsters, but it was they who came forward when none of his fellow martial artists would.  He points out this unwelcome fact to his fellow martial artists, both persuading them to let the professionals handle it and at last, clearly stating what his new goal in life is.

ahhh, there it is, the resolution

The action then switches to the other scene of human(ish) interaction: deep under the Monster Association, where Saitama is groping in the dark for any way out.

Fractured Broken Bone, um I mean Flashy Flash, keeping his cool whatever his predicament

Saitama, Flashy Flash and the monster who now has a name (Monako) has got to be some of the best comic relief ever.  Flashy Flash is too proud to admit that he’s trapped and doesn’t want to risk breaking his sword in trying to extricate himself.  Saitama’s ongoing misfortune with his head.  Monako turning out to be the only one with two braincells to rub together in solving the problem of how to get Flashy Flash out.  It’s all too good.

I’m not afraid for them -- I know they’ll be fine and it’s just a matter of when they join the fray that’s about to erupt far above them.

in the meantime, this has got to be the funniest thing ever

Meta

The Revolution Will Be Televised

The changes from the webcomic continue to make themselves manifest.  The manner of the showdown between hero and monster will have consequences that are going to shake society. This isn't a tiny scuffle in the middle of the night in a deserted part of town, like it was in the webcomic. Yup, there's still daylight, there's not just a huge tower, but a giant glowing monster on top of it a fight that people knew would be happening, thanks to media leaks and it follows on from a massive monster attack two days ago.   Win or lose, the Hero Association and its actions are going to be under scrutiny as never before.

We don’t need the webcomic to know that despite the very heartening rally of heroes to the scene, this night is unlikely to cover the HA in glory.

Heroes are Special

Honestly, Suiryu encapsulates best what it is about a hero that makes them special: the spirit with which they push themselves to help no matter the circumstances.  The strength is secondary.

And to see that he’s specifically watching Snek and Lightning Max, ahh, my heart, my heart couldn’t take it.

All these serious heroes bravely struggling forward despite their wounds, giving up safe beds for others, shaving at their well-beings for the sakes of others. They have their quirks and flaws, their professional jealousies but at the end of the day, as long as they can move, they're out to do what they can.   That value is the thread that unites all heroes, however rowdy or calm, strong or weak, pleasant or difficult they are.

What are they hoping to achieve?  Most of them aren’t going to fight: they’re not deluding themselves that they can in their current conditions.  They’re there to do the other thing that heroes do, help despite the toughest of conditions. There are people who need freeing from rubble, maybe a few fugitive monsters to be eliminated, routes to clear for emergency staff, and hold a perimeter around the battlefield.  Tank Top Master lifting rubble will mean that people whom it would have taken hours (or days) for a crew with heavy equipment to reach will get help in minutes. His having the humility to commit to retraining and restrict himself to helping is amazing.  

The only hero who is definitely out to fight is Metal Bat.  So much for wondering what difference his participation would have made, we’re about to find out!  Which means, unfortunately, finding out what he can’t do.

If we ever needed reminding that the people who make it as pro-hereos are good, this is it. It's really going to make for a painful contrast with what we see of the Neo Heroes.

That said, I think I can see some potential for the growth of the tension we observed in the webcomic between B-Class and lower heroes and the top heroes. If they can avoid being dragged into the fight, the Blizzard Group and Tank Toppers will help hundreds, if not thousands, of people.  This night will cement in peoples’ minds that it’s the lower-class heroes who are accessible to them when they’re in need. It really will put pressure on the Hero Association to provide them with better equipment, access to training, and pure appreciation, the things they currently reserve for the A- and S-Class heroes.

Look, no tits! Woohoo!

At long last, much overdue, Murata draws a female monster that doesn’t have pointless tits hanging improbably out.   Much love to Manako, whose survival we hope in.

no, this is the funniest sequence: Saitama embarrassed at misgendering a monster. It’s both incongruous and wholesome.

[rosiethorns88]

Queen of Nothing Thoughts / Reflection on the Series

Many people are asking me, so I’m pooling them here. I’m not a writer or a reviewer, just a reader. :)

SPOILERS AHEAD:

First, an expectation summary:

- Overall, the book hit all of my high notes and succeeded in its story telling to me, personally. Holly has a pattern with climax building reflected in all three of her books that I really enjoy as a reader. There are shocking moments about two-thirds of the way in each book that feel like climaxes, but after the sudden burst and fall out, it slowly builds up again to another and greater peak. I find the early upsets and expanded conclusions of the final acts to be really satisfying to unfold, page by page. Cardan and Jude are two fascinating characters and the friction their personalities cause with one another make for some satisfying sparks. The whole cast of characters are colorful and the world building is rich, and I enjoyed the escapism the entire series brought to me with each visit.

- I was completely satisfied with the pacing, because it worked for the story at hand. Madoc was making his move and allies from all over Faerie were seeing Cardan’s control over his court wane in his wake. Both Jude and Cardan had to move and move fast to get themselves in a position of defense. In fact, the one act that I feared may have dragged on the longest, Jude’s ‘entrapment’ at the camp, actually moved forward quite quickly and kept my interest once Grimsen and the Ghost entered the mix. To spend time tying up every frayed thread with other non-player characters before the end would have lessened the urgency of story’s impending conflicts. Let’s get Jude and Cardan settled and to their honeymoon first before we chat about Nicasia’s love woes over tea.

- The Jurdan reunion was great, I love how it reflects the previous books with them having to first play act with each other again. Though I was hoping for it to last a bit longer with Cardan stringing Jude along in her disguise. I was really excited for Jude to play switch-a-roo as Taryn, but didn’t expect it to end so suddenly. It would have been a great call back to the circumstance of Cardan’s being tricked at the end of The Wicked King.

- The fact the Cardan was so involved with Jude’s runarounds: the rescue attempt from the palace, the actual rescue from the camp, his tag-alongs with her questing. It made all of their interactions very satisfying as it was expanding beyond the verbal throw-downs they only had before. I’ve seen many people complain there were not enough Jurdan scenes, but y’all. We barely had a breath of their interactions from the 1st and 2nd books compared to QoN. I was thoroughly pleased.

- The fact that Cardan indulges in Jude’s political nature and wears it proudly like a brooch when he’s addressing his court. He’s basically like, “I’m here to be my witty and sarcastic self; she’s here to be her just and vicious self. We complete each other.”

- CARDAN REUNITES WITH HIS DOOR! This was my favorite reunion scene as it was one of the many world building elements I enjoyed from the first book. Cardan’s playful and endearing greeting to his door at Hallow Hall was such a thought provoking element - I could only imagine as he grew up at the hall, he had little things or persons to befriend. And with the revelation of Cardan sneaking out human servants in the night, it makes sense he could get away with it with this unique friendship. I’m so glad this was a payoff.

- Madoc - I love Madoc. SO MUCH. He’s such a rich character, it’s so hard to call him morally grey when his character is so colorfully rich. Every chapter I either put an extra tick on his ‘I hate you so much’ or ‘I love you so much’ tally. He’s so true to his nature as a red cap, yet still so loving and caring for his family. He truly shows his hurt and conflict in his anger towards Jude after he finds she has betrayed or outwitted him. I reflect back to The Cruel Prince, when Jude was reminiscing how she and Madoc would play a board game of strategy (like chess) and have to interrupt it. All day, Jude would think about her possible moves and his possible moves, so when they returned to the game, the entire strategy had changed. This is how they interacted all through out the novel. Every thought and move was predicted, then challenged, then overturned before they could even meet face to face again. It’s amazing how there are no villains or heroes in this story; Jude and Madoc’s conflict were just an ever spinning tornado of their own morals and loyalties and ideals.

- Ghost & Taryn redeemed! I must admit, I was completely shaken by the Ghost’s betrayal in TWK, and did not expect him to be a redeemable character, though I did expect him to be involved somehow. I’m a little less satisfied with how quickly Taryn changed her spots back, especially with the build up from The Lost Sisters novella, and wish that Locke wasn’t killed off-screen. I can believe what she said happened, and that she was unhappy with the situation, but for it all to be delivered in one sitting as a monologue, it didn’t sink in for me for a while. I didn’t expect to have a redeeming arc for either of them, nor expect hints at their possible relationship, but it all fell into place nicely. At the end, I felt that the Ghost deserved to have his freedom, and that Taryn was appropriate to hold him to it.

- The Bomb and The Roach! I was happy for them to find their happily ever after, but Noooooo I didn’t want the Roach to be fridged! The Roach x The Bomb x Jude x Cardan interactions produce the best lines in the entire series and I was super sad to see the Roach exit so early. But from the little we received, it was a delight.

- Nicasia, Valerian (his curse), Locke - to me these three didn’t have the conclusions I was hoping for, but there may be open lore left to explore for Holly. I do understand why others insist that the last book be split into two and expanded upon, but the book was sharply focused on Jude and Cardan’s predicaments. Nicasia, Valerian and Locke all had unfinished stories and conflicts with both of them, but they were past issues that weren’t actively affecting the plot, and so I wasn’t troubled by their absence. But I’m hoping short stories or expanded lore in other Holly-verse novels may touch upon them.

- Vivi / Heather - This side plot got a little more attention than I expected, even though I didn’t appreciate the decisions both Vivi and Heather made (just as Jude didn’t).  I was actually expecting Heather to take the route that she did, but just a little bit further than where she ended up. I love that she went completely Hermione on the group, but really wasn’t helpful in the end (which is ok). However, I think the true recourse for Heather’s involvement was intended solely for Vivi. By Heather experiencing Faerie a second time with the expectations of the terrors it offered, she was able to see other facets of the world Vivi has ties too, which is why she gave Vivi the second chance to reintroduce it to her in a better light.

- Oak / Oriana -  I find Oriana such a delight as a character, but I don’t know why I always forget she exists until she appears on page. Which is appropriate, as she makes herself seen and be heard when she wants to. I love how helicopter parent she is with Jude even though she’s made it clear that she barely tolerates their familial ties. Still, her ability to parry Jude’s rebellious and un-lady-like behavior with her witty retorts gave us some of my favorite scenes from the previous books, and I enjoyed their brief reunion under the same circumstances at the camp. Oak, on the other hand I felt was underused as a character, and instead, justifiably used as a political object. Oak and Oriana’s relationship made for an interesting divisiveness between Team Madoc and Team Jude, that I think was an important factor, but ultimately Oak didn’t have much to do in decision makings in the QoN like he did in TCP. However, I feel this is because his character arc begins at the end of this novel with the new character ex-Queen Suren. And whether or not that story makes it onto a page, I can accept that his story was left open-ended to begin here.

Regarding Jude:

I think it’s important to highlight Jude’s development with her feelings toward Cardan - specifically with her reaction toward her exile. I wouldn’t say she’s an unreliable narrator, more so, she’s an unreliable romantic. Jude is the ‘DON’T Notice Me Senpai’ main character who throws red flags up for every action Cardan does.

A very popular theory about Cardan’s exile was that Jude would be able to pardon herself since she is part of the crown as queen. When that turned out to be true, I saw a lot of disappointment from readers with the obviousness of it - but that’s because it was obvious to ourselves, and it always has been. Cardan’s wordplay is a defining trait for his character and there have been several scenes where we the reader are completely in the know when he’s doing it and are charmed by it right along with Jude. During the exiling, Jude is not in the know and is blinded at first by her stupor as a newly wed and then later with her doubt in Cardan’s feelings for her as she flat out admits to herself that the crown pardon could be a loop hole.

This is what makes the rose garden scene such a great turning point - because they both realized they fooled each other without knowing it and are both distressed by each other’s reaction. Their trust in each other was becoming more brittle as it grew, until they realized they both could no longer play their old schemes against each other without risking that trust breaking.

All throughout, Jude has been judging and second guessing everything he does while she scrambles across this political chess board. Deny his feelings, manipulating her own feelings, pushing and pulling and advancing further to the top before her desire for power and her desire for Cardan meet at the peak. And here, between the possibility of losing the power she gained or condemning the feelings she found, is when she finally has to make that choice for herself, when she had viable reasons to go either way. With the way she struggled for both, she earned that right to choose.

Favorite moments / quotes:

- Cardan flinching at Jude’s indirect confession while she was disguised as Taryn - and Jude wholly unaware of the implications.

- Cardan relishing in his cleverness about the exile, while Jude is like WTF and they’re completely clueless about each other’s reaction until in the later rose garden scene. - Cardan’s ‘Jude, DON’T!’ - seriously, listen to the audiobook, you can hear the fear in his voice as his murder wife runs off to battle. And because we the readers can hear that fear, while Jude doesn’t, makes it more heart breaking.

- Madoc alluding to Jude (as Taryn) about Cardan’s berserk mode when he tried to prevent Jude’s capture at the palace. And of course, Jude denying it (psh)

- Cardan doing the grunt work in Jude’s camp rescue, and getting socked in the stomach for it - hah! And of course, The Roach preening he warned him.

- Cardan subconsciously protecting Jude from the arrow trap

- Jude scaring off a faerie guard with mortal menstruation.

- “Do not touch her. She is my wife.”

- How LONG have I waited for Cardan to finally witness how much Jude mutilates her body from her fights, and then for him care for her himself in his bed was just an extra mountain of whipped cream with sprinkles on top. (remember, she hid from him her hand stabbing, her self-poisoning, her leg injury from Locke’s attack, the details of Valerian’s attempt to murder her TWICE, the details of her torturous time in the undersea, etc. Let him know your WOES, woman! Y’all need to cash in some empathy points!)

- Jude having no choice but to wear Cardan’s clothes

- SLAP

- “Maybe he’d like to hear me scream.” exchange. And the hair touch!

- MY DOOR!

- The Ghost spider scrambling up the wall towards Cardan, and Taryn whiplashing him. Poor baby!

- Cardan intrigued by Slushies and Gummy Worms

- Cardan privately reprimanding Randalin about Jude and him scurrying out of the room in a panic. WHAT WAS SAID? CARDAN WAS SMILING.

- Freakin Cardan confessing and cutting her off at the door.

- Jude taking the time to panic, to mourn and to plan after the transformation. I felt giving too much haste toward a ‘Disney-true-love-spell-breaking ending’ would have ruined the direness of Cardan’s sacrifice.

- That fingers-digging-into-her-back hug.

- Tight pants, t-shirt and a Lopsided paper crown.

[babygirlgalitzine]

i can’t get over the way (you love me like you do) (ao3)

it’s finally here! the fake dating au has been birthed! enjoy the first chapter x

Music crackles out from the radio as raindrops race one another down the kitchen windows, creating patterns of connected lines against the glass. There's a faint aroma of spice lingering in the air, and Callum's stomach rumbles as he leans against the kitchen counter top. He's been living in Walford for just shy of six months, and this is the first time his newfound friendship group will see the inside of his house for more than just a few moments. It's a stressful thought, though he's somehow relaxed, thankfully completely in his element cooking food. He's been somewhat excited for this night since it was first brought up in conversation, what seems like months ago now. 

Callum's stood behind the bar, confined to one area, in the corner of the Queen Victoria. He's been working there for months now, ever since he moved to Walford to be closer to his childhood family friends. He found a house, going for cheap for the area, a complete bargain, and without really even thinking, he was soon moving in, despite only knowing a few people in the area. Of course, it was a terrifying prospect initially, but he's been in worse situations throughout his life, so he was quite okay with that. The fear of the initial decision was nothing, in the grand scheme of things. 

Jay slams his pint glass down onto the pint mat he's placed on the bar, the corners of it fraying and bent, curling upwards. "Anyway when are we getting to taste your food then mate?" He asks, and there’s a slight slur to his words. It's been a long day, a long week really, and all three of them are letting their hair down in their local pub - Jay, Lola and Ben. 

The latter winces, the noise of the pint glass brash, close to his ear. 

Callum laughs awkwardly, his hands gripping on tightly to the edge of the bar, his body pulling away from them. His knuckles are white. "I'm barely moved in yet!" He explains. "I spend most of my time working here, so my house is still a mess. When I've got everything in place, you can all come around. We can make a dinner party of it." 

Lola quickly agrees to it, and starts to talk about what she could wear for such an occasion, even though it's only a meal around at a friend's house. 

Ben smirks over his lager, eyes wide and light, but stays silent, watching Callum as he walks off to do his job, taking drinks orders off of people none of them have ever seen before.

There's a tapping knock at the front door, and Callum's heart sinks below his stomach. It's too early for them to come. He looks at the clock, bolted onto the wall in the centre of the kitchen, and notices that it's only seven in the early evening, when he knows he previously arranged for them to arrive around eight. The table isn't even set yet, and that's suddenly a huge cause of anxiety for Callum. He pads over to the door, hoping that when he opens it he isn't bombarded with his friends because as much as he does love spending time with them, he really can't deal with them showing up before he's even remotely prepared. He exhales a shaky breath with closed eyes, before he pushes the handle down, pulling the door open. When he opens his eyes, Ben is smiling back at him, holding up a bottle of red wine in anticipation. 

"I knew you'd be stressing, so I thought I'd come over to help you." He announces, walking through the door and past Callum. "Now, I can't cook - but I can lay a table, and calm you down." 

Callum smiles, breathing a sigh of relief as he closes the door behind Ben. He's grateful for him, the closest of his new friendship group, and the only one who knows about the anxiety that plagues him. "Thank you." Callum says, sincerely. "Everything for the table is in that cupboard over there, I just need to sort the sauce out."

"Smells good, whatever it is." Ben grins, placing the wine bottle down on the table with a dull thud, before walking over to the cupboard. 

Still stirring the sauce, Callum looks back at Ben, watching him carrying four plates in one hand, glass bottles in the other. "It's Mexican barbeque sauce. Thought we could just have something basic."

Ben raises his eyebrows. "Basic for us is smiley faces and chicken dippers." He laughs. "This is proper restaurant material."

Anxiety courses through Callum. "Is it too much?" He asks, desperation in his voice.

"Absolutely not!" Ben shakes his head. "We will eat anything. Plus, Lola's still getting ready, so she's treating this as a big thing. Trust me. It will be perfect."

Callum smiles, a feeling floating around his chest that he just can’t explain. It’s like a mix of anxiousness, happiness and gratefulness all at once, an overwhelming swirl of emotions spreading through him. “You look good, by the way.” Callum points out, looking at Ben as he sets the table, placing knives and forks against the woodwork with a metallic clanging. He’s wearing a pair of jeans and a white button up shirt. Callum’s definitely seen it before, it’s a common outfit for Ben to wear if he’s going out, but it’s somewhat calming to see that he dresses up for a meal at a friends house - though knowing Lola, she more than likely didn't let him leave the house until he was dressed nicely.

“Thanks.” Ben grins, and Callum’s almost certain he can see a blush creeping its way onto, and across, Ben’s cheeks. “You too.” He says, looking up at Callum through hooded eyes and fluttering lashes. 

Callum flushes, and looks back at the food, quickly attempting to hide any visible blushing from Ben. Time ticks by, music still remaining on the radio crackling through old, slow songs which add to the relaxation of the evening. Ben opens a bottle of wine, and pours himself and Callum a glass each, both of them waiting in anticipation of Jay and Lola arriving. 

It's not long waiting, wine glasses only a quarter of the way empty, when there's a tap at the door and Callum puts his glass down on the kitchen counter, inwardly cringing at himself for not using a coaster. He stretches out his fingers and he can hear them crack, right before he opens the door and his friends come bounding their way in, Lola pressing a kiss to Callum's cheek, chatting away. "We've got no idea where Ben's got to, he said he would come over to ours but didn't show up." 

And then she sees him, sitting at the table, red wine in hand, left leg crossing over his right loosely. "Oh, you're here already!" She grins. "Glad to see you can get yourself dressed."

"Yes, thank you mother." Ben teases. "I don't need any help to choose what I look good in - I look good in anything." 

Jay rolls his eyes, sitting down at the table. "As modest as ever, I see." 

"You know me Jay, ever the modest one." Ben grins, taking a sip of his wine, allowing himself to relax as they all sit at the dining table. Callum looks at ease too, thankfully. Ben knows that by being there prior to Jay and Lola announcing themselves, he allowed Callum to relax.

They're all sitting around the dining table; Callum with Ben to his right, Lola on the opposite side to him, Jay next to her. It's nice, relaxing. They're on their third bottle of wine, the empty two sitting on the side of the sink. The main course is long gone, plates having been scraped empty, compliments entirely to the chef, which caused Callum to shyly blush, and thank them all. They're all laughing and telling stories, tipsy and happy. Callum's hand is reaching across and resting against the top of Ben's chair, and if he stretches his fingers out just the tiniest amount, they would be threading through his hair. Ben knocks his head back, laughing at a story Jay has just been telling, and Callum chuckles along too, though he was barely following the story, more focusing on Ben's side profile. He quickly jerks his hand away, and if anyone was watching him, they didn't make it obvious. He stands up, towering over the three of them.

"I made some brownies." He explains. "Thought we could have some of those for dessert."

If there's one thing that makes everyone happy, it's chocolate. 

The rest of the evening runs smoothly, all of them finishing a fourth bottle of wine, words slurring and only crumbs of broken up brownies remaining in sight. Lola looks around the house, and admires how it's all open plan, something unique to a house in Walford. There's an exposed brick wall, with a television hooked onto it. The house itself is small, but for just Callum, it seems perfect, and he's really made it homely in the months he's been living there. 

"You've done a great job here though, to say you've been working a full time job since you moved here." She comments.

"I only really finished it all the other day." Callum explains. "But the house was in good condition when I bought it so it wasn't a big job or anything - I just had to get a few bits to turn it into a home."

They're about to leave, Jay helping Lola put her coat on but struggling, probably something to do with the amount of alcohol they've both consumed. "It looks better than our place anyway." Jay jokingly comments, and Ben's eyes nearly pop out of his head in shock, trying desperately not to laugh. 

Lola throws her hand out, slapping it against Jay's chest in horror, and looks over at Ben, who is still sitting at the dinner table. "Are you coming?" She asks.

"No." Ben shakes his head. "I'll help Callum tidy up, it'll be easier if we both do it." 

Lola nods. "I'll see you tomorrow then." She says, yawning, before she looks up at the clock that is hooked onto the wall, noticing that it's now past the midnight hour, somehow. "Or, later on today." 

Callum smiles, and presses a kiss to her cheek, and pulls Jay in for a hug, before he waves them away, watching as they leave his house. Ben's now standing at the sink, letting warm water run over plates, cleaning them. 

"You don't have to do that." Callum says, walking over to him. "You being here early was enough." 

"I want to." Ben smiles up to Callum, handing him a clean, wet plate. "I wash and you dry?" 

Callum huffs out a laugh, shaking his head in disbelief, but he takes the plate anyway, and holds up a clean tea towel as he dries it. Every so often, their fingertips touch as they pass cutlery between them, but it just feels normal to share something so domesticated between each other, even if the clock is ticking away into the early hours of the morning. 

"Do you fancy a cup of tea?" Callum asks softly when they reach their last object to wash and dry. His eyes feel heavy, but he's not willing to let sleep overtake him, not willing to let Ben walk away and have this moment lost in the abyss of foreverness. 

"Sounds perfect." Ben smiles softly, even though his whole body is screaming out for him to sleep.

Callum flicks the switch on the kettle, and a blue light appears. Ben sits on the sofa, sinking into the material, feeling his aching bones relax with the relief of sitting down somewhere comfortable. Callum follows him moments later, and sits down next to him, handing a mug to Ben. 

"I didn't realise how late it was, sorry." Callum winces, taking a sip of his tea. 

Ben shakes his head, a smile on his face. "It's fine. Neither of us have to be anywhere tomorrow." 

"It's still late." Callum said. "Early? I don't even know, I'm that tired."

Ben chuckles out a laugh, thoughts swirling around in his brain. "Do you want me to go?" He asks, lightness spreading through his voice. 

"No!" Callum grins, but makes an attempt at hiding his smile behind his mug, holding it up to his face. "You can stay here tonight if you want? Kip on the sofa - it'll save you walking home alone."

"Yeah?" Ben asks, suddenly shy, for some stupid reason. "Yeah, I will do." He finishes his tea, and places it down on the coffee table in front of him. 

Callum follows, though there's the tiniest bit of his drink still remaining in the bottom of the mug, swirling around as he puts it down. "I'll get you a blanket." He says, standing up. "Don't want you freezing to death in the middle of the night." His bones ache, and there's a knot that's suddenly appeared in his neck, but he fights through the tiredness and the aching, and grabs the fluffy blanket that usually perches at the edge of his own bed, and carries it back to Ben. 

"Here you go." He announces, expecting to see Ben sitting up on the sofa, anticipating Calllum coming back into view - but he's laying down, his head pushing against a cushion, arm underneath it, sleeping. A faint whistle of a snore escapes Ben's mouth and Callum can't help but smile. He looks so at peace, even though it must be uncomfortable, sleeping in his clothes. Callum places in the blanket around Ben, and grabs the two mugs that they have previously been drinking from, and places them in the skin, ready to be cleaned tomorrow. He doesn't want to risk running the water through the taps and potentially waking Ben up. Callum turns, and attempts to walk back past Ben, straight into his bedroom, but something stops him, as though a magnetic force is pulling him to Ben, and before he can even help himself, he's crouching down over him, and pressing a gentle - but quick - kiss to his hairline, before he manages to drag himself away, finally retiring to his bedroom.

[balmacedapascal-archive]

kissed by fire | osferth & astrid | 5/?

summary: osferth had looked forward to join uhtred and his men at coccham. what he hadn’t anticipated was to be so taken by lady gisela’s right hand woman. a/n: hey there everybody. i know it’s been a couple days now since i’ve updated but between work and a lack of inspiration i’ve been struggling to get words on a page. but it’s finally happened and it’s my longest chapter yet so hopefully that will make up for things. anywho, here’s the next bit, hope you guys like it!

Osferth isn’t sure if he’s happy to be back in Winchester because he’s missed his old home or if he’s simply that he survived the battle at Beamfleot but there is a sense of relief sitting in Father Beocca’s home and listening to older man tells stories about Lord Uhtred as a child. It’s been three days since they had returned in the company of the princess and the armies of Wessex and more than anything there’d been celebrations. Finan has spent more time in the ale houses than anywhere else and Sihtric would’ve been off chasing his bride to be if he hadn’t been sent back to Coccham to retrieve Lady Gisela. There had been talk that they might be staying here for a while and it seemed Lord Uhtred didn’t want his wife away from him that long. 

He’s been dragged off to an ale house or two by the Irishman but for the most part he’s stayed clear of them. There’s still plenty of people there who remember him, remember his mother, remember what people would say about her and her time serving the king and queen. After the peace of Coccham he doesn’t have much desire to hear any more of it. So he stays at Father Beocca’s. The older priest is a kind man, kinder than many of the other men of the church he’s known. He and his wife - another red headed Dane, though more timid than the one back in Coccham - have been more hospitable than he could’ve possibly hoped for.

“Are you certain there isn’t something I could do to help, m’lady?” he asks, watching as Thyra moves about the small house preparing something for dinner. It’s not the first offer he has made and just like each time before she waves him off with a kind smile.

“I’ve told you, Osferth, I’m not a lady and you are a guest in our home. You do not have to help.” 

He has half a mind to argue, to do something other than sit there being useless when the door opens and Sihtric steps in, followed by not one but two women from Coccham. He almost knocks over his drink in surprise, sitting up a bit straight at the small table as he watches Astrid go over to hug Thyra. Thankfully, the only one who seems to notice is Lady Gisela, who simply gives him a warm smile and says hello before joining the women. He watches the three of them interact, all bright smiles and fond embraces and happy chatter like a family reuniting after spending too long apart. Tearing his gaze away after a moment, he joins Sihtric, who’s still standing near the door, and says, “I didn’t - I wasn’t expecting the both of them to come.” 

“She wasn’t going to,” Sihtric replies, glancing at Osferth before back to the women. “She hates it here but Gisela wanted her to come.”

“Hates it? Why does she hate it?” 

Sihtric claps him on the shoulder, heavy hand hitting in a rough but friendly gesture he’s grown accustomed to. “That’s something you’ll just have to ask her for yourself. You survived battle. I think you can handle your lady love, baby monk.” Osferth feels his face heating up as he shoves at Sihtric’s shoulder, doing little more than making the other man laugh. The women looked their way in curiosity and thankfully all Sihtric says to them is, “If you won’t be needing me, lady, I’ll be going to see Ealhswith.”

“Enjoy your time with her, Sihtric,” Gisela replies, a warm smile from the lady of Coccham and with one last smile Sihtric is gone and Osferth isn’t quite sure what to do with himself. Maybe he is better off joining Finan at the ale house while the women catch up. 

* * * * *

It’s been several hours since the sun went down and her friends retired for the night but Astrid is still awake, wishing she was back in Coccham and dealing with the quiet life of her village. It’s been three years since she last came to Winchester but she’d gladly stay away from King Alfred’s court for several more. Her memories of her time spent at the palace while she and Gisela had waited for Uhtred to return from Northumbria had been less than pleasant. After months spent under the careful watch of Lady Aelswith and the Christian priests, she had never felt more out of place or more unwelcome in her life. Not even the realization that Gisela was with child could raise her spirit back to what it had been back in Cumbraland. She’d been thrilled when Uhtred had returned with Finan and Sihtric and even more so when she found out they would not be staying at Alfred's court, leaving to make Coccham their new home. And if it wasn’t for the fact that it had been a year since the last time Thyra had come to visit them in their village, she would’ve been able to refuse Gisela’s insistence that she join them. But here she was, restless and eager to return home as quickly as possible. 

Her attention turns to the door of the small house as it opens, a little surprised to see Osferth coming in looking a bit sheepish at the noise the door had made. He had disappeared a few hours earlier, not long after Sihtric had run off in search of his love, and she’s surprised to see him back. More often than not, when the men have gone out for the night, she can still find them at the ale house the next morning. But he’s here, looking only slightly unsteady on his feet and no more flushed than he usually is when she sees him. 

“I’m sorry if I disturbed you, m’lady,” he says after a moment, closing the door more carefully than it was opened. She watches him from her spot by the small fire, a blanket covering her lap as her hands pull at the spot where frayed threads have started to come apart. He glances around the room, almost piecing together the time and where everyone else is before he comes over to where she’s sat. It’s quiet between them for a few minutes, her watching him as he adds more wood to the fire and brings more light with the flames. He sits back, watching the fire before glancing at her and asking, “Why are you still awake?”

She doesn’t answer immediately. They’ve been talking for weeks, short and somewhat terse conversations growing longer and more open as time goes on. She’s not sure she would call them friends - there’s so few that she would call friend that it’s not a title she grants easily - but she’s grown more comfortable with him. He’s been patiently pestering her with his inquiries about her life before Coccham and her childhood in the north and how she and Gisela came to meet Uhtred. But she still hesitates around him, still feels unsure expressing her dislike of the Saxons in Winchester to a Saxon who had lived here before. Carefully, she tells him, “I don’t sleep well away from home. And Winchester has never been home.” 

He’s quiet for a stretch, eyes watching her curiously in a way that makes her cheeks feel a little flush as she turns her own gaze away. What he finally says, voice lower and with some emotion she can’t quite place, is “I don’t believe you are alone in that feeling, m’lady. It can be hard to feel at home in Winchester even if you’ve lived here your whole life.”

This time, she finds herself asking questions of him, her own curiosity and a need for something other than silence pushing her forward. “Did you spend all of your life here? Before you came to Coccham?”

He nods, the cross hanging around his neck moving with the motion of his head. “Spent all my life in one room next door to an ale house and after...after my mother passed the brothers at the monastery took me in. Stayed there till I met Lord Uhtred and - well, you know the rest.”

She remembers his words when she had told him about her own mother’s passing and now recognizes the look that had been in his eyes. That sadness that could only be felt by someone who knew the loss as well. She has half a mind to reach out and comfort him but her hands stay where they are, fingers continuing to pull at threads. “And your father?” 

That question, the quiet words barely heard over the crackle of the fire, brings a tension to his shoulders that she’s never seen before. For all the time she’s known Osferth he’s been a rather lighthearted man. The only times she thinks she’s seen anything resembling anger or frustration have been when Finan has been pestering him with joke after joke, the Irishman’s taunts never seeming to stop. But this is different. This isn’t the friendly annoyance at one joke too many. This is a topic that’s left him stiff and stern looking. The frown ages him and suddenly he seems less like the baby monk he’s so often called. 

“The king doesn’t often have time to look to his bastard son.” 

His tone is even, words come out carefully, as he speaks them into existence. She can see his hand clench for a moment into a fist before he flattens it back out, palm pressing into worn material of the priest robes he wears. She knows there’s a look of shock on her own face as she watches him, knows her must be wide in surprise at what he’s said but she can’t help it. “Alfred’s your father.” It’s not a question, though she can’t say she sees much resemblance between him and the king she’s met a handful of times. No, she doesn’t see much of the man who lives in the palace but she’d sooner swallow her own tongue than call Osferth a liar. It’s not in his nature, that much she knows. 

She’s surprised when he continues on, surprised that he seems willing to tell her more about this part of his life. “Don’t know if you could call him much of a father. I didn’t properly meet him until after my mother - not till I was at the monastery. And even then, we didn’t - he didn’t say anything about it to me. Everyone who lived near us knew. People love to whisper about the girl who’d gotten herself in trouble with the newly married prince but he’d never - he wasn’t a father to me. My uncle did more in the way of doing what a father should when I was growing up. He’s the one that mattered.” 

“He was a warrior? The one who fought alongside Uhtred at Ethandun?”

A smile appears on his lips and some of the tension seems to leave his shoulders. There’s fondness in his eyes as he says, “Leofric. That was his name. Fiercest warrior you’d ever find in Wessex. Just don’t tell Lord Uhtred I said that.” She can’t help the quiet laugh that slips out at his words and more of the tension fades at the sound. “He was older than my mother. Lived with us when he wasn’t off fighting battles or carrying out the king’s commands. He served King Aethelred till he died and then Alfred once he was crowned. Don’t think he cared much for that change but he did his duty all the same.” There’s another pause as he takes a deep breath, shoulders relaxing as he leans forward a bit to stir the fire. The orange and red from the flames flicker across his face and she can’t seem to pull her gaze away. “I want to honor him. Make him proud of me. If there’s one person in this world I want to be proud of me, it’s him.”

There’s a knot in her stomach at his words, the honesty and sincerity in his voice pulling at something she can’t quite place. They’re both quiet after that, the crackling fire filling the space between them that’s more comfortable than it’s been in the past. Softly, she finally says, “Alfred may be king, but he’s a poorer man for not having you in his life, Osferth. That loss is his and not yours.”

His name comes out without her even realizing it but the use is not lost on him and he’s smiling at her in surprise, a happy surprise it seems. She waits for him to comment on the change. She’s spent so long simply calling him priest that she wouldn’t be surprised if made an ordeal of the change. Finan certainly would. But he doesn’t. The smile stays on his lips, a look as warm as the fire they’re sitting by, and he simply says, “Thank you, Astrid.”

And then the house is quiet once more, the two of them staying by the fire in a pleasant silence until he’s dozing off on the floor and she can see hints of the dawn coming through the window.

tagging: @pokeasleepingsmaug​ @kirstenseas​ @skatingthinandice​ @beowulfsdottir​ @astral-finan​ @omg-m-o-o-n-y​ @surityne​

[curiosity-killed]

a bow for the bad decisions: 24

prev | start | next

(on ao3)

chapter warning: alcohol, drunk kisses

“Hey, Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian says, as nonchalant as he can, “hold onto something for me, alright?” Lan Zhan turns to him with a question in his brow, but he doesn’t hesitate to offer out his hand when Wei Wuxian extends his fist. He drops the five nails in a little tinkling pile, and a small furrow develops between Lan Zhan’s brows. Wiping his hands off on his skirts, Wei Wuxian tugs the dizi from his belt and spins it between his fingers. “Yin iron,” he says by way of explanation. It’s not that he thinks he’ll go crazy and start commanding puppets again or something. He’d have to reforge them anyway, try to remake the entire Seal — but he’s never been very good at leaving things alone. For now, maybe it’s better if he’s not the one holding onto them. Lan Zhan studies him a long moment before giving a short nod. The nails disappear into one of his giankun pouches, and Wei Wuxian breathes a little easier.

The kids are still weeping, huddled around a-Qing’s little grave. Watching them, he feels hollowed out, emptied, carved. Lan Zhan stands quiet beside him, but there’s a tightness to his stillness like he’s hiding a stab wound. Taking a breath, Wei Wuxian drags up a smile and claps his hands together. “Come on, kids, enough crying,” he says. “You’re going to shrivel up like plums. Let’s go.” They’re still sniffling, but they scrub their wrists across their faces and nod obediently. Good kids, Wei Wuxian thinks a little distantly. Good kids, to cry for the bravery of a girl they never met, to lament the tragedy of men they would never know. It’s a long walk back down to the next town, and he spends it gritting his teeth against the encroaching thoughts of everything they witnessed. Lan Zhan walks in silence, his gaze downcast. Behind them, the juniors are quiet for the first part of the walk before they start murmuring amongst themselves again. “But what will Song-daozhang do?” cries the Ouyang kid. Endure, Wei Wuxian thinks, or not. He probably will. With Xiao Xingchen’s spirit, fragmented and despairing, in his care, Song Lan will probably keep walking until his feet wear down to nubs. Wei Wuxian sneaks a sideways glance at Lan Zhan, feeling his stomach sink further as he catches the pinch of his brow. He wants to reach out, wants to give his wrist a gentle squeeze or brush his hand against his elbow, draw his attention here and now and away from whatever terrible seclusion his thoughts are folding around him. His fingers curl into his palm instead. Lan Zhan looks so rigid, so brittlely strung. Wei Wuxian thinks of the cast of his eyes when Song Lan turned and walked away, and he looks away. He's been avoiding remembering his death so much he hasn't even thought about Lan Zhan at the time. Now, with the memory of Xiao Xingchen's broken spirit like a weight in his palm, he can't think of anything else. Lan Xichen had said cultivators had tried to summon his spirit with Inquiry and other rituals. He can't know for sure, won't ask Lan Zhan, but he has a feeling these weren't the half-hearted attempts of punks trying to raise a scary ghoul. And he knows the cultivator most skilled in association with spirits. There's a heavy hollow in his chest, in the space behind his solar plexus. He doesn't remember being dead, but he remembers moments of dying. He knows enough about broken spirits to make a good guess at what happened. His soul was already in fragments by the end, cracked and splintered by the Burial Mounds and the war and the Seal and all he'd done to survive. Spirits that badly damaged follow three paths: either they're completely destroyed in death and fall out of the cycle completely, they shatter and disperse till they're absorbed back into the world's qi and either repaired or simply subsumed, or they cling. Stuck to whatever is nearest, whatever is strong enough to hold onto their fraying thread: a loved one, a spiritual weapon, a project the owner spent hours pouring their intention into. Spirits like that, spirits that have been so utterly ruined, don't answer any song. Their music has been broken, the strings snapped, the bamboo split. They don't want to be persuaded, are too damaged to have any desire to pull on. The only way to bring them back is to command them. Drag them back with blood and fierce intent. Lan Zhan spent so many hours after the war searching for music to heal Wei Wuxian, to turn him away from demonic cultivation and purge him of resentment. Did he spend those same hours searching for a way to bring him back, trying to figure out why his spirit didn't answer any call? Did he play for him, waiting for a reply that never came till Dafan Mountain? How many nights did he wait, hoping into the silence? He's grateful when they get to an inn and it's serving liquor. He can't be too reckless in front of the little juniors — some ingrained part of him still fusses at making sure they're safe and keeping an eye out for them — but he can down three bottles at dinner and only feel warm, a little softer. His thoughts don't hook quite as sharply onto the same clawing spirals. Lan Zhan's weirdly permissive, the way he was when they met Nie Huaisang. It's...nice. He can imagine shijie's worried frown, but Lan Zhan is a warm shoulder against him and he doesn't even scold Wei Wuxian for drinking too much in front of his little Lan disicples. Lan Jingyi does, however, scowl at him like he's somehow corrupting their esteemed Hanguang-jun. "I don't see why we can't drink if you can," Jin Ling objects, stabbing at his pickled cabbage. "Because you're a baby, Young Mistress," Lan Jingyi sniffs. "Babies don't get wine." "You!" Before Jin Ling can lunge across the table to Lan Jingyi, Lan Sizhui shifts up a little on his knees to block his access. Jin Ling huffs out a breath and sits back down. "Whatever. Father’s let me try some wine at least," he says. "I bet you couldn't even hold a cup." Lan Jingyi's eyes narrow like he can tell he's being prodded but can't quite figure out an answer. Swishing his third bottle absently by the neck, Wei Wuxian leans his shoulder into Lan Zhan's and shakes his head. "Drinking before you're old enough to fly? Jin Ling, what would your mother say?" he scolds. In his periphery, he can see Lan Zhan's gaze slant toward him as if at hypocrisy, and he hides a snort by taking another drink. "Mother can outdrink Father," Jin Ling says dismissively before freezing, eyes going wide and face flushing. "I mean! My mother isn't a drunk. She'd never—" "Being able to hold your liquor is an important skill in Yunmeng," Ouyang Zizhen says with all the authority of a fifteen-year-old who's probably never been drunk. "Da-jie says you should never underestimate a noble lady with fine wine.” Biting his bottom lip, Wei Wuxian tries not to laugh at the solemnity with which he offers this advice. It's not wrong, really. Shijie had taught Jiang Cheng and him drinking games on the end of the docks when they were old enough. She'd been able to go toe-to-toe with them before the war. He still remembers the first night they all returned to Lotus Pier after the war. How they'd wound up in a pile at the foot of the lotus throne, drunk and sobbing into each other's shoulders. They'd all woken up hungover, heads pounding and stomachs uneasy at the scent of food. For a few moments, though, as he slid into sleep with shijie and Jiang Cheng's arms wrapped around him and each other, he'd felt safe in a way he hadn't in years. "Yunmeng wine is the richest," he informs the juniors now. "Emperor's Smile is the best, of course, but Yunmeng has the most complex flavors. Qinghe's alright but the mare's milk takes a while to get used to."

He pauses, contemplating the liquor he last had in Lanling before realizing the juniors are all looking at him a little funny. There were only two tables left in the room when they arrived, and so their party is huddled around them like ragamuffin sprouts. "Senior Mo, have you traveled so much?" Lan Sizhui asks, and bless him, he sounds genuinely curious. Has he traveled a lot? It doesn’t seem so. He’d always wanted to as a kid, had grown up chasing stories of grand adventures and mysterious lands, but then the war had happened and then everything else and then, well. “When did you travel so much?” Jin Ling demands. “You never left Jinlintai and then everyone said you were locked up because you went mad.” “Jin-xiong,” Ouyang Zizhen hisses, looking appalled. Lan Sizhui’s staring resolutely at his empty bowl, his face white as his robes, and Lan Jingyi’s eyes are about bugging out of his head. Wei Wuxian kind of wants to laugh, but there’s a well of melancholy rising in him, too. How horrible was this Mo Xuanyu’s life? His wrist pangs, and he reaches absently to close his hand around the hidden cut. “What? It’s true and anyway he’s my — well, he was in my sect. So,” Jin Ling says, crossing his arms again. “He is worthy of your respect.” Lan Zhan’s voice is a low vibration through Wei Wuxian’s bones, spreading from the point where their shoulders are still pressed together. He doesn’t speak sharply but firmly, like it’s imperative Jin Ling listen. Wei Wuxian swallows, throat abruptly dry. It’s not like— well. He knows Lan Zhan holds him in — in some kind of esteem. He’s an idiot, but he’s not that oblivious. There was a time, once, when he was bleeding open and snarling at anyone who came close, when he thought Lan Zhan just viewed him as a project to fix, yet another example of Hanguang-jun’s righteousness. But he knows that wasn’t fair, couldn’t even hold onto that anger for too long — not when Lan Zhan got so upset when Wei Wuxian wouldn’t talk to him, not when he insisted he was still his soulmate, not when he stepped aside at Qiongqi Pass. He can’t quite understand why, but he’s accepted the abundance of evidence that Lan Zhan, for reasons comprehensible only to him, thinks he matters. It’s different to hear that aloud, to hear it in firm words and Lan Zhan’s most adamant tone. Something wobbly and warm tips over in his chest, like a jar of wine tilted precariously on edge. As fond as he is of the juniors, he suddenly doesn’t want to stay down here anymore. He wants to be able to hear Lan Zhan say his name again, the way the syllables are so soft and full in his voice. “Hey, Lan Zhan, we ought to check on our buddy,” he says, looping a careless hand around his wrist. “It’s been a while since we played for him.” Lan Zhan blinks up at him, brow wrinkling a little like he's worried something's wrong, and Wei Wuxian can't help smiling back at him. So much is wrong — the whole world's spinning on a bad axis — but he's here and Lan Zhan's here with all this stubborn loyalty and for this one instant, Wei Wuxian's greedy heart doesn't want anything else. He snags another couple bottles on their way up the stairs, and Lan Zhan's frown deepens a little but he says nothing. Upstairs, they set the giankun pouches careful distances from each other and settle into their nightly routine: Suppression, then Calming, then Cleansing, then Rest. It's not a perfect system, but the set works well enough to keep the various body parts from tearing through their giankun pouches as long as they do it regularly. It's gotten more difficult with the addition of each new body part, and now that they've added the torso and arm from Yi City, they wind up playing through each song three times before the pouches finally settle and stop rustling. Humming in quiet satisfaction, Wei Wuxian leans on his elbow and lets his gaze fall on Lan Zhan as he puts away his guqin. He does it all with such exquisite care, such unified focus. Not like Wei Wuxian, whose thoughts scatter and ricochet off each other in all the directions of the wind. He laughs a little, and Lan Zhan looks to him in question. "Hey Lan Zhan," he says, "remember when we first met Xiao Xingchen and Song Lan back in Yueyang?" A hint of sadness enters Lan Zhan's eyes, his eyelashes flicking down as his brows furrow. Wei Wuxian spins the bottle absently within the circle of his middle finger and thumb. "Back then, I thought we might be like them," he says. "You know, going off to fight evil and protect the weak."

He'd been so delighted, awed, over meeting his shishu and his companion. Looking at the two of them, their sure confidence and easy trust in each other, he'd nearly tripped over his own feet to show how he and Lan Zhan were like them. He’d felt something unclick in his chest at the sight of them, understanding like a lotus bloom unfurling. Now, he thinks of Shanghua a white gash across Song Lan's back, and he thinks of Lan Zhan's desperate voice in the rain of Qiongqi Pass. How naive, how hopeful. "Who would have thought such noble cultivators would meet such terrible fate," he remarks. “Ended so miserably for something that had nothing to do with them.” The thought makes him a little morose, dampens the pleasant golden fuzz that’s been filling him. “The world is truly unpredictable,” Lan Zhan says, flat. His fingers brush Wei Wuxian’s, pluck the bottle from his hand as deftly as any pickpocket. Wei Wuxian gapes, staring as Lan Zhan tilts his head back and downs the last of the bottle. “Lan Zhan?” he squeaks. Setting the bottle down, Lan Zhan blinks a little into space. Oh no, Wei Wuxian thinks. He vaguely remembers getting Lan Zhan drunk once in Cloud Recesses and a deep sense of exhaustion from wrangling him. This time, though, Lan Zhan makes no move to get up. His hand moves slowly to prop up his forehead, and he nods forward, eyes closing. Wei Wuxian stares. “Lan Zhan?” he prompts, leaning forward. No answer comes except for Lan Zhan’s slow, even breaths. A laugh bubbles up out of Wei Wuxian, and he claps his hands over his lips to stifle it. Oh no. This is too cute. He reaches out, smiling, to brush a lock of hair out of Lan Zhan’s face. It’s as soft as it’s always looked, sleek and silken against his hand, and Wei Wuxian runs his hand absently back against the crown of Lan Zhan’s head. “So pretty, Lan Zhan,” he hums, swaying a little as he leans against the table to study Lan Zhan’s face. “We really are lucky, aren’t we?” Relaxed in sleep, he looks so young. Wei Wuxian’s seized with an absurd urge to protect him, to bundle Lan Zhan up and take him far away from the world and its greedy, demanding hands. Lan Zhan deserves better. Lan Zhan should never look so desolate, so horribly alone as he did watching Song Lan walk away. “Young master?” Wei Wuxian startles hard enough his elbow slips on the table and he nearly cracks his chin on it. He whips around, a little unsteady and hand tight around his dizi. Wen Ning’s eyes blink at him from upside down through the window. It takes a long moment for him to make sense of the position. “Wen Ning?” he demands. “What are you doing?” A flurry of grey and black, and Wen Ning lands neatly inside the room. He’s wearing a dull blue-grey, the color some of the outer Jiang disciples pick for night hunts or training, and his hair’s been pulled up into a neat bun on the back of his head. Wei Wuxian squints. "I'm sorry, Wei-gongzi," Wen Ning says, still kneeling where he landed. Wei Wuxian frowns, crossing his arms and tilting his head. The shackles are gone from Wen Ning's wrists, which is good, though he still has — well, a lot of questions. Is Wen Ning part of Yunmeng Jiang now? Did Jiang Cheng adopt him? He tries to remember if Jiang Cheng ever mentioned wanting a little brother and finds himself looping back without an answer. "Come on, Wen Ning," he says. "Stand up, won't you?" Wen Ning's head dips lower, so that Wei Wuxian can see the plain grey ribbon wound round his hair. Well, at least it doesn't have lotuses embroidered on it. He'd have even more questions then. "Ah, well then," he says, and flicks back his skirts to kneel. "I guess this is alright." Wen Ning looks up with a jolt, brown eyes going wide. "Gongzi!" he yelps. "No, you mustn't!" He tugs on Wei Wuxian's elbow as if to lift him up to standing, and Wei Wuxian uses that to pull him up as well. He keeps a hand on Wen Ning's arm to make sure he doesn't kneel again and raises his eyebrows. "See? It's much better to talk like this, isn't it?" he prompts. Wen Ning doesn't look convinced, but he stays upright, so Wei Wuxian counts it as a win. Releasing him, he drops his hands to his hips. "Now, what's happened?" he asks. "What do you remember?" "Not much," Wen Ning admits, shaking his head a little. "I remember being chained up somewhere dark. Someone would come check on me, I think. I don't remember what they looked like, but they smiled a lot. I remember them putting the nails in my head." Wincing, Wei Wuxian swallows. He'd hoped that Wen Ning didn't remember that part at least. "It must have been Xue Yang," he says. "He also used nails to control Song Lan." "Why?" Fatigue settles into Wei Wuxian's bones like a heavy blanket. Trust Wen Ning to still question why someone would want to seize power over another, even when faced with the man who first did the same to him. Crossing his arms over his chest, he presses his palm to his inner arm till it pangs just a little. "Probably at the behest of the Jin sect. He was a guest disciple there for some time, Lan Zhan said," he explains. Wen Ning accepts this with a slight nod. There's a dismal cast to his eyes and brow, like he's about to wade into some task he'd really rather avoid. "Jie told me some of what happened since, and I heard from some others," he says. Wei Wuxian brightens at the mention of Wen Qing. For all that she maintained a horribly professional facade of indifference, she was great at gossip. She probably had all kinds of insights into the last thirteen years. "Jie said that the Burial Mounds are gone," Wen Ning says. "Our family...they're all gone." The wind cuts out of Wei Wuxian's sails abruptly, and he inhales sharply. He hasn't let himself think about this. If he thinks about it too much, he'll have to wonder if the seals he painted on their houses gave them any protection or just trapped them where the sects could burn and murder them. His stomach gives a funny, nauseous flip. "Young master, I heard that Jiang-zongzhu killed you," Wen Ning says. He sounds miserable, like he's revealing some great failing of his own. Wei Wuxian's shoulders sink and he sighs, waving a hand. "No, that's not how it is," he says. "Jiang Cheng didn't kill me. It was the backlash of the Stygian Tiger Seal." Has the whole world been left thinking Jiang Cheng killed him? Maybe it's for the best. Yunmeng Jiang had still claimed him up to the end, after all. They would have been in a tricky situation, too clear a scapegoat for the Yiling laozu's misdeeds. If everyone thought Jiang Cheng killed him, at least that would clear some of the blame. At least Jiang Cheng would know the truth. As long as he didn't blame himself, it wasn't such a bad arrangement. "Young Master, you died in such an awful way," Wen Ning says, and then his knees are bending, dropping back down to the floor. "I shouldn't have left you." "Wen Ning," Wei Wuxian gripes, tugging on his arms. "No, enough of that. You didn't leave me. I – I shouldn't have sent you away like that. I never should have threatened you." Wen Ning looks up at him with big, sad eyes that would be tear-filled if Wei Wuxian hadn't taken that away from him, too. Swallowing hard, he pulls on Wen Ning's wrists till he's standing again. His shoulders are still bowed forward, but it's an improvement. "What else have you heard?" he asks, already dreading the answer. Wen Ning looks up, his eyes brightening a little. There's such a terrible earnestness to his expression, that childish hope he'd seen first in Cloud Recesses. He can't help smiling a little reflexively at it. "Ah, young master," he says. "We have a niece! She's very kind and energetic. And jie is expecting another baby. She thinks it's going to be a boy."

Tears sting Wei Wuxian's eyes unexpectedly, and he gives out a shaky laugh. Of all the outcomes in the world, he never expected to see both sides of his haphazard family brought together like this. Even if he never gets to meet this little niece and her expected brother, he knows they're safe and happy. It's enough. "Yeah?" he says. "What are they going to name him?" Before Wen Ning can answer, there's a blur of white in the corner of his eye and then a boot on Wen Ning's chest and then— Wei Wuxian stares at the new hole in the wall where Wen Ning and Lan Zhan both disappeared before shrieking and chasing after. He was asleep! How did this happen? Outside, Wen Ning is picking himself up off the ground while Lan Zhan frowns down at him. He’s left Bichen and his guqin behind and seems to be planning on staring Wen Ning into defeat. It’s not a bad plan, really. No one has as intimidating a glare as Lan Zhan. “Lan Zhan! Lan Zhan, what are you doing?” Wei Wuxian bleats, grabbing hold of him around his middle. Lan Zhan turns to him and gives a solemn nod that answers absolutely nothing except that he’s clearly still drunk. Wei Wuxian groans. “Ahh, Wen Ning, are you alright?” he asks, leaning around Lan Zhan’s side. “He doesn’t mean anything by it, he’s just drunk.” “I’m alright, Wei-gongzi,” Wen Ning says. Still pressed close to Wei Wuxian, Lan Zhan frowns and leans a little to the side as if to block his view of Wen Ning. Wei Wuxian has to stifle a laugh even as he wants to groan. Lan Zhan would be so embarrassed if he saw himself. “Will Lan-er-gongzi be alright?” Wen Ning asks. “Yeah, I’ll just take him up to the room and he’ll sleep it off,” Wei Wuxian says. Lan Zhan turns a little towards him, still tucked up close, and it’s like a parody of a lover’s hold with him nestled in the circle of Wei Wuxian’s arms. His heart skips a little at the thought, at the jolt of want that shoots through his chest. To have it be real, to have a reason to hold Lan Zhan like this that isn’t corralling his drunk shenanigans. Clearing his throat, he lets himself tighten his arms around Lan Zhan and look over at Wen Ning. “It’s probably best if we talk another night,” he says. “Be careful and stay safe, okay?” There’s a hint of a smile on Wen Ning’s face as he bobs his head in an emphatic nod before turning and disappearing into the woods. A hand closes around Wei Wuxian’s wrist, and he looks up to find Lan Zhan staring intently at him. “Wei Ying,” he says. “Don’t go.” A giggle escapes Wei Wuxian and he stifles the grin he can feel slipping out. Where is he going to go? “Lan Zhan,” he teases, “what are you going to do? Tie me up so I can’t run off?” Lan Zhan blinks at him a moment, and Wei Wuxian’s shoulders shake with laughter. “Mn,” Lan Zhan says abruptly and reaches up behind his head. By the time Wei Wuxian’s brain has kicked back on, Lan Zhan has removed his forehead ribbon and started wrapping it neatly around his wrists. He watches, mouth parted in silent shock, as the white loops around and around, neatly covering his bracers. Lan Zhan ties it off in a series of knots that look almost like a braid, and Wei Wuxian tests it absently. It’s firm but not uncomfortable, the metal medallion resting just below the notches of his wrists. “Wei Ying,” Lan Zhan says, and Wei Wuxian looks up. “Stay.” His eyes are honest and sad, like he really thinks Wei Wuxian’s going to leave him standing drunk in the forest without his forehead ribbon. Reaching up, Wei Wuxian pats his chest awkwardly with both hands. “Don’t worry, Lan Zhan,” he soothes. “I’m not going anywhere. Let’s just go back inside, alright?” Lan Zhan nods and starts toward the door with a tug on the loose end of the ribbon. Wei Wuxian trips after him, trying desperately to stifle the giggles that keep bubbling up out of him. He feels young again in a way he hasn’t for years, like they’re still just kids in Cloud Recesses, trying not to get caught by Lan Qiren. Only it’s not Lan Qiren who catches them this time. Entering the dining room, they find all the juniors still there — now trying frantically to hide the wine they’ve clearly picked up in Lan Zhan’s absence and gawking at the two of them. “Ah! Hanguang-jun,” Lan Sizhui greets, a little too bright, “how did you—” Right. They’d been upstairs before Lan Zhan kicked a hole in the wall. Wei Wuxian scrambles for an answer. “Lan Zhan heard something outside,” he says, “but it turns out it was just you all sneaking liquor.” He tries to make his voice sound disapproving, but he’s not sure how well it works. He is...not sober. Whoops. Lan Zhan gives a little tug on the ribbons, as if to start toward the stairs, and Wei Wuxian stumbles forward with it. There is a gasp too loud to be anyone but Lan Jingyi. Oh no. All the juniors are now staring at his wrists and the Lan juniors have gone white as death. He knows he read rules about the forehead ribbon back when he had to memorize them all. Something about restraint. Restraint, restraining— “Right! Lan Zhan was just showing me a special use of your clan forehead ribbon,” he says quickly. “To erm restrain fierce corpses when you need to take them back for further study.” “That’s not—” Before Lan Jingyi can finish, Lan Sizhui has clapped a hand over his mouth and is smiling brightly at the two of them. “How clever!” he chirps. “I thank our seniors for showing us such a hidden skill.” Lan Zhan gives another tug, this time more adamant, and Wei Wuxian gives a little wave to the juniors as he’s led up the stairs. They really look horrified, all big eyes and open mouths. Back in their room, Lan Zhan leads him to the bed and sits down carefully on the edge to face him. He’s so serious! Wei Wuxian laughs, letting his hands fall between them. “Wei Ying.” Lan Zhan’s tone is almost helpless and his fingers are light as a feather as they brush against the curve of Wei Wuxian’s cheek. He looks up, laughter fading as he catches Lan Zhan’s steady gaze. On impulse, Wei Wuxian turns his head just enough that his lips graze Lan Zhan’s palm. There’s a quiet breath, but Lan Zhan makes no move to pull away as Wei Wuxian’s hands lift up to cradle his. “Lan Zhan,” he murmurs against his knuckles. “Lan Zhan, you’re too sweet. Too sweet, too sweet.” He presses a kiss to his fingertips, to the base of his thumb, the point on his wrist where he can feel his pulse jumping. He looks up through his lashes and Lan Zhan is watching him with lips parted, eyes dark and intent. “Do you like this?” Wei Wuxian asks, still watching as he slides Lan Zhan’s sleeve back a finger’s width to press his lips to the skin there. Swallowing, Lan Zhan gives a slight nod. Wei Wuxian hums and pulls him closer by his wrist, hands settling over his chest. His heart’s beating so quickly, like a rabbit racing under Wei Wuxian’s palms. “Lan Zhan,” he says, looking up at him, “tell me. Did you burn joss paper for me?” There’s a beat where they’re sitting there, suspended, Wei Wuxian’s fingers curled into Lan Zhan’s collars and then Lan Zhan moves. His lips are soft, form, his fingers tangling in Wei Wuxian’s sleeves. Wei Wuxian gasps softly in surprise and then presses in, crowds into Lan Zhan’s space.

Gods, Lan Zhan is kissing him. He’s kissing him, all that impossible focus bearing down on Wei Wuxian like his lips are a new field of study, the noises escaping him a new score for Lan Zhan to learn. Lan Zhan is kissing him. Oh gods. Lan Zhan is kissing him. Lan Zhan is drunk and he’s kissing him and Wei Wuxian started this and is kissing back and— He jerks away, shoving them apart with his hands on Lan Zhan’s chest. Lan Zhan stares at him, eyes wide and reddened lips parted as if he were still kissing Wei Wuxian and — and then Lan Zhan’s eyes widen impossibly and he reaches up a hand to smack the heel of it into his forehead. He collapses backwards, unconscious, onto the bed. “Oh fuck,” Wei Wuxian breathes, covering his face. In the morning, at least half the group is hungover — including Wei Wuxian. His head’s pulsing with a fuzzy thickness, like someone’s drumming cotton-wrapped mallets against the back of his eyes, and even breakfast left him feeling queasy. He can’t meet Lan Zhan’s eyes, but he can summon up all his unused uncle instincts and round on Jin Ling as they prepare to depart. “Stop arguing with your uncle when you get back,” he scolds. “Don’t come out night hunting alone anymore. You’re too young! Why are you in such a rush?” “I’m not a child!” Jin Ling snaps back. “That dog Wei Wuxian wasn’t much older when he killed the Xuanwu of Slaughter, wasn’t he? If he can do it, I can beat him!” Recoiling, Wei Wuxian grimaces before reaching back to rub at the nape of his neck. He’s pretty sure that’s not right. They were older than Jin Ling when they got stuck in that cave, and anyway— “Isn’t Hanguang-jun the one who killed it?” he protests. Jin Ling stops short, lips twisting to one side like he’s tasted something bitter. “You and Hanguang-jun… Whatever. I know about the Gusu Lan headband so if it’s going to be like this, then” — he swallows, two bright red spots rising in his cheeks — “just make sure to stay by his side properly. Don’t bring any more shame to Lanling Jin.” “The headband?” Wei Wuxian echoes, feeling some new horror growing in his belly. The headband just means restraint — right? It’s just an old tradition. “Shut up! Stop being so shameless. I’m done talking about it,” Jin Ling snaps. He looks away, crossing his arms. There’s something about his frown, the way his eyes have focused on the ground a few steps to his left that makes Wei Wuxian cant his head, waiting. After a moment, he looks sideways up at Wei Wuxian. When he speaks, his voice comes out small. “Are you really Wei Wuxian?” he asks. Wei Wuxian’s heart stutters in his chest, but he just raises his eyebrows and shrugs. “Do you think I am?” Jin Ling studies him a long moment before huffing out a breath and dropping his arms. He looks almost…disappointed? “I don’t know,” he says. “No. Cousin Yu always said he was a great cultivator and you’re clearly not. And jiujiu said he was taller than Hanguang-jun. So.”

He clears his throat and turns, waving his hand in dismissal.

“Behave yourself and don’t, you know, get yourself killed. I guess,” he says over his shoulder. A fond smile curls up Wei Wuxian’s lips at the brusque care. What a little monster. As Jin Ling returns to his own disciples, a Jiang disciple approaches. She’s the eldest of their group, tall and angular with a placid expression that nearly rivals Lan Zhan’s. He’s caught her looking at him funny over the past day, and every time, some sense of familiarity niggles at the back of spine, but he can’t quite place her. “Thank you for assisting us,” she says, saluting neatly before reaching into one sleeve. “I believe Jiang-zongzhu would like you to have this. Our da-shixiong designed it.” The talisman she hands him is familiar, the calligraphy for a different reason. His breath catches, eyes going a little wide as he looks back up to her. “Little pirate?” he asks. Sun Hai smiles abruptly, like a crack breaking through glass. There are tears in the corners of her eyes as she gives a quick little nod. “Little pirate!” he exclaims, something like grief and elation together winding tight around his chest. “Not so little anymore — you’ve grown up so much! You were as little as Jin Ling when I saw you.” The last time he saw her, she’d just hit a growth spurt that left her gangly and awkward and mortified by the lack of control she had over her own limbs. In the last weeks before the Phoenix Mountain Hunt, he’d promised to help her practice modifying talismans in exchange for her not hiding away in her rooms every time she stumbled doing sword forms. Now, she’s lean and tall and carries herself with the kind of grace shared by dancers and swordmasters: fluid, strong, and quick. With her sword at one side and other arm folded at her waist, she looks all grown up. “It’s good to see you, shixiong,” she says, smiling even as a tear slips loose down her cheek. “We’ve really missed you.” Oh. His fingers tighten a little around the tracking talisman in his hand before he catches himself and makes them relax. He gives an unsteady smile. “Yeah,” he says. Clears his throat. “Yeah. Me, too.” She lingers another moment before drawing in a breath and straightening up. With another quick bow, she turns and heads back to where a little cluster is waiting for her, watching curiously. Wei Wuxian watches a moment before turning his gaze back down to the talisman in his hand. He recognizes it, though it’s been a long time. He originally designed it to keep track of a-Yuan when he went racing off around the settlement, dashing away from supervision. Had he sent a copy to Jiang Cheng? He must have. He sent so many absent ideas in his letters back then, anything he thought might be of use, anything that to help make up for the trouble he was causing. His throat feels thick with something, the headache clustering with something unsteady and unsure fluttering in his heart.

[rebelsofshield]

2020: Top Ten Star Wars Media to Look Forward To

We have closed out the end of the Skywalker Saga and with it a decade of Star Wars storytelling. Luckily, Star Wars is bigger than ever with many promising and exciting stories on the way in 2020.

10. Star Wars Resistance Finale

It’s hard to believe that we have only a little more than five episodes left of Star Wars Resistance before it closes the story of Kazuda Xiono and his flying ace allies. It’s certainly been a bumpy ride at times, but when it is at its best Resistance is some of the most pure fun Star Wars storytelling in the current saga. Seeing how showrunner Justin Ridge and his creative team bring an end to this two season story is sure to be exciting as we see the fates of our friends on the side of the light, the dark, and everything in between. Especially our dear Tamara Ryvora. Oh, Tam.

9. Star Wars: The Rise of Kylo Ren

The first issue of this miniseries arrived last year, but writer Charles Soule and artist Will Sliney’s chronicling of Ben Solo’s meteoric fall from grace is already a stunner. The Rise of Kylo Ren’s first issue delivered an emotionally complex character piece that also provided tantalizing new lore for the intriguing, if criminally underutilized Knights of Ren. Its next three issues are sure to be as revelatory and heartbreaking as its first. Soule has a difficult task ahead of him in not only filling in some of the biggest blanks left over by the Sequel Trilogy but also walking the fine line between making Ben Solo’s transformation into Kylo Ren emotionally resonant but without taking away the acts of evil that made him such a compelling antagonist in the first place. Given his strong storytelling track record, he seems more than up for the task.

8. Star Wars: Doctor Aphra

Doctor Aphra remains one of the best original creations to come out Marvel’s Star Wars publishing line. As a chaotic Indiana Jones-esque archaeologist and the first canon queer protagonist for the full Star Wars franchise, Aphra won over legions of fans with her convoluted scheming and out there plots. While Simon Spurrier finished off his take on the character last year, Aphra isn’t having a long break with Nebula Award winning writer Alyssa Wong taking the reins of her future adventures. Joined by artist Marike Cresta, Wong looks to charter a new era for the character that will hopefully be as twisty and fun as her last. Also, there’s those pesky rumors that our good doctor may be making the jump to television sometime in the future. Let’s keep our fingers crossed.

7. Star Wars: Darth Vader

Greg Pak has big shoes to fill. To say that Charles Soule and Kieron Gillen’s Darth Vader runs were successes would be an understatement as both are frequently cited as not only the best Star Wars comics of the current Marvel era, but some of the best the franchise has produced ever. Hopefully, Pak is up to the challenge. Charting the Dark Lord of the Sith’s emotional fallout from his son’s rejection in Cloud City, Darth Vader looks to head into new territory and hopefully provide even more of that sinister characterization that past writers excelled at. Marvel clearly can’t get enough Vader, and honestly, neither can we.

6. Star Wars: Queen’s Peril

EK Johnston’s Queen’s Shadow was the Padme story that we all sorely needed. Telling a politically charged coming of age story while also revitalizing the former Queen of Naboo and her handmaidens as fully formed characters, Johnston’s Queen’s Shadow was a delight and one of the most unique Star Wars novels of the past several years. The fact that she gets to tell more stories with this cast of characters is a blessing and a prequel novel following Padme’s early years as Naboo’s matriarch is an intriguing concept. Let’s hope for much more handmaiden intrigue and as many flowery clothing descriptions as possible.

5. Star Wars Alphabet Squadron: Shadow Fall

If we have learned anything, the middle chapter of Star Wars trilogies tend to be their most divisive and esoteric. Hopefully Alexander Freed’s second installment of Alphabet Squadron lands more in The Empire Strikes Back camp than Attack of the Clones. Having built a stellar ensemble cast in the first installment of this series, Freed now looks to complicate their lives as the final stretches of the Galactic Civil War become more hectic and frayed. Alphabet Squadron was one of the most immersive and mature Star Wars novels of last year and its sequel, Shadow Fall, hopefully continues that trend.

4. Star Wars

It’s been a long time since Marvel’s main Star Wars title was a must read comic. While it briefly soared back to life in the middle portion of Kieron Gillen’s take on the series, Star Wars has still been a far cry from its stellar opening arcs for quite some time now. If anyone can right the ship it is Charles Soule. The superstar Star Wars writer looks to take our heroes through a time of heartbreak and inner turmoil as we chart their lives following the climactic events of The Empire Strikes Back. It’s still a largely unexplored era in galactic history and Soule, who manages to blend large picture and character centric plotting with grace, seems like the perfect fit to take us there. Its first issue debuted just this past week and if it is any indication, then we are in for a dark, but hopefully rewarding, treat.

3. Project Luminous

Almost a year out from its announcement at Celebration Chicago and the mysterious publishing initiative, Project Luminous remains as illusive as ever. Theories range from a massive tribute to the fortieth anniversary of The Empire Strikes Back ala 2017’s amazing A Certain Point of View or even a multimedia experience set during the Old Republic. Regardless, the talent involved is enough to get any fan excited. Claudia Gray, Daniel Jose Older, Charles Soule, Justina Ireland, and Cavan Scott have all been confirmed to be a part of this…whatever this is… and given the great work churned out be all parties involved, it’s hard not to be ecstatic at what could come.

2. Star Wars The Mandalorian Season 2

I’m pretty sure all Star Wars fans breathed a sigh of relief when Jon Favreau revealed that we would have to wait less than a year until the second season of The Mandalorian. With the DNA of the series now set and our cast of characters primed for more adventures, The Mandalorian seems prepared to take us to all manner of new adventures in its sophomore season. While the creative talent behind the screen has yet to be revealed, one can only hope that the directing team is as diverse in talent and vision as last year. As for plot? Well, we don’t know much at this point, but we do know that there is a rather jacked Gammorean appearing somewhere. Baby Yoda’s future is still on the line. Oh, and Moff Gideon somehow has the Darksaber. Forgot about that. That seems important.

1. Star Wars: The Clone Wars

It’s hard to believe that over half a decade after its mid production cancellation, Star Wars: The Clone Wars is returning to finish its story. It’s the sort of announcement that had it been leaked beforehand, would have been hand waived away. For fans that had become accustomed to the disappointment of seeing the unfinished plot threads for the series resolve in other media, the reveal that we would be getting a twelve episode final season was an incredible dream come true. There’s going to be an undeniable emotion to seeing Matt Lanter, James Arnold Taylor, Ashley Eckstein, Dee Bradley Baker, and Sam Witwer back in their voice roles once again and it’s more than certain that writer and director Dave Filoni is certain to have a few heartbreaking surprises on the way. This is sure to be a revival and finale to remember.

[twilighteve-writes]

Feather One Divided -- Chapter 7: The Search

Fic Summary:

Feather one divided, fate’s ties frayed, Fractured and wedged, scattered and gone.

After sharing an unsettling dream of Felldrake, the Three Caballeros decided to join back together with Xandra to form a stronghold in case the sorcerer returned. But Felldrake’s plans proved to be bigger than they expected, and when he struck so close to home, it was all Donald could do to keep his family – and himself – together.

(Also available in AO3)

(Chapter 1)

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Fractured and wedged, scattered and gone.

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The box Gyro and Fenton presented them didn’t look like much. It was small, about as big as a tennis ball, and made of metal, with sci-fi looking lines and blinking lights that Dewey was almost sure were there as much for aesthetics as they were for function. It had no screen, but Gyro and Fenton had found a way to wirelessly and automatically have the box connect to the tracking bracelets so they could track each other more easily, with it being able to amplify and catch signal in a much bigger area. They had also managed to make it magic-proof to a degree, though not as effectively as the bracelets themselves.

Which was helpful, considering they didn’t know where to find Louie, yet. Dewey flexed his wrist – it had been stiff for a whole night, now – and allowed hope to bloom in his chest.

“We made four of these,” Gyro said as he gestured to the table before them. “The prototype can’t make the bracelets broadcast the signal as strongly, but it’s functional. My advice is to have teams going with the better three and just don’t use the prototype.”

“Three teams, you say?” Uncle Scrooge muttered in something akin of displeasure.

Fenton seemed to sense it and shrugged. “I mean, we’d make more, but considering it’s only been about a day and a half it’s really a miracle we even managed to make three at all.”

Uncle Scrooge opened his mouth, looked at Fenton more closely, and closed it again. He probably noticed the dark circles around Fenton’s eyes and the way his fingers trembled.

Uncle Donald didn’t let it go. He squinted at Fenton and asked, “Fenton, how much coffee did you drink?”

Gyro jabbed a thumb at Fenton, looking unimpressed. “No, no, he didn’t drink much coffee. That was me who drank off all the bin’s coffee reserves. He’s been surviving off energy drinks.”

“Energy drinks gives me a really good boost,” Fenton said in monotone. He sounded like he wanted to boast but couldn’t muster the energy to. Which was ironic, to say the least, if Dewey had to say.

“And how much energy drinks have you drank while you worked on the… boxes?” Mom questioned.

Fenton blinked. “Uhhh.”

“The problem wasn’t how much he’s been drinking. It’s that he’s been surviving off energy drink for about three days because he’s been patrolling all night for a few days before we started working on these amplifiers,” Gyro answered nonchalantly as he opened his briefcase and took out more bracelets, a bit longer than the one Dewey already had. Fenton threw him a look of utter betrayal. He ignored it in favor of distributing the bracelets to the adults.

Uncle Donald stared at Fenton. He showed the scientist a look that Dewey had dubbed as his I’m-disappointed-in-you-and-I-don’t-want-to-tell-you-because-you’ll-be-sad-but-I’m-going-to-make-you-feel-guilty-with-my-eyes look. Louie had put it succinctly as the disappointed-dad look. Except not really because Uncle Donald was their uncle, but Dewey could see the point.

Fenton’s reaction was immediate – apparently, like most people, he was helpless to Uncle Donald’s look. “I had to patrol! There were weather villains. And I can’t not help with the amplifier!”

“Uh, I didn’t hear anything about any weather villain,” Huey commented skeptically.

Fenton huffed hotly. “Well, you’re welcome!”

Uncle Donald slapped his forehead and shook his head. “Go to sleep, Fenton,” he said forcefully. “And can we go back to the search? How do we do this?”

“I’m good with people,” José said with a meaningful glint in his eyes. “I can take more urban areas.”

“I’m good with people too! I’ll go with José,” Panchito said cheerfully. He slung his arm around José’s shoulders, and the two shared a brief grin.

Uncle Donald hummed. “I’ll take coastal areas, then,” he said at last.

“I’ll go with you,” Xandra offered. “It’s best not to go alone.”

“I suppose… I can reach the more mountainous areas and fly up when necessary,” Mom mused. She glanced at Uncle Scrooge. “Will you go with me, Uncle Scrooge?”

“Of course, Lass,” Uncle Scrooge agreed easily. “As for the last one…” He glanced at Gyro.

Gyro sighed. “I’m going to monitor it here, in case the green nephew approaches.”

“Good. I’ll find it easier to leave the children here with Gizmoduck guarding.” He glanced at Fenton, frowned at how he nodded off and immediately shook his head to wake himself up. Uncle Scrooge shook his head and focused on the triplets and Webby instead. “With all of you monitoring the manor, I’m sure things will be fine here.”

“Wait, what?” Dewey blinked and stood up. “You want us to stay here while you all go out to track Louie down? We want to help find him!”

“Dewey – “

“We’ve gone with you in adventures before,” Huey cut in with a scowl. “We’re not useless.”

“I know,” Uncle Scrooge assured, “but nevertheless, we need people here.”

Webby chewed the inside of her cheek. “Well, leaving home base empty is reckless and risky… but Gyro’s already here.”

Uncle Scrooge snorted. “Does he look like he can fight a sorcerer?”

Huey gave out an uncertain um at the same time as Dewey’s begrudging no and Webby’s quick I don’t think so.

“No offense, Gyro,” Huey added sheepishly.

The scientist just shrugged. “You’re not wrong. I haven’t magic-proofed my tech.”

“Oh.” Huey tilted his head. “Is that why you haven’t been bringing Lil’ Bulb around? I haven’t seen him in a while.”

“Partly,” Gyro admitted. “I’ve noticed he kept going offline around you kids even before you told me about the magic stuff. It’s easier to leave him at the lab instead.” He glared. “Try not to use your magic in my lab. I have a lot of delicate machineries there.”

“In any case, I want you kids to stay here,” Uncle Donald said, approaching. “We know Felldrake is dangerous. I’m not going to risk getting you kids hurt.”

“But Louie is – “

“I know Louie is with him,” Uncle Donald cut in, and Dewey’s mouth snapped close. “And I want him back as much as you. But I’m not going to risk your safety, alright?”

Dewey gritted his teeth and looked at Mom, hoping for her to support him. Instead, Mom grimaced and shook her head. “I’m sorry, honey, but I agree. It’s dangerous.”

“It’s dangerous for you, too,” Huey protested.

“More dangerous for you, since your control over your magic is still… shaky,” Mom said gently. “And now that we know Louie’s awake, too, we don’t want to risk anything. There’s always a chance of all your magic going haywire because one of you get panicked…”

Dewey stomped his feet and ignored how childish it made him felt. “You wouldn’t even know he’s awake if it wasn’t for us!”

“We can help. I have tracking badge from Junior Woodchuck!” Huey added.

José stepped in, a green glint in his eyes. “Now, now, children. I know it’s not fun to stay home, but we want you to be safe. So stay put until we’re back, okay?”

Something snaked its way in and gripped Dewey, tying off his protests and letting it wilt by his teeth before the words even formed. He gulped and said nothing, but he was aware of Huey frowning and Webby nodding jerkily.

“There’s no guarantee we will find Felldrake today, anyway,” Xandra mused, looking out the window. “If there’s anything we’ve learned about him by now, it’s that he’s slippery.”

“We’ll do our best, though! I can promise you that!” Panchito added cheerfully.

Mom knelt in front of him and cupped Dewey’s face in her hands. “We just want you to be safe,” she said, voice soft. “I know it’s hard, but please just stay. I promise it’s not because we think you’re useless.”

Dewey squeezed his eyes shut and sighed. He leaned into Mom’s touch, and she pulled him into a hug. Huey joined soon, his warmth seeping through Dewey’s clothes and feathers; and then, with hesitation, Webby, too, joined.

When Mom let go, she smiled at them. “We’ll be back soon.”

“And, Fenton, rest,” Uncle Donald said as he pointed at Fenton’s beak.

“But Scrooge said he needs Gizmoduck to guard – “

José sighed. “Go to bed, Fenton.”

Fenton didn’t put up much fight, then. “ – yeah, okay,” he said, flopping to the couch and snoring almost immediately. Dewey and Huey both stared at Fenton, then at José, suddenly realizing that they didn’t know what sort of magic José had and how he used it.

“Oh, wait,” Webby said suddenly, rummaging her pockets and pulling out three bracelets. She offered them to José, Panchito, and Xandra. “I made these yesterday. Please stay safe.”

Xandra blinked in surprise, but Panchito reacted immediately. “Aww, you didn’t have to!” he said as he knelt down in front of Webby.

“But I wanted to,” Webby insisted. “These are for you, and José, and Xandra. Uncle Donald has one already.”

Panchito smiled warmly and took the red-and-cream bracelet, in which Webby had put in slivers of the same sea blue of Donald’s bracelet and a single green thread. “Muchas gracias, chiquita. It’s beautiful.”

José stepped in and picked the green bracelet with slivers of red and blue. “Thank you so much, Webby. I’ll treasure this.”

When Xandra didn’t step forward to take the black-and-gold bracelet, Webby looked up at her, expectant. She jolted when Uncle Donald nudged her forward, and she took the bracelet. “I’m surprised you’re giving me this. People don’t usually bother making charms for me,” she admitted.

Webby huffed. “Well, maybe they’re wrong.”

Xandra laughed in response. “Thanks a lot, Webby. You’re really sweet.” She put on the bracelet immediately, and the woven threads clashed with the metal cuffs, but she didn’t seem to care much about it.

They watched as the adults leave, Dewey gripping the doorframe so tightly that his fingers hurt. A part of him wanted to sprint to the gate and follow them to town, helping the search however he could, but something held him back. Judging from Huey’s ever-present frown, he felt the same.

With a huff, Dewey marched inside and all but throw himself to a free seat at a sofa, glaring at the floor. Soon, Webby joined him, while Huey made himself comfortable at the foot of the couch Fenton was sleeping on. He opened his Junior Woodchucks Guidebook and started flipping the pages, though Dewey could tell he couldn’t concentrate enough to read.

Gyro poked at the box he had in front of him. It hummed to life, the lines and circles glowing softly. Dewey found himself staring at the box.

“Don’t feel too bad,” Gyro spoke up. “It’s not that bad, being here.”

Huey closed his guidebook with a snap. “We want to help,” he said.

“It’s not like we’re useless,” Dewey added. “We’ve helped, when we go with Uncle Scrooge to get treasure and whatever.”

Webby huffed. “It’s annoying. I know we’re young, but that doesn’t mean we can’t contribute.” She threw up her hands in frustration. “And after Lena, Violet, and I went to get information, too! I haven’t told the adults, but still – “

“I’m not saying you kids are useless,” Gyro said. “It’s not my intention at all. You’ve managed to stay alive while adventuring with Scrooge; clearly you’re not incapable.”

“Well clearly they don’t see it that way,” Huey huffed.

Gyro stared at them and took a deep breath. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, and for the first time, Dewey realized how tired he seemed. It was hard to tell, with the perpetual listlessness in his gaze, but when he really looked, he could see the slightest tremble in the scientist’ fingers and the extra blink he took every other blink, as if trying to steal blinks could equal a millisecond of sleep.

Gyro put the glasses back on. “Look, your family won’t be happy that I’m framing it this way, and I’m sure they don’t see it this way either, but here’s the thing. You’re going against a sorcerer, right? A really powerful one. And you can’t fight him with technology, because unless magic-proofed, tech will just go offline around him, and that’s if he doesn’t outright fry them first. So the only way to fight him will be with magic. Are you with me so far?”

Huey nodded warily. “What does that have to do with this?”

“Magic is rare, correct? And as far as we know, the people who we know for sure can use magic are out there looking for your brother, and you two.”

Dewey swallowed his discomfort and snapped, “Get to the point, Gyro. What are you trying to say?”

“If worse comes to worst and they all fail, who else can use magic to fight this sorcerer if not you?”

Webby sharply inhaled. Dewey ignored the sudden cold that snaked through his limbs, and knew without needing to look or probe Huey’s magic that he felt the same as him.

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Louie’s hand hurt.

He knew he had been injured when he tried to run away. He just wasn’t sure on how badly he was injured. Now, looking at how his wrist had swollen, he knew how bad it was.

“I can’t believe I got my wrist sprained the moment I tried to run,” he muttered under his breath. He ignored the pain as much as he could, ripped a portion of the once-blanket he had been tearing to slivers, and wrapped it around the sprain. For once, he was grateful of the first aid lessons Huey got from Junior Woodchuck that he then drilled into both Louie and Dewey’s head under Uncle Donald’s keen eyes.

He’d been ripping the blanket and bedsheet into strips that he tied together to form a long rope for a while, now. He wasn’t sure how strong the makeshift rope would be, but he was willing to risk it. He stuffed the dry bread Felldrake had pushed into the room through a latch at the door into his mouth and gulped in the thin soup with the sorry looking veggies floating about in it, snatched the bottled water provided with the food and stuffed it into his pocket, and considered.

Okay. Okay.

He tied the bedsheet rope to the radiator, and he inwardly thanked whatever higher being was out there that he was put in a small room. He prayed to the same higher being that the radiator would be able to support his weight.

Right. Now the window problem.

He already checked before, but he pulled at the handles of the window anyway, trying to open it. The window only rattled, and Louie clicked his tongue. How to do this…

There was a thin spoon that was slipped in together with the food. With nothing else he could see that could potentially help, Louie took the spoon, inserted the flat end of it into the gap between the window and the frame, and did whatever he could to break the lock somehow. He was unsuccessful; the crappy spoon bent instead and the window was still closed.

Though, Felldrake had put a metal bucket in the room before, most likely so Louie could pee if he needed to. The bucket was still empty – he’d slept for a few hours and made his rope for a few hours more, ignoring his dinner all the while. The bucket would be useful for this, though.

He peered at the darkness outside. Dawn had yet to break, though he could tell the darkness was beginning to dissipate. Hoping the bucket wouldn’t make too much noise and Felldrake and Leopold both were heavy sleepers, Louie held the bucket, grimaced, and swung it as hard as he could to the glass.

It cracked upon impact, which Louie was surprised of. He thought it would take a lot more than that. He gritted his teeth and swung again, and this time, the window shattered.

He winced at the noise and tried to break as much of the leftover shards at the frame as he could, put down the now-dented bucket, then quickly threw the rope out. He wrapped his hands and feet sloppily with the some strips of cloth from the blanket and climbed out the window.

The rope was still too short, in the end. Louie took in a deep breath and let go of the rope, letting gravity help him traverse the leftover height – maybe about five to six feet, if Louie’s estimate was right – and he managed to land relatively harmlessly, all things considered. He put his hand wrong, though, and he bit back a cry when the pain in his wrist flared angrily.

There was no time to worry about that. He looked around, realized he was standing basically at a roadside, and ran parallel to the road as far as he was able.

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Donald hadn’t realized how agitated he was until he stepped closer to the sea, hearing the crashing waves and feeling the push and pull of the water like a physical force, and let the ocean soothe his mind.

He noticed Xandra staring at him when he turned to look at the sea, seeing her peering at him from the edge of his vision. He stared back, asking, “What?”

“You needed this,” Xandra said simply. “I just realized, you need to be closer to the sea to get more stable. I forgot elementals like you need to be close to their respective elements.”

Donald scoffed. “It’s nothing that serious. I’m just calmer when I hear the waves.” He looked down and tinkered with the amplifier, and it hummed as it blinked to life. He checked the signals at the bracelet he wore, and sighed when he realized he didn’t see any sign of Louie.

“That’s another sign you need to be closer to the sea anyway, but okay,” Xandra muttered. “In any case, are you okay?”

Donald looked at her strangely. “What do you mean? Of course I am.”

“Donald, I’m a goddess. Magic is basically my bread and butter.” She tilted her head. “You magic hasn’t been stable since that last confrontation with Felldrake. Not even after you healed yourself with the orb.”

“It’s really not that bad. I’m just pissed he took my nephew.”

“Your angry doesn’t feel like this,” Xandra said, chasing the thread relentlessly. “When I first got here, you felt like calm sea. Your angry feels like coastal storm, usually. This time it feels more like the sea trying to build up a tidal wave.”

“Well they’ve never gone for my family before,” Donald said, walking off along the road by the coastline. “Once I get Louie back, Felldrake will get a pounding.”

“That’s not the only thing I want to talk to you about, Donald.” Xandra stopped him by gripping his shoulder and pulling back, forcing him to turn to look at her. “I’m not fully convinced Felldrake’s influence is wholly purged from you.”

“What? Do you still feel his magic wriggling about in mine or something?”

Xandra frowned. “Not… really…”

Donald shrugged her off irritably. “Then it’s gone. I mean, sure, I’m kind of more angry than usual, but that’s mostly because Felldrake took my nephew.”

“You weren’t like this before,” Xandra protested weakly.

“I didn’t have the kids, before,” Donald answered without missing a beat. He took a deep breath and let the sound of crashing waves calm him down. “Look, Xandra, it’s been a while since we last met. A lot of things have changed. And what you should know is, I’ll do anything to keep my family safe. I’ll do anything to keep my kids safe. I don’t care at what cost.”

Xandra stared. “You don’t care at what cost,” she echoed softly.

“Yeah.”

“Didn’t your sister have problem with that?”

Donald’s beak snapped shut. The sea roared.

Xandra stared silently in wait.

“…let’s check that way,” Donald said instead, pointing away to the farther end of the coastline. “Maybe we’ll have better luck farther away from downtown. If Sheldgoose kept his house in New Quackmore, we’ll be better off looking around that way.”

Xandra sighed. “Alright,” she said, following Donald’s lead as he walked and kept an eye on the signals displayed by the bracelet.

They kept mostly silent, with Donald directing their way and Xandra asking the occasional questions as they walked. Just as they turned a corner, Donald stopped, and Xandra bumped into him.

“What? What is it?” Xandra asked, peering down to look at the bracelet’s display.

“I think it’s Louie’s signal,” Donald breathed, then took off.

He ran as fast as his feet could carry him, the roar of the sea empowering him until he was too far from the coastline to hear the crash of the waves. He could hear Xandra following, but his focus was on the blinking dot at the bracelet’s display and how the box seemed to whirr louder with each step he took.

A voice rang and broke his focus. “Donal’!”

He glanced to see José and Panchito running to him, and he lifted a brow as they joined his frantic sprint. “I thought you were looking in downtown,” he said between breaths.

“We saw the signal and followed it,” Panchito explained. “But I don’t think Scrooge and Della is around here.”

“We should be able to locate Louie soon – there!” José pointed, and Donald turned.

His eyes widened when he saw the small boy in green hoodie peering nervously at the streets. “Louie!” he all but screamed.

Louie’s head snapped up and he looked at Donald with what he knew, from the bottom of his heart, was genuine surprise and relief. Even from afar, he could see Louie’s eyes water as he pulled at his hoodie, and Donald saw the tattered bandages around his hands and feet. He ran faster to the boy, just as the boy stumbled forward to meet him.

A shadow flew overhead. Hands grabbed Louie by the head and pushed him down, and he crashed into asphalt with a pained grunt, Leopold holding him down.

“Foolish boy,” Felldrake growled from Leopold’s back. “Do you honestly believe I wouldn’t have a way of tracking you down?”

“Get away from him, Felldrake!” Donald yelled, letting the ocean build in his chest and calling forth its power. The ocean was far away, but close enough to call – he could feel the seawater snake into the streets and rush to them.

Felldrake stared at Donald, blinking. Then his eyes grew hard. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

The seawater reached them at last. It towered behind Donald like a wall. “And why not? What’s stopping me from washing you away right now?”

Felldrake glanced down. “Leopold.”

Leopold tightened his hold on Louie’s head. The boy cried in pain into the asphalt. With a growl, Donald let go of his control over the water, and the wall fell around them, sloshing and splashing angrily.

“Give him back,” Donald demanded.

“Careful,” Felldrake practically purred, “I can have his head crushed if I don’t like your tone.”

“Hey, let’s all calm down here,” José said, taking a tentative step ahead. “We only want the boy back, so we’ll appreciate it if you release – “

“If you try to compel me, the boy gets it,” Felldrake cut in coldly. José’s beak snapped shut immediately. When Panchito took in a deep breath, Felldrake glanced at him and added, “It’s the same with you.”

“Felldrake, you’d better get your pet to release the boy now or I’ll make him,” Xandra threatened.

In turn, Felldrake simply clicked his tongue. “Careful, goddess. You wouldn’t want a young boy’s blood on your hands, would you?”

Under Leopold, Louie stilled, pure fear in his eyes. Xandra scowled, but backed down when Donald pulled her back.

“What do you want with me?” Louie asked quietly. His voice trembled, and Donald felt his heart clench at the sight of him trying to keep himself from outright crying.

Felldrake leaned in to look at Louie in the eyes, and Leopold shifted to accommodate it. “Do you know how hard it is to find a gold touched child?” he asked back. “There aren’t a lot of you. And the ones that I found are incompatible. You’re the closest match I can find.”

Louie blinked at him. “…what?”

“No matter,” Felldrake dismissed, jumping off Leopold’s back. “You’re staying under this time. I won’t have you run away again.”

Donald could feel his feathers standing on end when the wind around Felldrake picked up with smoggy undertones in a cloudy night. The choking air intensified as light shone between Felldrake’s fingers, creating ribbon-like length that he threw at Louie. Louie flinched, but a part of Donald was relieved instead when he saw a translucent shield enveloping Louie. Webby’s charm had been effective. He rushed forward, wanting to take advantage of the bracelet’s shield to knock Felldrake and Leopold off so he could grab Louie.

Felldrake had another idea. He growled, and smoggy night sky bled to the ground around him, then it rose, rose, rose, forming the distant stars and rotting nebulas that soon swallowed the smoggy sky in its wake. He glared at Louie. “I am sick of that charm of yours,” he rumbled.

His hand struck out, and Louie tried to scramble away, but Leopold’s hold kept him in place. Felldrake’s hand hit the shield with a muted thump, but then the dying stars blazed and the shield melted around his fingers, allowing him access to Louie’s person.

Louie slapped Felldrake’s hand away as much as he could, but stopped with a whimpered squeak when Felldrake gripped his wrist and squeezed. His free hand grabbed the woven bracelet Webby made.

“Stop it, that’s a gift,” Louie protested weakly.

Felldrake didn’t respond. Ominous purple streaks bled through his feathers and dripped to Louie. The boy winced.

“I didn’t want to do this, but the situation called for it,” Felldrake said instead. His hand blazed with purple flames and he pulled.

Donald was close. Not close enough.

A blast of wind accompanied the booming magic Felldrake emitted. Faraway space swallowed the deserted streets and muffled the call of the sea Donald always felt deep in his bones. Blooming poisonous nebulas loomed and dying stars shone like silent judges. The blast of magic threw Donald back.

Felldrake looped a finger around the bracelet, hand blazing. He pulled with a grunt, and the bracelet was reduced into ashes.

The effect was immediate. Another blast, weaker this time, slapped Donald in the face. It felt distinctly like Webby in the inexplicable way it also didn’t. Webby may not have magic the way Donald had it, but he could feel her intention to protect in the now-destroyed bracelet scattering as it was reduced to ashes.

Louie cried in pain, feathers stained by dripped purple. Felldrake’s fingers trembled as he stood and breathed, the purple streaking his feathers darkening like blood.

Felldrake called on the ribbon-like spell again. Louie struggled under Leopold’s weight, trying to get away, and he began to flow gold – he emitted so much fear and panic through his magic that Donald knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was calling his magic from pure instinct alone. The undercurrent of terror in Louie’s magic had him scrambling again to reach him.

Louie turned to look at him. “Uncle Donald – “ he called, voice strangled, hand outstretched to reach him. Donald reached back.

The ribbon-like spell circled around Louie’s neck and collared him once more. The boy gasped and squeezed his eyes shut, recoiling and curling into himself. Felldrake laid a hand over his eyes, and he went slack.

Donald called his magic once more, determined to get Louie back. Leopold flapped his wings once and slammed his tail into Donald’s midsection and had him thrown back, and he would have slammed into a wall if Xandra hadn’t caught him in time.

Felldrake grabbed Louie by the scruff of his hoodie and put him on Leopold’s back. “We’re going, Leopold,” he said.

“Wait!” José yelled. Felldrake froze for a moment, but then the nebulas around them shone brighter and he shook off the effects of José’s magic and glared disdainfully.

“If any of you try to stop me, I’ll cut the boy’s fingers one by one,” he threatened. The looming nebulas and dying stars seemed to retract into him and disappeared as he climbed onto Leopold and had him flap his wings again.

“Get down here and fight us, you coward!” Xandra snarled.

“Xandra, stop,” Panchito said warily. “We don’t know if he’ll go through with it.”

Felldrake snorted. He patted Leopold’s arm. “Let’s go.”

“No – wait, no! Louie!” Donald pulled himself free of Xandra’s hold and ran ahead, his magic rising as his desperation grew. He gasped when José and Panchito grabbed him by the arms and pulled him back.

“Donal’, calm down! He’s already holding Louie by the neck!” José hissed in warning. Donald felt his breath hitch when he realized that, like José said, Felldrake had his hand on Louie’s neck. It creeped up to his head, grabbing a fistful of hair, as the other hand blazed purple. The purple light morphed into a blade of sorts.

Donald tamped down on his magic and forced it to still. The roar of the sea calmed into a whisper of uneasy waves in the eye of a hurricane.

Felldrake threw his hand down, and the purple blaze around it fell and bloomed around Leopold. It covered them as the swallowing sensation of the dying stars rose once more, then dissipated into nothing.

Donald wrenched himself out of his friends’ hold and let the hurricane out as he screamed and pounded at the asphalt.

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In the manor, Webby stilled mid-word and she gripped her wrist, feeling her bracelet. Her eyes widened, then she frowned, breath shallow.

“Webby? What is it?” Huey asked, while Dewey stood and walked over to her. He jerked midstride with a gasp, eyes rolling back as he fell to the floor. From his spot, Huey let out a whimper as he, too, slumped over.

From his spot, Gyro scrambled to his feet and stepped closer to Dewey, who was closest to him. He glanced at Fenton, who was still out cold, wishing he was awake so he would have help with the kids. For the first time, it truly struck him how out of depth he was in this.

[mr-and-mr-diaz]

FIRST CHAPTER OF PART 2 OF THE RELUCTANT FIANCE

So excited to get started!!

M/M Romance, Arranged Marriage  - Also available on AO3

Chapter 1: A New Life

Excerpt: “Speak, you useless boy! Our future was secured! We were the most envied family in the city to have gotten Shawdun! What have you done?!”

I was awoken in the morning by the sound of two carriage drivers yelling at each other. Horses whinnied. It was far more noisy than I was used to but I would adjust soon enough. Our new house was closer to the street with no winding carriage drive or luxurious gardens to block the sounds of the city at our doorstep. We weren’t quite deep enough into town to hear the market stall owners hawk their wares--the “pitious boulevards of the hoi polloi” as Father called it--but certainly closer. I yawned, stretched, and smiled as Mary, one of our two new maids--Mother’s “Ladies of all tasks,” since they had to take care of everything now--poured tepid water into the washing stand and departed. 

Slowly, I slid my feet into worn slippers and observed myself in the small mirror. My hair was still messy from a night spent wandering the market in nothing but shirtsleeves and britches. I hoped to take Billy back there today on a walk, if Margaret would allow. 

I pulled a linen shirt from the worn clothes press and put it on, sliding back into yesterday’s britches. There was no one to notice or care about how I looked. Henry was now engaged to Oliver, soon to be Marquess of Metley, and myself and my parents had disengaged from polite society (that is, polite society threw my parents out on their self-important arses and me with them) and moved house to a place we could afford with what was left of the money the Shawduns paid for breaking off the engagement. It was smaller and darker, and closer to the dreaded common folk. We had only two maids now, no butlers or other staff. Outside, a small bit of cobblestone received carriages when necessary and behind the house a pitiful patch of back garden tangled with weeds when I didn’t attend to it myself, and I couldn’t often be bothered.

Dressed, I headed downstairs to breakfast. Father sat, resplendent in a fraying greatcoat and greying silk shirt. Mother sat beside him, her crushed velvet gown growing shiny at the elbows. They were already eating. I sat down as well and the maid brought me cold toast and eggs, served with some lukewarm tea.

“...what I wouldn’t do with a bit of cards right now, Felicity. I tell you, once we are restored to our former home, I shall never cease playing them.”

Mother sniffed. “And I shall wear five different silks all in one day, all with matching hats, and we shall once again be the very toast of town!”

Typical breakfast talk, as it had been for the three months since we’d moved here. I found myself quite tired of it this morning. “And exactly how do you plan to restore yourselves to society, Mother and Father? Surely no one will have me anymore now that I’m Henry’s leftovers,” I could not conceal my small grin of victory, “and you need extensive wealth or breeding to even be considered.”

Father cleared his throat. “Of course Felicity, I would buy you as many silks as you wish.”

Mother smiled at him. “And I shall never again complain when I see you seated at cards, Aloysious, dear.”

Ah, yes. This was another new feature that came with our new home. A precious few of our previous belongings, supplemented by second hand castoffs of other impoverished nobility. Carpets worn to the threads. No social calls for this house. 

And not a word to me. Not since Father had received Henry’s formal letter and sworn me off as useless had either of them spoken a word to me.

“...but of course, the trick is to only gamble with what you have in front of you…”

I scoffed, pushing my cold breakfast away from me. Eat something, you look hungry. “Goodbye then, Mother; Father.”

I collected my coat and departed. 

“‘To my dear friend Aloysius Mallory, I pray you are well. I also ask after the health of your wife and of course, your son, Philip. I find it difficult to write this letter to you, but find that I must.’ Whatever is Henry talking about in this letter, Philip? ...Ahem, ‘ I regret to inform you that…’ What the devil?!”

As I walked along the river towards the garment district I contemplated the last time Father spoke to me. 

“This useless son of ours… Henry Shawdun has officially broken off the engagement! It says here that he has fallen in love with another! WHAT DID YOU DO, PHILIP?!”

Our new accommodations meant that I lived closer to Margaret and Billy than I had previously. No more than a fifteen minute’s walk.

“Speak, you useless boy! Our future was secured! We were the most envied family in the city to have gotten Shawdun! What have you done?!”

Soon enough, I arrived at Mrs. Blethely’s Fine Gowns and Costumery. A felt a small smile ghost over my face as I spoke aloud the words that I had said to Father then, the words I had sworn not to say, but hadn’t been able to hold back in the heat of the moment. All my resentment, all my hope that maybe they cared for me a little, the illusion vanished as I said those five words and erased myself from my parent’s purview forever. 

“I found him another suitor.”

“So you did.” I startled and looked up at Mrs. Blethely’s age-worn face. Her mouth had permanent frown lines around it, making her a truly foreboding looking woman, but I knew that behind all the salt and pickles was a… well, a truly foreboding woman who smiled at you but only when you earned it. Our first impression had been quite shabby, with neither of us getting a terribly good impression of the other. Now, she regarded me evenly, but her eyes smiled just the tiniest bit. “Come in quickly, young man; you are late and Billy is all a-wonders at his shiny new Uncle Oliver and gasping to talk about it with someone who knows the man.”

So Henry had introduced them at last.

I hesitated on the step, then entered.  

No sooner was I in the back room then young Billy flew into my arms. “Uncle Philip, Uncle Philip!” He spoke loudly though he was mere inches from my face. “We met a new man last night! And he’s so nice, and so very smart and he knows all about plants and he knows you!” I carried him to Margaret’s quarters as he carried on. “And Henry said he’s going to marry him, but I told him no! He can’t, because Mr. Lord Philip is marrying him, and then Mama shushed me, so I’m still so confused, are you marrying Uncle Henry?” his big blue eyes, perfect copies of his Uncle Henry, stared into mine, filled with joy, curiosity and confusion.

I cleared my throat. “I… ah, no, Billy. We were going to but then… er.” How to explain to a five year old?

“They decided that they prefer to be just friends, Billy. And your Uncle Henry and Uncle Oliver get along so well and they want to get married, so now they’re going to get married instead.” Margaret came down the spiral staircase and interrupted my bumbling. She was Henry’s older sister, and even more years my senior. She had all but raised Henry while his own parents neglected him, and took a similar approach to me, though God knew I was fully grown and had done little to deserve her kindness. Now she swooped young Billy out of my arms, depositing the lad on the floor where he continued to vibrate with unasked questions. “Apologies, Philip, I should have explained it to him properly last night, but I got distracted…” She gestured around her workshop where half-completed dresses spilled over the surfaces, sprinkled liberally with thread spools and spare buttons. 

“No worries.” I gave her a tired smile. “Surely you have more important things to do than discuss three-month old news.” I gestured around the shop, which bustled with new orders. “The Harvest Ball keeping you and Blethely on your feet, I see.”

She smiled, hands on her hips as she observed her domain. “My kingdom for an assistant.”

I chuckled. “Well, there’s always me, useless though I am!”

She grinned at that. “I’ll bear it in mind, Philip--you never know when I might need a spare dress form.” She winked and sat down to work.

“Wait, but--Uncle Philip?” I turned back to Billy who looked up at me. “Does that mean that you won’t be my Uncle Philip anymore?” His large blue eyes began to fill with tears. “Does that mean that--that you won’t visit anymore??”

Ah yes, I reminded myself. The title. “I… I don’t know, Billy.” I turned helplessly back to Margaret who looked up from her sewing. “I--I don’t want to overstep, Margaret. I would happily visit as a friend, but “Uncle” belongs to Oliver now, and I don’t know if it would be proper…”

She smiled and gestured to Billy, who scampered to her side for a hug. “It’ll all be okay, Billy. Philip will continue to come visit you all the time just like before.” She put a finger under his chin and lifted it so Billy was looking into her eyes. “He still loves you, no matter what. Family comes in all shapes and sizes, even if we aren’t married to someone. Would you like to keep calling him your Uncle Philip?”

Billy nodded, chin wobbling.

Margaret glanced at me, and I nodded my ascent. If Henry wanted to say no to this child, that was very much his problem. I was not that strong. 

Margaret smiled and turned back to Billy. “Then he is still your Uncle Philip.”

“Really?” Billy turned to me, all dusty cheeks and frayed cuffs and hopeful face and my heart caved in. 

“Of course, Billy. I’ll be your Uncle Philip for as long as you would like me to be.” And God spare my heart when he eventually grew tired of me and realized I didn’t belong. When they both did.

Billy smiled and the sun came out. “Okay.” He wiped his eyes and nose on his shirtsleeves, before Margaret clicked her tongue and handed him a scrap of cloth from the table. “I’m… I’m really happy you aren’t leaving us, Uncle Philip. I like Uncle Oliver a lot, but…”

“We don’t compare people, Billy, it’s rude.” Margaret chided, eyes back to her sewing. “Now, wash up before Uncle Oliver and Uncle Henry arrive for lunch.” 

I startled. “Ahh… that would be my cue to leave, I suppose.”

“You don’t have to.”

I rose and straightened my coat. “No, no, I think it would be best. Allow Oliver and Billy time to bond,” Billy would soon become Oliver’s adopted son, allowing Billy to secure a title and a future outside of Mrs. Blethely’s workroom, and it would hardly do for an irrelevant interloper to get in the way of that. “I will be back to visit, though, rest assured.” I shook Margaret’s hand, and gave Billy a quick hug before hastening to the door.

“Philip.”

I turned back. Margaret had risen and followed me to the door, a soft scarf in her hand and a kind smile on her face. “As you will not be marrying Henry I know we will not become brother and sister, but I should like to think that we could still be friends.” I felt a lump in my throat thicken as she quoted my own words back to me. 

I looked down at my feet and swallowed. Abandoned at home I might be, and I would no doubt have to get used to a life without them soon enough, but I would bask in the glow of her and Billy’s friendship for as long as they could want me. “I… thank you, Margaret. Yes, I would be honored.”

“Then I will see you on Thursday morning at ten sharp for breakfast with Billy, myself and Mrs. Blethely. Now here’s a little something I made with scraps from Lady Aramintha Vogun’s Harvest Ball gown. It’ll keep you warm as the chill sets in.” With a warm smile, she pressed the scarf into my hands and then ushered me to the door.

As I hastened outside into the early autumn breeze, I felt eyes on me. I looked up and caught the stare of a man I had never met before. He regarded me intensely from across the street, not saying a word, hat pulled low and coat collar turned up. Coincidence it could be, but I didn’t like the feeling I got from him. Straightening my shoulders, I turned away from him and hurried down the street, praying he would not follow. When I chanced a glance over my shoulder a few blocks away, he was gone.

[bitsandbobsandstuff]

A love that never leaves (7)

Summary: Sometimes when you go looking for the past, you find things you never expected. When an accident brings him face to face with something he never knew he lost, Bucky Barnes begins to understand an age old truth – it’s so easy, sometimes, to love the things that destroy us.

Characters: Bucky Barnes x Reader Warnings: Bad language. A bit of fluff. Angst city.

A/N: We’re headed back to 1944! War really sucks and Bucky Barnes is a hopeless romantic. Their last night together in the village turns up something beautiful, but ultimately sad. The angsty stuff kicks off here...  

Tags are open, if you want on the list please send me a DM or ASK, it’s easier for me to track. Otherwise you can find the new updates each weekend!

MASTERLIST ALTNL MASTERLIST

PREVIOUS CHAPTER

Previously...

Instead, her mind weaves through their love story, pulling forward a memory she’s replayed a thousand times before. The memory of his one other visit to the village, right before their world went pear-shaped. She was hesitant to tell him about that night, about the question he asked, because she knows he’s not the same. They’re not the same and she doesn’t want him to think -

But her heart beats faster.

Twisting a lock of his hair around her finger, she gropes for the right words, his fingers stroking lightly down her arm.

I wanna know it all.

In the middle of the night, watching the stars wink through the window of her bedroom, she takes a deep breath.

*****

Late December, 1944 Somewhere in France

The sky is a deep, leaden grey when she hurries from the back door. Stepping carefully over slick paving stones, she heads to the tiny chicken coop, where one scraggly chicken remains. Every day, she expects she’ll arrive to find the poor thing dead, but against all odds, the hen has persevered.

As she walks, she picks at the fraying threads at her wrist. The moss green coat is looking worse for wear these days. Where the elbows have worn through, she’s patched with mismatched cloth from one of her old dresses. It’s not ideal, but still serviceable.

It doesn’t matter, not really, she tells herself.

After five long years, the war rages on. Ravaging the countryside, turning the world to ash, leaving nothing but death in its wake. Nearly all the men who left the village remain on the front; those who returned, are buried under weathered gravestones in the little cemetery.

Letters are less frequent, but far too often, telegrams arrive. Their messengers clutch their hats in sweaty fists when they hand it over, and that tenuous grip on sanity is ripped from a family's fingers.

But here, through everything and against the odds - she survives.

And every day, she holds her breath, waiting for him to come home.

Sleep, wake, work, sleep. Every day a dogged routine. But even though the world is on fire, sometimes when she’s sliding into that sweet headspace between dreaming and awake, she starts to think about the future.

It’s an indulgence, but she has this daydream. About wearing a pretty dress that twirls when she dances. About painting her lips with bright red lipstick and dabbing a bit of perfume behind her ears. About holding a glass of deliciously fizzy champagne and seeing Bucky in a sharp black suit, the collar of his crisp white shirt open, a bowtie loose around his neck. About him pulling her onto the dance floor while the band begins a slow song, something full of nostalgia, because they made it through, the soldier and his girl. About how in the middle of the dance floor, in front of god and everyone, Bucky picks her up and kisses her breathless, his breath like honeyed whiskey. About that little bead of sweat rolling down his temple and her kissing it away.

It’s a nice daydream.

“Good morning, little lady,” she says under her breath, reaching the busted down chicken coop. Searching beneath the warm feathers, she finds a single egg and pulls it away. Stroking the bird lightly, she receives a sleepy cluck in return. “Thank you,” she murmurs, clutching the warm egg in her palm.

Standing straight, she shivers when an icy breeze cuts through the thin dress and wool stockings. Latching the door shut, she trudges back to her house.

She pulls up short.

A soldier sits on the back step, staring at his boots, his hands folded patiently while he waits.

Bucky’s hair is shaggier than her memories and a thick beard covers his face, but he looks like everything she’s missed.

When the sound of her steps reaches him, he looks up and scrambles quickly to his feet. Standing in silence, he watches her nervously, strangely unsure of his reception, despite months of sweet words and declarations of love. Tucking his hands into his pockets, he swallows hard before he finally speaks.

“Hey darlin’. You look real pretty.”

His voice is raspy, exhausted and broken, and she closes her eyes, because she’s had this dream before. It was soul crushing when she woke up.

She counts to three.

When she opens her eyes, thank god, he’s still there. She places the lone egg in the small basket she carries and sets it carefully on the ground. Bucky watches her, longing clear in his face.

And she runs to him.

Throwing herself in his arms, he catches her and lifts her up, pulling her legs around his waist and wrapping his arms around her. With no preamble, she finds his lips and kisses him with everything she has. It’s sloppy and messy and frantic and Bucky savors it. Responding with a low groan, his mouth moves against hers, desperation in every twist of his lips.

“Oh god, I missed you,” he breathes, when they finally come up for air. “I missed you – Jesus Christ, fuck, I missed you so god damn much. I’m not leaving again, not ever,” he swears.

It’s a lie, they both know it. But like her daydream, it’s so pretty, they let themselves believe it. Just for a little while.

*****

“How long do we have?” she asks, pouring him a cup of weak coffee. It’s the last bit she’s been hoarding, but he looks so tired, so utterly obliterated, this seems like a good time. When she moves to sit in the chair across from him, Bucky makes a noise of dissent and scoots away from the table. Motioning to his lap, he gives her an imploring look and she can’t help but smile. She sits gingerly on his knees and he rolls his eyes and tugs her close. So, she throws an arm across his chest, tucks her face into his neck. Bucky sighs happily, keeping one arm curled around her, the other gripping the hot mug.

“Just a couple days, then we’re back out. Had to do a fair bit of sweet talking to get them to stop here,” he says and presses dry, chapped lips to her temple. “Convinced command back in London this was a strategic stopover before we pick up the chase.”

“What are you chasing?” She wraps the chain of his dog tags tight around her finger. It leaves an impressive ring of round indentions in her skin.

“Been searching for this guy, this sci – scientist.”

He trips over the last word, body tensing at the statement and she tightens in response. She still doesn’t know what happened to him as a POW, but this type of anxiety is all too familiar.

Scientists. Yes. She knows about scientists.

Sometimes he says things like this, about his job, and the confident mask falls. His breath comes fast and shallow for a moment, but then she squeezes him hard and kisses his neck. He remains rigid, but the soothing press of lips seems to help. Clearing his throat, he keeps talking. “Running after him for months now. He keeps slipping away.”

“You’re being careful out there?”

Bucky doesn’t respond. He wipes the rim of the coffee mug with his thumb.

“Course I am,” he finally answers.

There’s a lie.

She wants to argue. Make him promise to put himself first, to be careful and cautious, to steer clear of danger in every way possible, because he’s all that she has. But it would make no difference. War is what he does. A job he never wanted but one he picked up with horrifying ease.

Instead, she simply hugs him and changes the subject. Bit by bit, she coaxes him out of his head. Bit by bit, she brings him back to himself.

Himself. Someone he hasn’t known in a long time.

*****

The next morning finds Bucky and Steve jammed shoulder-to-shoulder into a small room off the nave of the village church. Piles of hand-drawn maps litter the polished surface of the priest’s desk and Steve sifts through the mess, setting aside the most relevant, while Bucky marks notes in the margins with a fat red pencil.

Dismantling Hydra across Europe has been swift and successful, but to keep going, they need more intel. And to get more intel, they need to find Arnim Zola. The game of cat and mouse between them gets trickier every day, as he slips through their traps, infuriating Bucky and sending Steve into fits of anger.

Hours pass as they add details from the local maps, using the roads and paths and markers unaccounted for in the debriefs from London to flesh out their search strategy. This has to work. This has to help.

They hope, anyway.

“You’re sure it’s okay?” Steve asks for the third time, looking up at the priest. Folding the maps, he clears the desk while Bucky tucks the pencil behind his ear.

“Take whatever you need,” the priest confirms. “Anything to help.”

Steve nods gratefully, stuffing the pile inside his jacket.

Leaving the stuffy air of the little office, the two men follow the priest down the familiar church aisle. As they pass the pew, Bucky automatically looks to where he saw her sitting that sunny Sunday. Clear as day, he recalls her pretty dress and her pretty smile and the way she peeked at him during prayers.

God, he loves that image. His dragging steps find a renewed bounce at the thought of heading back to her.

Coming into the dreary afternoon light, all three men pause on the front steps of the small church and Bucky hears the priest utter a nearly inaudible sigh. His white collar sits askew at his neck and he scratches at it absently, looking out over the dead grass in the small cemetery next to the church.

“Have you lost very many?” Bucky asks quietly. The town seems different than the first time they visited, the crushing fatigue of war bearing down harder than ever.

“Yes. We had a few boys come back last week from – from Italy. Had a hard frost a week earlier and couldn’t get them buried, there’s no way to dig through the frozen ground. Been tough on the families, having them wrapped up in the vaults below the church. They’ll have to stay there, until the ground thaws.”

This is not uncommon. This is how things work. Death in the winter is a grim affair.

Lips drawn in a tight line, Steve rubs exhausted blue eyes and looks over to Bucky; he raises an eyebrow in question.

Bucky considers him for a moment. He wants nothing more than to walk back to her home and crawl into the safety of her arms. But in war, and in life, it’s common courtesy to repay those who’ve helped you. He thinks about the maps that will hopefully lead them closer to Zola, closer to ending this madness, closer to coming back to her for good.

He swallows hard and nods.

“We’ll dig the graves for you. Least we can do for the help.”

The priest hesitates with his response. “That’s very kind of you boys, but the ground really is frozen. I don’t think you can dig through.”

Steve gives him a kind smile. “It’s alright. We’ll manage.”

*****

Bucky drives the sharp shovel into the mound of black earth. Leaning heavily on the handle, he swipes a shaking hand over the line of cold sweat on his forehead.

“M’done,” he says hoarsely to Steve. Four freshly dug graves line the edge of the little graveyard, waiting patiently for their occupants to arrive.

It took some doing, but between the two of them, they managed. Once they broke through the frozen layer, the rest was easy. Of course, it helps that Steve is stronger than the normal soldier and that Bucky is – well, that Bucky’s strong as well.

Steve tosses one final heap of dirt and stretches with a low groan.

“Go on,” Bucky urges, tugging the shovel from his hands. He needs Steve to sleep, because he hasn’t in days. “Get some sleep. You know we gotta leave first thing.”

“Yeah,” Steve sighs. He claps his hands, brushing away the dry feel of dust. “Guess you're staying with your girl tonight?”

“Course,” Bucky says with a tired smile. He toys with the button on his blue jacket. “Got something to ask her.”

Steve squeezes his shoulder affectionately. “Really gonna do it, huh? Nervous?”

Bucky squints up at the pinpricks of starlight peppering the dark sky and gives voice to the doubt in his mind. “Yeah. I don’t know. I’ve been thinking...about all the shit I’ve done, and I’m - fuck, Steve. You’ve seen me out there. I’m not exactly a good person. Not anymore.” He looks over, weary confusion in his face. “Am I selfish? Wantin’ her this way? Doesn’t she deserve better?”

Steve just looks at him. That same penetrating gaze he’s had since the day he found Bucky back in Azzano. Bucky still hasn’t told him everything and Steve keeps waiting, but he knows it’s in vain. Bucky Barnes is a master at stomping down his feelings.

So, Steve gets philosophical instead.

“You know, it seems like the world wants to romanticize this. The war. They write songs and poetry and tell all these grand stories, but we all know it’s fuckin’ bullshit. There’s nothing romantic here. I smell like actual shit and all Dugan’s toenails fell off last week and you got someone’s fuckin’ brains on your coat the other day.” He wrinkles his nose in disgust. “None of us are getting out of this war without changing. That includes her. Don’t go using that as an excuse. You love her and she loves you, and this world’s so god damn fucked up, but you have that. Don’t forget it.”

Bucky tips his head back up, gazing at the stars. He thinks for a moment, then looks back at Steve and gives him a serious nod.

“Every now and then you’re not a total asshole. Smell like one maybe, but - ”

He ducks when Steve tries to cuff him.

“God you’re a jerk,” Steve states fervently.

“Damn straight,” Bucky says. “Now go on. It’s your dumb ass wanting to leave at dawn.”

Giving him a mocking salute, Steve trudges back toward the make-shift camp the team set up on the edge of town. Bucky watches him walk, until the outline of Captain Steve Rogers is swallowed up in the encroaching night.

All he wants is to head back to her, but he needs a minute. Needs to clear out the dark thoughts vying for space in his head, because he sure as hell doesn’t want to bring those within a mile of her.

Setting the shovels against the bullet riddled wall of the church, he drops to the frozen dirt and leans back. Digging inside his jacket, he fishes out the last smoke from the battered pack he keeps hidden inside. Holding it between his teeth, he pats his pockets, feeling for his lucky lighter.

“God fuckin’ dammit,” he swears softly, realizing the damn thing is still in his pack. Frustrated, he bangs his head against the wall and shuts his eyes.

Someone drops beside him. Bucky hears the metal rasp and a flame appears. Looking over, he finds the tired face of the priest giving him a wry smile. He leans over, tips the cigarette into the fire and inhales.

“Thanks Padre,” he grunts in greeting.

“Sure thing,” the priest says, snapping it shut. He leans against the stone next to Bucky and gets comfortable. “You know, the last time you were here, you were pretty intent on interrupting my service.”

“Ah yeah. Sorry about that,” Bucky says with a weak smile. He takes another slow drag. “Was awful interested in someone else that day.”

“Yes, that much was clear,” the priest says with a chuckle. Stretching out his long legs, he crosses the ankles, fiddling with his lighter. “So. How is it out there?”

What a loaded question.

How is it out there?

Hell. Black, bloody, brutal. The very worst parts of his nightmares magnified by a thousand. Humans are terrible and people are suffering in ways he never imagined, because war is fucking hell on earth. He wants to pack up his shit, break his rifle across his knee, get his girl and go home.

How is it out there?

It’s motherfucking awful out there.

“It’s - fine,” Bucky says instead. He examines the bright red cherry on the tip of his smoke. Takes another long drag, blows the thin stream into the icy air. “Just gettin’ tired. Trying to find a reason to keep fighting, I guess. I know it’s the right thing to do. These rumors you’re hearing. Camps and babies and…experiments. All of it’s true. Every fuckin’ word,” he grimaces at the effortless swear and looks apologetically at the priest. “Sorry.”

The priest just shrugs. “S’okay Sergeant. I’ve heard worse. Said worse, in fact.”

Bucky gives a humorless laugh. “Sure, sure.” He tugs at a loose string on his jacket and thinks. “Guess I’m having trouble finding something to follow, you know?”

“What do you believe in?”

Staring off into space, Bucky wonders. What does he believe in? A long time ago, he thought he knew. Life, liberty. Freedom. Fighting the good fight. But now? His morals are shot to shit and he has no idea which way is up. He’s drifting along, half human while he chips away at his humanity a little more with each bullet from his gun. Each slice of his knife. What the hell does he believe in?

He can think of nothing, until he can. Until the one word that makes it all right rises to his lips.

“Love,” Bucky answers honestly. He cocks his head to the side and considers to the priest. “I believe in love. Making the world better for other people. For my family. For Steve.” His eyes drift the familiar path toward her house and he smiles without realizing. “For her.”

“Then that’s what you follow.”

“You’re telling me to follow my heart? Little corny, ain’t it?”

The priest smiles faintly. “Maybe,” he agrees. “Up to you to find out.”

Renewed, Bucky drops the cigarette and grinds it with the heel of his boot. He climbs to his feet and offers a silent hand to the priest, hauling him off the ground.

“Thanks, Padre.”

“Good luck Sergeant.”

*****

Lugging the boiling water into the bathroom, she splashes it into the old porcelain tub. It’s taken close to an hour now, of heating water over the fireplace and transferring it to the bath.

She’s in the bathroom, adding the final bucket, when the backdoor opens. There’s a rustling and she hears Bucky shrugging out of the blue coat, taking off his boots and lining them up in a military straight line. When he pads into the kitchen calling her name, the bucket slips and she hisses a frustrated curse.

“Wha – are you okay?”

She comes out of the bathroom off the kitchen and huffs out a breath. Sweat drips down her face and her arms are shaking from the effort, but she gives him a broad smile.

“You interested in a hot bath, Sergeant?”

Eyes going wide, Bucky hesitates for the briefest moment, before he’s suddenly slipping over the cold stone floor of her kitchen, stripping as he goes. His shirt goes flying, he hops on one foot to remove each sock, his fingers scrabble furiously at his worn leather belt. By the time he reaches the tub, he’s down to his drab, olive colored military issue boxers and an ecstatic smile.

“I hope you’re serious, or this is gonna be real awkward,” he jokes and she laughs. Motioning to the water, she turns around and gives him privacy, busying herself while he removes the boxers. It seems silly, considering what they’ve shared, but she doesn’t want to presume.

There’s a splash and then Bucky is stuttering out a long, satisfied moan. The sound makes her stomach somersault.

“Can I look?” she teases, her throat suddenly and intensely dry. He chuckles.

“Please do. Ain’t much fun otherwise.”

She turns to see him slouched in the water, and then Bucky takes a deep breath and ducks under, immersing himself completely. Under the film of water, eyes closed and dark hair floating around him, he looks like an angel. He holds his breath for so long, she starts to worry, until he breaks the surface with a gasping laugh. Water cascades in rivers of bright sparkles down his face and spiky clumps of black eyelashes frame his blue eyes.

“Like trying to bathe a child,” she says, a mock stern note in her voice and Bucky gives her a crooked grin.

“Sorry, sorry. I’ll be good, cross my heart.”

Poking him in the ribs, he shies away and laughs again and my god, she missed that sound. It sings through her blood, a drug she never realized she craved.

Wetting her hands in the hot water, she lathers up a small chunk of soap. Bucky hunches forward and she lathers his hair, scratching her nails deep to rub away the sweat and dirt caked at his hairline, relishing his soft little moans. Scooping up the hot water, she douses his head over and over, rinsing soap from the dark tangle of hair, until the water runs clear. Pressing against his chest, she pushes him back against the tub and he goes easily, but when she tries to move her hand away, he catches it. She feels the rough bristles of hair beneath her palm and she meets his eyes.

“Will you get in here with me?”

Those blue eyes pleading with her, the hitch in his voice, it stirs a fierce protectiveness in her. Even if she wanted to, she couldn’t refuse. Nodding cautiously, she steps behind him and he leans back in the bath, closing his eyes with a sigh.

She sheds her clothes quickly and observes him for another moment. He looks thinner, the lean muscle trending toward a gauntness she doesn’t like to see. Dark circles are smeared below his eyes, the kind no amount of scrubbing will wash away, and there are new scars littering his body. Thick lines of raised tissue speaking of blades and bullets, and she feels a wave of ice sweep through her at the thought of him courting death on so many occasions. His plush lips, before so quick to quirk up into an easy smile, are curved down.

He looks ravaged, by this war.

In that moment, she decides – if they make it through this thing, if Fate gives them a chance to be together, to make a life together, then she will fix this for him. It doesn’t matter that she gave it up, that she vowed to never do it again. Seeing him like this, she can’t stand it. She can help him and she will.

So many thoughts flood her brain in the blink of an eye, but then she’s stepping into the hot water and sinking down between his spread legs. Leaning against him, she pulls his arms to wrap around her and Bucky sighs blissfully. Bracketing her with his legs, he holds onto her so tightly she can barely breath, but she welcomes the pressure.

It’s nice to be needed.

Water sloshes over the edge while he resettles. Steam rises in spirals around them, blanketing her skin with an instant layer of dampness. It should be a little cool, but it is the exact opposite; everything feels scorching hot. The water, the thick porcelain tub, Bucky’s hard body, Bucky’s lips at her shoulder, Bucky’s tongue licking up her neck. Everything is full of heat, Bucky is fire and she’s melting.

“You taste like heaven,” he whispers, sucking gently at the skin along her shoulder. “Better’n anything I’ve ever had.”

Nothing goes any further. Bucky holds her tight, his hands skimming reverently up and down her arms, his fingers occasionally brushing across her breasts. His touch leaves a deep-seated ache, one she grows increasingly desperate to slack. But he seems content with this, with simply holding her.

An hour passes and the water grows cool. When she lifts her toes from the water, she laughs quietly.

“I’m very wrinkly.”

Huffing a laugh into her ear, Bucky rises from the tub, dripping across the floor to search for towels. Finding two, he gives himself a quick rub down and then slips back into his boxers. They cling to his still-damp skin and she drinks her fill of him, before raising her eyes to his face.

The laughter fades at his expression, at the lust tightening his mouth; she rises quickly from the water.

“No, wait,” he urges when she goes to step out. “Lemme help.”

Helping her from the tub, he takes a towel and carefully pats every inch of her body dry. She wonders if she should feel self-conscious at his eyes roaming over her, but there’s such clear worship in his face, her nudity is nothing. Instead, she feels a warmth in her belly that grows, spidering into the tips of her fingers as she reaches for him.

Catching his face between her hands, she lifts it to hers, gently pressing her thumb into the cleft of his chin. “You’re really beautiful, you know that?”

There it is. The slow smile she’s been waiting for. It’s almost like watching the sun rise, the way it arrives, nothing and then everything. He rubs the tip of his nose against hers and hums appreciatively.

“No one’s ever called me that before. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Can I assume, that was your way of talkin’ me into bed?” he whispers and her heart skips at the playful glint in his eyes.

“Did it work?” she whispers back and Bucky tips his head back and laughs. It bounces around the small bathroom and fills her up, happiness spreading like molten lava through her veins.

“It definitely worked,” he confirms. Wrapping the towel snugly around her, he sweeps her off her feet. Carrying her through the dark house and up the stairs, they sink together into the softness of her bed.

*****

Neither one wants to sleep. If they sleep, the night will pass and when the darkness leaves, so will he.

Instead, they lay tangled together on her bed. Even now, she still feels the aftershocks of pleasure shivering through her body, settling into her bones. Face to face, they lay sharing a pillow, silently watching each other in the dying light of the fire. She twines her fingers with his, brings them to her mouth and rubs her lips over the long, thin white scar on his right hand.

It was what brought them together, after all.

“I wish we could stay here like this,” she murmurs, her wistful voice melting into the black silk of the room. “I wish the world would come back to its senses.”

Bucky hooks his leg around hers and brings her even closer. The comforting curve of his warm body feels like a protective shield against the world beyond her windows.

“It can’t last forever,” he says and he strokes his fingers down her bare arm. There’s an edge of bitterness riding his tongue when he speaks again. “It’s gotta end someday. They’ll run out of soldiers eventually.”

All she’s every wanted in this wretched world, was to find someone like him. Someone full of passion and life, someone who could make her feel again, make her want to live again. Here in this little village, she’s found exactly what she needs, but their life is so fragile. She’s terrified it will fall apart.

Sensing the swirl in her head, Bucky rests his thumb in the hollow dip at the base of her throat, rubbing small, soothing circles.

“Can I ask you something?” he says.

“Of course you can.” He doesn’t respond right away. There’s a longing in his face, one she recognizes - it’s a perfect reflection of her own heart. She waits expectantly, but nothing happens. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he breathes. A deep red flush is working up his neck, spreading over the apples of his cheeks. He looks nervous. “I love you,” he finally says.

“I love you too.”

“Okay, good. Okay. I want to – would you do something for me?”

“Bucky, I’d do anything for you,” she says encouragingly.

He nods at her words, absorbing them. She would do anything for him. He takes a deep breath.

“Would you marry me?”

Since the moment she knew she loved him, she’s dreamt of these words. Of Bucky asking her to stay with him forever. To wake up with him every morning and fall asleep wrapped in his arms. To fight and love and live and grow old together.

She wants to reply, but shocked hope steals her breath and the words won’t come.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers quickly, his eyes flicking rapidly between hers, sudden shyness in his voice. “I know we haven’t known each other long, it’s all mostly letters really, and I don’t know, maybe it’s too soon and we still have so much to learn about each other, but – you’re it for me. I really believe that. It’s just - every day I walk out there and I swear to god, death’s riding my ass so fuckin’ hard, and I don’t know if I’m gonna make it home again and I just – didn’t want to lose the chance.”

His words bleed together, punched fast and frantic from his lungs, like he needs to release them or he’ll choke. When he tries to keep speaking, she puts her fingers against his lips, shushing him.

“Bucky. You had my heart from the moment we met. You’re it for me,” she echoes and Bucky’s face lights up at her words. “I’ll be here waiting, as long as it takes. Come back when you can and I’ll marry you.”

Burrowing into his chest, she clings to him. Tears slip fat and hot down her cheek and when he feels the steady stream wetting his skin, he rolls her onto her back and hovers above her, leaning down to kiss each one away, one by one until every drop is gone and the taste of salt burns his tongue.

Salt and sadness. Is there a more defining feature of war than these two things?

The dog tags around his neck clink softly when he shifts, sitting up on his knees. The words come effortlessly, the ones every soldier presents his love, knowing full well it could be no more than another pretty lie. He takes her hand and holds it against his heart. Beneath his hot skin, she feels the steady thump against her palm. His low voice rings with promise when he speaks.

“I swear to god, on everything I have, I will come back for you.” He squeezes her hand, his eyes burning. “What we have – I’m always gonna fight for it. Down to my dying breath. You and me, this kind of love, it lasts forever, okay? It’ll never leave. I’ll never leave. Not ever.”

Out of nowhere, the nameless fear that sits dormant in her chest perks to life at his words. Terror seeps into the marrow of her bones, at the haunting phrase from her past.

But this is different, she thinks. It’s different, and she holds tight to his vow, desperate to believe that history won’t repeat, and she won’t be left alone again.

“It never leaves,” she echoes. Like opposing commas, they curl together, drawing comfort from the other.

*****

Just like before, Bucky rises before dawn. He dresses quickly, buttoning and buckling the uniform in the dark, a repetitious memory his hands have been trained to complete.

Just like before, he stokes the smoldering fire. Adds more kindling to send it blazing, filling the room with heat.

Just like before, he kneels beside the bed and lays his head next to her.

“Good morning,” she whispers. Cool fingers smooth his hair back and he leans into her touch.

“Good morning,” he breathes. She moves to get up, but Bucky gently holds her down. “No, don’t get up. It’s too cold.”

She shakes her head no and tries to rise again, but his arm is like iron, a silent rebuke.

“Bucky, let me go downstairs. See if I can find you any coffee, I might…” her voice fades at the sadness in his eyes.

“Darlin, I’d really – I’d rather you don’t watch me leave. I’m not sure I can go, if I know you’re watching.” He brushes his lips along her cheek and hums. “This here, you all soft and warm,” he kisses her other cheek, his lips lingering, a smile in his voice, “completely naked,” another kiss on her nose, his mouth a breath from hers. “This is what I want to remember.”

In the firelight, his eyes are so breathtakingly blue. It’s her favorite color, she sees it everywhere.

He could convince her to do anything with those eyes.

“If that’s what you want,” she murmurs reluctantly.

“You’re what I want. You’re what I’m always gonna want,” he whispers. His mouth slants over hers, the dry, cracked skin of his fingertips cradling her face and she leans into the rough touch.

“Good. Because I’m always going to be yours,” she answers and Bucky swims happily in her reply.

Unwilling as ever, he rises slowly to his feet.

“When I come back, I’m bringing you a ring.” A sweet, crooked smile pulls up his lips.

She plucks up the shiny medal he gave her from the chain around his neck, the outline of St. Michael clear on the spinning chain. “This is enough. I don’t need anything else, just bring me you.”

He watches her for a moment more, and then he’s stumbling back for one last heated embrace. Crushing her into the blankets, Bucky pours every last drop of love into the kiss, trying desperately to brand himself into the meat of her heart, so she never, ever forgets him.

It works, she thinks hazily, his mouth feverish against hers. Where he ends and where she begins, it’s impossible to define.

He ends the kiss abruptly and tears himself away.

And just like before, at the grey break of dawn, Bucky Barnes slips from the warmth of home and disappears back into the cold march of war.

*****

Two months later, a telegram arrives from Captain Steve Rogers.

The innocent piece of paper sits on her kitchen table, resting against the chipped white jug that was once full of the bright holly berries Bucky brought her. Hours tick by as she sits in silence, waiting. Night has fallen, before numb fingers find the courage to open it.

I lost him. A mission in the Alps. I’m not stopping until all of Hydra is dead. I’ll come find you when this is over. I’m sorry. I’m so damn sorry.

G.

Steve Rogers never comes. She hears the news later, that his plane went down. No survivors.

*****

The poets say when your heart breaks, the world will grind to a halt.

The poets are wrong, she thinks.

When your heart breaks, the world will in fact keep moving. The stars will still shine, the sun will still rise. You will go on living, despite having nothing to live for. The world doesn’t stop for trivial things like grief. It lumbers on, drags you forward kicking and screaming, forcing you to keep breathing, until you’re nothing more than a ghost of who you were.

*****

Next Chapter

*****

[alifeasvivid]

A Japanese Billionaire and a British Detective Walk Into a Bar... Episode 17 of The Thief of Spades

Oh snap........ There’s not a lot of action sequences in this. Everything gets resolved fairly quickly in terms of logistics. It’s all in the feels for this chapter XD

Rating: M (chapter: T) Warnings: language, sad Alfred, angst Summary: Alfred loses hope. Arthur and Kiku strike a deal. Ivan thinks everyone is an idiot. Word count: ~1500 (bit shorter this time)

Read here on AO3. Thief of Spades on Tumblr Masterpost

♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎

Alfred no longer fantasizes about Inspector Kirkland. All of his energy and considerable willpower are devoted to putting on a good front for Agent Hedevary. Though he has almost no human contact except for her and very little of it at that, so far, she seems to believe she hasn’t broken him yet.

Otherwise, like his beautiful dress, the threads of Alfred’s sanity are fraying.

He still has no idea what she holds against him and she gives almost nothing away. Alfred’s only solace now is that Kiku knows who has him and his friend will find a way to get him out. This is the only hope he has.

His daily meal gets shoved through the tiny slot in the door and Alfred goes over to it slowly. He eats it slowly. His meals consist of an unopened bottle of water, boiled vegetables, and a protein bar that resembles sand and glue in every conceivable way. He always eats the vegetables first and saves the water and protein bar for as long as possible, though he did find out that if he hoards them for longer than probably two or three hours, they will be taken from him.

Alfred contemplates the small opening in the door and how shockingly unprepared he’d been for prison, or rather, being held in solitary confinement by government authority as opposed to a fellow criminal like before. Previously, he was in solitary, yes, but he had been fed well.

Confronted with his own hubris, something he’d been so careful to control, while also being so out of his depth, Alfred begins to give into despair.

♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎

“Mr. Honda?” Ivan asks with a wry grin as he meets Kiku at Heathrow. He bows slightly to the Japanese businessman.

“Mr. Braginski. We meet at last,” Kiku says, bowing slightly in turn to the Russian fence. “I was hoping it would not come to this, but he cannot stay in there much longer. I am certain he is being pushed to his limit already, as you know.”

“Da. And you believe Agent Jones’ information?” Ivan takes Kiku’s back, gesturing for him to follow, and leads him out to the car.

“Alfred trusts her,” Kiku says slowly. “His instincts on such things are never wrong.”

The two make an odd pair as they slide into Ivan’s car. Ivan himself is over six feet tall, as broad as a bear, and dressed in a tailored, grey, three-piece suit with a long, pale violet scarf. Kiku, on the other hand, stands no taller than five and a half feet and is dressed in a severe, black single level suit with clean cut hair, not a thread or strand out of place.

“What about the detective?” Ivan snorts derisively. “I don’t care what Alfred says, he will only get in the way.”

“Mm. Do not worry. I am here to take care of him.”

♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎

Every lead Arthur has come across as to where Alfred might even be has turned up cold. He’s been going mad for the past week or so trying to find Alfred while simultaneously not being able to meaningfully leave his house. He’s discovered that he’s left alone if he goes to the store or anywhere within short walking distance, but as soon as he heads toward the Yard or something, someone will start following him again.

So a mysterious text message with the name of a pub and an address nearly at the edge of his apparent radius seems like a god-send.

The Japanese man waiting for him in the back of the pub reaches out awkwardly to shake his hand. Arthur accepts, but bows also and receives one in kind.

“Inspector,” Kiku says evenly as they take a seat at a secluded table. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”

Arthur sits across from him and guesses immediately that it is not, in fact, a pleasure, but two can play that game. “It is an honor to meet you, Mr. Honda. From what I know of you, it is quite the occasion for you to leave Japan. You must be very worried for Alfred.”

Kiku’s eyes widen almost not at all, but Arthur catches it. The billionaire’s speech patterns don’t change at all, however. “He has… never been imprisoned this long before. It’s true. You are the only law enforcement officer who has ever caught him and you let him go.”

Arthur raises his eyebrow. “I did nothing of the—” he starts, but is cut short when Kiku lifts his hand.

“You let him get away, until now.”

The accusation isn’t subtle enough to escape getting under Arthur’s skin. “See here, I had no idea what Agent Hedevary was up to. And, I’ll be frank, it is not my job to let him get away. Quite the opposite. He’s a criminal.”

Kiku smirks and Arthur misses it. “Only in the loosest sense of the word.”

“In the strictest sense!” Arthur takes a deep breath. “In any case, I’ve been doing everything I can to find out where he is. I think I have a few leads. We should pool our data and—”

Kiku interrupts him again. “With respect, Mr. Kirkland. I came here to free Alfred and I do not require your assistance.”

“O-oh… alright, that’s just as well. Then why did you ask that I meet you here?”

“For a favor. I will be relocating Alfred. Britain is too dangerous for him now and he will only… resist me on this issue as long as he has hope that he can be with you.”

Arthur’s mouth falls open. “I— what?”

Kiku sighs, exasperated. “Inspector, I do not have time for your ignorance. You will disabuse him of this hope and in turn, I will repay you well. Whatever you want.”

“Whatever I want?”

“Money. Career advancement. Freedom from the CIA?”

Arthur can’t help but stare at the Japanese business mogul in shock. It seems as though his game of chase with Alfred will end now regardless of what he does. If Honda does what he says he will do, Arthur will never see the Thief of Spades again. His mind conjures the night they danced together and how… exciting it had been, how charmingly Alfred had smiled at him, how easy it had been to lead him. Money and career advancement will come with or without Honda’s help, that much Arthur knows and he’s equally certain he’ll never really be free from the CIA now. Perhaps the game will end, but Arthur doesn’t have to surrender quietly.

“What if I refuse?” he asks.

“Then the CIA will be the least of your worries,” Kiku replies ominously. “You’ll never know peace for the rest of your life.”

Arthur’s gaze hardens as he stares Kiku down. “What if I don’t care?”

Kiku’s eyes do widen visibly this time and then his face falls into a soft smile that hides itself quickly. “What are you saying, Inspector Kirkland? That you are willing to risk the ire of the CIA and several high-powered, dangerous people and therefore your life to chase an international jewel thief? You’ll never catch him again, you know.”

“Yes,” Arthur says with less hesitation than he intended. “Why not? I’ve got nothing better to do,” the words betray his attempt at a nonchalant tone.

Kiku nods. “I am very fond of Alfred. He’s an excited puppy to me, a cute young child, I suppose. I will do whatever I need to so that I can protect him. If I’m going to leave him in Britain, I will need someone to look after him. I would need to be assured that this person would not let any harm come to him and that this person would… care for him as much as I do or else I would have to make this person suffer. Am I being understood, Mr. Kirkland?”

Arthur gapes, closes his mouth, frowns, blushes bright pink, and then nods. “Yes.”

“Very good, then we have a deal.” Kiku rises from the table and collects his coat. “You will be seeing him shortly.”

“Are you sure you don’t need my help?”

Kiku laughs with his eyes only. “Yes. If the CIA even suspects you had something to do with his escape, they’ll never trust you again. You must stay guiltless in this. Do not worry, Inspector. Alfred is in very good hands.”

Already suspecting the answer, Arthur asks, “And whose hands are those?”

♠︎♠︎♠︎♠︎

Alfred lies prone on the tattered cot, face streaked with tears that have long since dried, when the door to his cell is opened. He cannot even brace himself to be dragged off by agents again. He can no longer face Agent Hedevary with stoicism.

“Alfred. It’s me, get up.”

The voice is familiar, but not one he’s heard in the compound where he’s being kept.

“Arthur?”

“No, you idiot,” the voice resolves into a strong Russian accent as two strong arms wrap around Alfred and lift him easily. “It is your best friend, Ivan.”

“Ivan?” Alfred asks breathlessly. He clings tightly to the mobster’s body, as familiar to Alfred as his voice. “Thank fuck,” he mutters, kissing Ivan all over his face and the burying his face into the softness of the familiar scarf. “Get me the hell out of here.”