#all the silver stolen (will one day turn to gold)

[rosepetalgold]

all the silver stolen (will one day turn to gold) 4

Summary: Remus' past comes to light and brings with it more questions than answers.

Warnings: Mentions of past physical violence and death

Word Count: 7756

Read on Ao3 Masterpost

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“How the fuck did they find me?” Remus demands, slamming the board they use as a makeshift lock across the door. A lot of good it would do them now. “Fucking bullshit, after all these years—”

He’s still going, ranting as he snatches a satchel from beside the fireplace, sword still clutched in a white-knuckled grip in his other hand, but Janus hardly hears him, still trying to process everything that has just happened in the last two minutes and how any of them are even still alive. Then the other man’s voice cracks on a word and Janus snaps back to attention to realize Remus is crying.

Remus. Is crying.

Janus quite possibly has never felt less prepared to handle a situation in his entire life, not even when Virgil had fallen hopelessly in love with the watchmaker’s daughter when he was fifteen and Janus had been forced to comfort him through his heartbreak.

Remus doesn’t cry. Remus didn’t even yell when he got upset, not after he’d realized it upset Virgil. Normally he just glowered as he sat by the fire whittling down a piece of wood with his largest knife, making a little figurine if it was a small annoyance or nothing but curls of wood on the floor if it was something more serious. But he doesn’t cry.

Janus has never seen him like this, furious and weeping at the same time, and it’s borderline frightening, the way the burning intensity in his eyes is undercut by the tears tracking down his cheeks.

“We have to go. Right now,” Remus interrupts himself to say, a wild look in his eye as he surges into the bedroom and begins to shove their meager few possessions into his bag.

Well, that was an attitude Janus certainly could have used ten minutes ago.

“Stop,” Virgil demands, voice harsh, glaring fiercely despite the way his face has gone pale, but Remus doesn’t so much as look up. “Just—stop and start doing some explaining, Remus, because I just saw your fucking doppelgänger walk through the door along with some mage and the apothecary owner from the nice side of the city and figuring out how they all fit into this picture is not a riddle I’m in any mood to solve!”

Remus soundly ignores him, which Janus knows from unfortunate experience is always a dangerous thing to do when Virgil is angry, and shoves past him back into the common area, not even seeming to notice as Virgil latches onto his arm, the taller man getting dragged along for a full two steps before Remus notices the deadweight and halts.

“Stop!” Virgil shouts again. “You’re freaking me out! What the hell is going on?”

“Get off of me Virgil, we have to go,” Remus insists, trying to shake the other man off, and Virgil’s expression turns practically murderous as he only clings on tighter.

“None of us are going anywhere until you start talking. How far do you think you’re going to get dragging me around?”

“Janus, come on,” Remus appeals, turning to where he’s still frozen helplessly in the middle of the room. “You’re the one who wanted to leave.”

Janus is the deciding vote, then. Leave right now, fleeing into the night with barely more than the clothes on their back and nowhere to go, or stay at least long enough for Remus to offer an explanation of his past and risk Roman or Logan returning for round two.

But for all his insistence earlier that Remus leave, he finds himself hesitating. The mage already knew where Remus was, could very well have put the same kind of tracking spell on him as he had Janus, and who was to say they wouldn’t be walking right into an ambush if they left now?

Remus swears fiercely into the silence, finally managing to shove Virgil off of his arm.

“I’ll go myself, then.”

He strides to the door, knocking away Janus’ reaching hand, and Janus braces for him to disappear into the night, to be gone just like that, but Remus just—stops, with his hand on the knob.

“I’m leaving,” he says, but there’s the slightest waver in his voice now, an edge of uncertainty creeping in like he’s trying to convince himself of his own decision. “I need to go. I should go.”

But he doesn’t move a muscle.

“Remus,” Virgil tries, edging closer, and Remus slams his palm against the doorframe with enough force that even Janus flinches.

“Fuck him. Fuck! I need to go but—I can’t, I can’t—”

He turns, sliding his back down the door until he’s sitting on the floor, tears still glinting on his cheeks, and brings his fist up to the side of his head once, then again and again before Janus manages to catch his wrist.

“Hey, we don’t do that, Re.” He scrambles for a compromise between staying indefinitely and leaving immediately, something that will give him enough information to make a halfway informed decision about the best course of action. “Who is Roman, exactly?”

“My fucking brother,” Remus growls, and Janus resists the urge to roll his eyes.

“I know that. I mean who is he? Some Sideran nobleman?”

“Not quite.”

“Fine, some filthy rich Sideran nobleman, then?”

Remus shakes his head mutely.

“Well, what then? Out with it. Any second that blasted mage could come back and smite us into dust, and if I don’t have an answer before then I’ll come back as a ghost and haunt your sorry ass forever.”

Remus grimaces, twisting his bag in his hands for a moment before setting it aside with a decisive thump and meeting Janus’ gaze, something almost like defiance in his eyes.

“Try the king.”

~~~

The king.

No, that can’t be right. Janus must have misheard him, because if Roman is the king of Sidera and Remus is his brother, that would mean—

“The twin princes of Sidera,” Remus says, unmistakable bitterness lacing his voice as he glares down at his hands clenched in his lap. “A gift from the gods, as some people liked to call us. We were practically inseparable as children after both of our parents died. Most people probably expected us to be at each other’s throats, especially over the throne, and we did argue all the time as we got older, but just over stupid shit, nothing serious. Nothing that had any real consequences. I was technically crown prince since I was born first, but we’d always planned that we would co-rule as soon as we were old enough to properly inherit the throne from our regent. Until then, we were just kids. I was learning how to be king and Roman was learning how to manage the castle but we had everything we could ever want and we spent all of our free time together wreaking havoc on the palace and we were happy.

“It was good,” Remus insists, something raw cutting into the underside of his voice even as anger curls around his words. “Everything was good until it wasn’t and I don’t even fucking know why or what changed, he just—”

He cuts himself off, fingers curling into tight fists where they rest against his thighs before he tips his head back against the door, blowing out a breath.

“He sent me away on business,” he continues after a long moment. “Right before our eighteenth birthday. Some stupid trip out to one of the nobles in the countryside, something he normally would have taken care of himself, but he’d asked me to go in his place and so I went because that’s what we did for each other. But apparently being a good brother in turn was just too fucking much to ask of my darling twin because the whole trip was a set-up. Nothing more than an excuse for my own guards to get me days away from the palace, alone at night on some deserted country road, and attack me. Killed the only one of them who tried to intervene and then took turns beating the fucking shit out of me until I was one breath away from finding myself on the wrong side of death’s doorstep. I’m sure they thought I was dead or else they never would have left me there without a knife in my throat. That’s what they would have done to begin with if they had so much as a cockroach’s brain between them, just run me through with a sword or two and be done with it, but apparently taking out their feelings on me was just too good an opportunity to pass up.”

His hand presses to his stomach as if unconsciously trying to soothe an old wound, expression pinching in as his eyes take on a glassy, unfocused quality.

“Before trying to kick my skull in, one of them had the fucking nerve to tell me that it wasn’t personal, that they were only following their new leader’s orders. He could only have meant Roman; by that point, not even our regent had the authority to issue commands to the Guard without clearing it with Roman and me first, and the members of the Royal Guard in particular were handpicked from the ranks for demonstrating exemplary loyalty to the crown. They wouldn’t have taken orders from anyone but us two. It had to have been Roman who orchestrated the whole thing, but I didn’t—How was I supposed to believe it? He was my brother. He may have made jokes all the time about how I was the undignified one and how I was tarnishing his perfect royal image and how I belonged out in the woods with the wild animals, but they were just fucking jokes. I never thought he actually meant them. Even as my own guards were beating me to death, I thought it was some mistake, that Roman couldn’t have had anything to do with it. But then I regained the barest sliver of consciousness as they were dragging me into the ditch and I overheard them talking about how glad they were that Roman would be the one to take the throne, how everything was falling right into place, how much better things would be with ‘the other twin’ in charge, and I just—”

He breaks off as his voice cracks, squeezing his eyes shut as a fresh tear traces its way down his cheek, but he doesn’t even seem to notice it, and when he speaks again his voice is carefully controlled.

“It had to have been Roman who arranged the whole thing in order to take power all for himself. There isn’t any other explanation. I don’t even know how I woke up again after passing out for gods know how long. My brain felt like it was leaking out of my ears and I could hardly keep a coherent thought in my head for more than a second but I knew that going back to the castle would be nothing more than serving myself up on a silver platter for my brother’s newfound taste for fratricide, so I headed for the coast. My guards had taken my royal ring like the despicable, piece of shit cowards they were, probably as some sort of twisted trophy, so I sold everything but the clothes on my back for a charm magicked against tracking, just in case anyone ever got suspicious that they couldn’t find my rotting corpse, then managed to bargain for passage down the coast with a shady group of traders who were just waiting to sell me for parts. I heard on the way that Roman officially ascended to the throne on our eighteenth birthday. He didn��t even fucking wait until my mourning period was over, if he even ever decreed there should be one. I stopped listening for news from Sidera after that unless my name was involved. If he was going to run my country into the ground, I sure as fuck didn’t want to know about it. I abandoned ship as soon as we got to a decent port in Umbra and hightailed it as far as I could before I ran out of the few coins I’d managed to save, which just so happened to be here, as luck would have it. I became a street rat, met you two before too long, and the rest is history.”

Rarely in Janus’ life has he ever been rendered truly speechless, but words fail him as he stares and stares and stares at Remus, trying and utterly failing to process this new wealth of information. Secret plots of deception, attempted murder, a royal turned petty thief—it all sounds too fantastical to be true, like one of the bedtime stories Remus had always used to tell Virgil even when he was far too old for it, and if it were anyone else claiming such things, Janus would laugh them off in a heartbeat.

But even though he’s clearly been alarmingly ignorant about Remus’ past, he knows Remus himself. He knows his countenance, knows the subtleties of his temperament, knows when he’s being dishonest. And as far as he can tell, not a single lie has come out of the other man’s mouth despite the unbelievable tale he’s woven.

“We need to go,” he demands, fresh fear buzzing just under his skin at the all but certain prospect of Roman returning at any moment, bursting back through the door to finish what he’d started all those years ago.

But Remus just shakes his head, not budging from where he’s sitting blocking the door, every single bit of fire and urgency seemingly drained away at the worst possible time.

“We can’t,” he says hollowly, some far-off look still haunting the back of his eyes as he meets Janus’ gaze. “You and Vee can’t travel quickly, not with your injuries, and what good would running do anyways when that mage could probably find us no matter how far we went? Besides, if Roman is going to come back and try to take me out, I’m sure as fuck going to go out taking a stand in my own home instead of being hunted down like some animal.”

“Remus,” Janus implores. “He tried to have you murdered and very nearly succeeded. I sincerely doubt distance has made his heart grow fonder.”

“Yeah,” Remus agrees, but his voice is uncharacteristically quiet, the single word not strengthened with any conviction.

A fantastic turn of events, truly. Janus is just so glad that he’d finally gotten Remus on board to leave only for him to change his mind at the last minute. It wasn’t like their very lives were at stake or anything.

He turns to Virgil, a silent request to help drill some sense into Remus’ skull before Roman returns with the whole of the City Guard to get his revenge, but the other man is staring at the floorboards, steadfastly refusing to meet his gaze. Janus’ stomach twists as the silence drags on entirely too long before Virgil finally shrugs, straightening his shoulders and drawing himself up in a pitifully transparent guise of bravado and indifference.

“I don’t want to go on the run,” he declares. “At least going out alongside an exiled prince would be a badass way to die.”

Fucking stars. Since when is Janus the only one of them with any sense?

“They have a mage with them,” he says, on the verge of pleading, fingers tightening into a white-knuckled grip around his knife hilt. “And he’ll—he’ll—” He blows out a breath, struggling to get himself together. “Trust me,” he says after a moment, trying to force down the lump in his throat, the memories rising in the back of his mind. Unrelenting heat, snapping flames impervious to water, unnatural black laced amongst the orange— “Trust me when I say that mage’s hellfire is not a pleasant way to go out.”

Remus reaches out, squeezing his hand, and Virgil awkwardly pats his shoulder.

“I know, Jan,” Remus says quietly. “I know. You can go if you want. You should go if you want. You can still get out and leave us martyrs behind. I doubt the mage would go after a slippery little snake like you anyways.”

Gods, how Janus wishes it were that easy, that he could just pack up and leave Virgil and Remus behind to fend for themselves and not feel guilty about it for a moment.

But he can’t, despite his instincts screaming at him to take the chance to run while he still can. Virgil and Remus are his family, for better or worse, and he can’t abandon them, even for the sake of saving his own skin.

His own damn loyalty is going to be the death of him one day.

The others are both watching him, waiting for his decision, so he forces himself to scoff, pulling a mask of nonchalance around himself as tightly as he can despite the panic still snapping at his veins.

“You think you can get rid of me that easily? Honestly, it’s like you don’t know me at all.” Remus makes a tiny sound that might be an attempt at a laugh, something like relief flashing across his face, there and gone again as he wipes at the tear tracks on his cheeks, and Janus nudges him gently with one foot. “Now scoot over. If we’re going to do this, we’re at least going to do the smart thing and sit watch. I’m not in the mood to be blindsided by any more surprise visits from the king of Sidera.”

The king.

The words ring mercilessly in Janus’ ears as he sinks onto the ground beside Remus, Virgil taking a moment to grab the fire poker before likewise settling onto the floorboards across from them. Janus doubts the makeshift weapon is going to do much good given that they no longer have the element of surprise on their side, but he can’t focus his thoughts long enough to formulate any sort of comment about it.

The king.

Roman is—no, technically Remus is the king of Sidera, even if his brother is the one currently sitting on the throne. It sounds nothing short of absurd, but even if Remus had suddenly become an immaculate liar overnight, he certainly didn’t have any reason to concoct such an extravagant tale to explain his past and his brother’s identity.

And the consequences of Roman being in such a position of power… Janus doesn’t even want to consider the myriad of worst-case scenarios, but the sharp-edged questions roiling over one another in his mind are wholly unremitting. Just how much of his likely inexhaustible wealth of resources was Roman willing to throw into going after Remus, and by extension Janus and Virgil? Was he really going to try to kill his twin as soon as he got his hands on him, or was he planning some worse fate? And even if by some miracle he and his mage did decide their little trio wasn’t worth dirtying their hands over, what then? Would Remus, someone who had apparently grown up in the lap of luxury with everything he could ever want, really be content to forswear his royal identity and continue living a life of poverty and crime? And on the slim chance that was true, how were they supposed to go on knowing that at any moment Roman could change his mind and send the whole of the City Guard after them and have the three of them arrested and hanged?

He doesn’t have the answers, and no way to get any other than to let the indifferent mistress of time run her course.

The king.

The minutes tick by agonizingly slowly into even more wretchedly lethargic hours without so much of a whisper of Roman and his companions returning and still Janus can’t shake the two words. Not as Virgil questions Remus relentlessly about his past. Not as Remus supplies answers with an unsettling lack of his usual flair. And certainly not as Remus gently bullies him into bed after several excruciatingly tense hours despite his protests, leaving him to stare up at the flickering shadows cast on the ceiling from the fire and wrack his brain for what he’s going to do to keep the three of them alive another day.

The king. The king, the king, the king.

Janus doesn’t sleep a moment that night.

Neither do Virgil or Remus from the looks of things the next morning, both of them sporting dark circles under their eyes as they get ready for the day, Virgil jumping and scowling fiercely at any sudden noise and Remus unusually subdued.

Janus isn’t exactly feeling peachy himself, nerves skittering under his skin as he cracks the door open and peers out, bracing for the sight of a whole platoon of guards on his doorstep, but the street is empty and quiet in the weak morning light.

Empty—

—except for the small pile of gold coins tucked beside the door underneath an angled rock, hidden from the road but clearly visible to anyone coming out of the house.

Well, that was new.

Janus just stares at them for a long moment, waiting for his sleep-deprived brain to offer some kind of explanation as to why there are suddenly riches tucked alongside their little hovel, but if there’s a logical reason for the shiny gold coins nestled in the dirt, it thoroughly evades him.

“Remus,” he calls over his shoulder, and the other man is at his side in an instant. “You didn’t tell me the coin seeds you planted were due to sprout.”

Remus peers over his shoulder out the door, swearing as he catches sight of the gold.

“The fuck?”

“Precisely my question.”

Remus nudges past him, leaning down to scoop up the coins, and Janus hisses in protest.

“What are you doing? The mage could have cursed those for all we know.”

Remus considers the money for a moment, then shakes his head.

“I doubt it. If he were going to try and hurt one of us, why not just do it directly? And he already has some kind of tracking spell on you or something you had on you, so it wouldn’t make sense for him to do another one with these. Besides, they don’t feel like they’re magicked at all.”

Janus stares blankly at him, waiting for Remus to cackle at his own joke, but the other man just raises a questioning eyebrow at him.

“What?”

“You can feel magic?”

“Yeah, it just has that certain vibe to it, you know?”

“A vibe.”

“Can’t you sense it? I thought everyone could to some degree.”

Another new thing he’s just learned about Remus. He’ll add it to the growing list.

“No,” he says flatly, then over his shoulder, “Virgil, darling, can you sense when objects have fancy magical spells on them?”

“I can sense that I’m going to murder whoever used the last of the tea leaves,” Virgil mutters, glowering into the empty tin.

Janus was going to take that as a no.

“Come on, you’re letting all the cold air in,” Remus says, tugging Janus back inside and pulling the door shut before taking Janus’ hand and pressing the coins into it. “I swear they’re not magicked, Jan. One of them probably just dropped them yesterday in their rush to get out of here. And it’s free money! Why stare at a gift horse’s mouth or whatever?”

Janus is hardly convinced, but Remus just claps him on the shoulder and moves past him to the table, starting up some half-hearted banter with Virgil about the tea leaves in a clear attempt to make things feel normal that only falls flat.

Janus stares at the foreign stamp on the coins as he tips them from one hand to the other, a little stunned despite himself at the amount of wealth he’s holding. The money in his palm is dramatically more than he’s ever possessed before, the gold easily enough to keep all three of them fed and clothed through the rest of the cold season and right through summer, if not longer.

Remus could claim what he liked, but they both knew the coins hadn’t accidentally been spilled from Roman’s or Logan’s or Patton’s coin purse. One of them had deliberately placed them there, and Janus doesn’t like the implications of such a thing one bit. If he spends the money, will one of them claim he owes them something? Is this a setup to get their little trio arrested for larceny? Is the king trying to split them up so that a second attack will be more successful?

But then he glances up at Virgil, still staring into the empty tea tin as if it’ll refill itself if he glares at it hard enough, and Remus, pouring the last of their dried grain into a pot of water to make a meager porridge, and his resolve caves.

Cursed coins or not, he can’t sit by and watch the others go hungry.

“I’m going to get food,” he announces, shoving his boots on and snatching his cloak and bag from beside the door. “If I don’t come back, assume I’ve been murdered by Roman and his entourage.”

He’s out the door before either of them can protest, taking in a deep breath of the crisp morning air as he sets off to the market and trying to ignore how the gold coins feel like a leaden weight in his hand. Everything is fine, he lies to himself, trying and failing to calm his nerves. Everything is just fine. He’s not at all concerned that at any moment he’s about to be ambushed by some disgruntled guard from Remus’ past or a malicious, steely-eyed mage eager to do much worse than place Janus under a tracking spell.

It’s a short walk to the market square, thankfully, and once there he’s easily able to track down a merchant who’s one of his favorites given her penchant for not asking questions about the kinds of things he pays with. Sure enough, she lives up to her reputation, arching an eyebrow at the foreign coin he offers but sweeping it out of his palm without remark. It’s shocking how much food he’s able to purchase, and even more shocking how much change he still has from the gold piece to barter for more, and he’s tempted to see what wares are available from the other vendors. But he can’t shake the nagging feeling that at any moment the Guard or Roman or Logan could be barging into their house with retribution on their minds, so he unceremoniously shoves half of his haul into his bag and gathers up the rest in his arms, setting off at a brisk clip.

Winding his way back through the familiar streets seems to take twice as long as it should, his unease only growing with every step. He shouldn��t have ever gone out. The coins must have been a ruse after all, a way to lure one of them away to make the others an easier target, and their home is going to be nothing more than smoldering ashes by the time he gets back—

But when he rounds the final corner, everything is just as he’d left it, not a stone out of place and no evidence anyone has even so much as walked by in his absence.

Safe and sound. Janus can only hope it stays that way. 

~~~

All three of them remain on edge the next several days, just waiting for the Guard to come bursting through the door or for Roman—or, gods forbid, Logan—to return and exact some revenge, but nothing out of the ordinary happens. The days pass shockingly normally, aside from the fact that none of them have to venture out to pickpocket or try to find work, thanks to their new abundance of both food and money.

Virgil demands Remus repeat his story multiple times, clearly searching for some hint that he’s making the whole thing up, and Remus complies every time without complaint, even the smallest details never changing as he steadfastly answers any question Virgil can throw at him.

Janus doesn’t even bother interrogating him. His gut instinct already tells him that Remus isn’t lying, and even if the other man did want to continue to conceal his past, there were vastly easier ways to do it than claiming he was an exiled prince whose brother had set him up to be killed.

By the time a week has passed, the threat of being imminently attacked seems to have abated, at least, but Janus isn’t stupid enough to think that Roman has just forgotten about them. Maybe Roman isn’t intent on killing Remus outright, but he surely wants something from his brother, and Janus isn’t entertaining any ideas that he’ll stop before he gets it.

In the meantime, Janus finds himself faced with an entirely new problem: his stitches. He’d been tempted to take them out himself, but Virgil had panicked about him doing it wrong and bleeding out on the floor when he’d mentioned it, and even Remus had wrinkled his nose and suggested Janus find a professional to unsew his skin flaps, as he had so tastefully put it.

But the thought of having to explain his injury to an unfamiliar healer, especially if he has to pay for their services using one of Roman’s foreign gold coins, is more than enough to make him wary. The last thing he needs is to arouse suspicion and get arrested again. One stint in prison had been plenty.

That leaves Patton, unfortunately.

Maybe it isn’t all a loss, though, Janus muses as he lurks in the shadows of an alley across the street from the apothecary. Perhaps the other man will let something slip, some valuable piece of information about Roman’s plans tucked away in an offhand comment, and even if he doesn’t, Janus’ visit is a golden opportunity to steal some more medicine, either to hoard for future crises or to sell for emergency, get-the-fuck-out-of-this-city money.

It’s a long time he lingers, watching for any guards or signs of increased security or anything else out of place, but it all seems like business as usual, just a steady flow of customers coming in and out. Still, he waits until things have cleared out and Patton is moving to the door to lock up before he makes himself seen.

He strides across the street to the apothecary door, rapping his knuckles on it just as Patton is nudging it closed. The other man startles, fumbling the key right out of his hands, his mouth already forming a surprised O as he glances up. He flinches ever so slightly when he meets Janus’ gaze, which Janus can’t exactly blame him for given the armed standoff they’d been engaged in the last time they’d met, but a bright smile is on his face in an instant.

“Hi, Dee! What can I help you with?”

“You said to come back in a week to get my stitches removed.” Blunt and to the point. Janus doesn’t want to be here any longer than necessary, and that includes taking the time for pleasantries.

“Of course! Come on in and I’ll get you fixed right up!”

He gestures Janus inside and he obligingly slips through the door, ready to bolt at the first sight of anyone else, but the room is empty. The shop is much nicer when it’s not under the cover of nightfall and he isn’t panicking about stealing the wrong medicine; the late afternoon light streaming through an array of empty glass jars casts colorful reflections on the wall, and the wind shivers the bundles of herbs drying from the rafters with a gentle rustle.

The lock clicks shut on the door behind him and his breath catches before quickening, his hand creeping to the hilt of his knife at the prospect of being locked in, the memory of a blade biting into his side sending a phantom pain through his ribs.

Surely Patton wouldn’t hurt him, would he? Didn’t healers take an oath to do no harm? Still, all it would take is one scream from the other man to send someone running and then he could claim that Janus was threatening him or trying to rob him or worse and Janus would find himself right back in manacles in prison—

“You can sit over here!” Patton chirps, gesturing to a cot, oblivious to Janus’ belated realization that this had been a terrible idea. He should have just taken his stitches out himself without telling Virgil. It wasn’t like he could hurt himself any worse, right?

Actually, with how his luck had been going lately, he probably could, but considering he’s now locked in an apothecary shop with someone who has every reason to have a grudge against him, he’s wishing he would have taken his chances.

“Let me just get a few things,” Patton says, crossing to a cabinet in the back of the shop and beginning to rummage through its many drawers. Janus reluctantly eases onto the cot, taking advantage of Patton’s turned back to snag a small pot of medicine from several perched on the table on one side of the cot, tucking it surreptitiously into his satchel.

He’ll just consider it compensation for the emotional trauma of a mage and the king of Sidera barging in on his home uninvited.

“Here we go!” Patton announces, snapping Janus’ attention back to the healer as he bustles back over, and over his shoulder Janus catches a glimpse of the back door, now cracked open. It’s hardly a pleasant feeling to have been read so easily by Patton, but considering he now has an easy escape route if he needs it, he’ll stomach the hit to his ego.

Patton deposits an armful of items on the table and kneels beside him, gesturing at his torso.

“Can you lift your shirt for me?” Janus does so and Patton hums approvingly as he surveys the wound. “Is it okay if I touch you?”

Janus nods, since he doesn’t know what other choice he has, and Patton presses lightly at the skin around the stitches.

“Any significant pain?”

“No.”

He has to force himself not to flinch away from Patton’s touch, nerves still crawling under his skin. Can’t the other man just cut the stitches so Janus can leave?

“Everything looks really good, Dee! I’m just going to make sure the area is clean and then I’ll take the sutures out, okay?”

Janus nods again and Patton smiles brightly, dipping a cloth into a bowl and beginning to dab gently at the injury as he starts in on some mindless small talk about the weather. Given the way the healer’s eyes keep flickering to the knife on Janus’ belt, Janus can’t tell how much of the chattiness is nerves and how much is just his personality, but Patton seems perfectly content to keep up the entirely one-sided conversation.

After what feels like a short eternity, he moves on to a steady chatter about the stray cats outside his shop as he dries the healing wound and begins to carefully snip away the stitches with the tiniest pair of scissors Janus has ever seen, which he would be very strongly tempted to describe as adorable if he weren’t a street-hardened criminal.

Not that he would admit such a thing, of course. He has a reputation to maintain, after all.

“All done!” Patton announces after a few minutes, sitting back on his heels. “You did great!” he enthuses, as if Janus has done something more than just sit in silence.

Janus stands, already eyeing the sliver of sunlight cutting through the cracked back door, and Patton rises as well, dusting his hands off on his apron.

“Do you need any more of the medicine I gave you? I won’t charge you for it.”

It’s shocking how casually he offers such things, how easily he’s willing to part with life-saving medicine without asking for anything in return, but Janus forces himself to keep his expression neutral.

“Yes, actually; I could use another one of those little red jars,” he lies smoothly, and there’s another lie already on the tip of his tongue about dropping the glass container, because he knows Patton must know that even between him and Virgil there’s no way they could have gone through a whole jar already, but Patton doesn’t even question it, just nods and turns to the shelf of medicines to retrieve it.

It’s almost enough for Janus to feel bad about slipping an unattended roll of bandages up his sleeve.

Almost, but not quite.

When Patton returns, however, he’s holding not just the crimson jar but a thick letter, the parchment heavy and stamped with an elaborate wax seal.

Shit. Janus had known there had to be a catch in exchange for Patton’s medical care, even if he’d expected it to take the form of something mildly more intimidating than a sheaf of fancy stationery.

“This is for you, too,” Patton says, nerves clear in his voice for the first time since Janus has arrived. “Well, it’s for Remus, really, but if you could just give it to him? It’s from Roman explaining everything that’s happened during their time apart. I think there was some, um, miscommunication the last time we, uh, met”—that was the understatement of the year—“and hopefully this will clear some things up.”

Janus hesitates, eying the paper with no small amount of trepidation. Is this some kind of trick? He can’t even read the thing to try to vet it before he gives it to Remus. Who’s to say it isn’t filled with webs of twisted lies deliberately calibrated to mess with Remus’ head?

“It’s nothing bad!” Patton assures him, worrying the letter between his fingers. “I mean, I haven’t read it, and there were definitely bad things that happened in the past that Roman probably wrote about, but I swear he doesn’t want to hurt Remus or you or your other friend. None of us do. He just wants to straighten things out.”

Janus wavers another moment, but the temptation to possibly glean some sense of what Roman wants from his brother is too great. Besides, it isn’t really his choice about whether to read it; he’ll just give it to Remus and it’ll be up to him what he wants to do with it, whether that be devour every word or toss it in the fireplace. He warily accepts both the jar of medicine and the letter, tucking them away in his bag, and Patton looks undeniably relieved.

“It was so nice to see you again, Dee!” Either Patton is an excellent liar or he truly means it. Janus doesn’t know which is scarier. “Stop by anytime if you need anything, okay?”

Janus nods mutely, taking the clear dismissal for what it is and heading for the back door, but he pauses on the threshold, glancing back over his shoulder.

“Patton?” he calls, and the healer looks up from where he’s tidying up his supplies. “Thank you.”

He can barely grit the words out, but the last thing he needs is for Patton to be able to claim later that Janus owes him anything, and when the other man smiles, it seems genuine.

“Stay warm on your walk back!”

Janus doesn’t reply, just slips out the door, tucking his cloak tighter around him, and he's already turning for home when he hears a muted knocking on what must be the front door of the shop, followed by a voice calling inside. The tone sounds tantalizingly familiar, and despite himself he stops in the shadows clinging to the building, pressing one ear to the smooth wood of the back door.

“… just missed Dee!” Patton is saying. “He came by to get his sutures taken out and to get some more medicine.”

An answering scoff.

“You are aware that he likely stole from you, are you not? You ought to double-check your inventory.”

Logan. Janus knew he’d recognized that voice. Apprehension coils in his gut, but he forces himself to stay put.

“I know he borrowed some things, but that’s okay! He wouldn’t have taken them if he didn’t need them, right?”

Being caught was a blow to any thief’s pride, but being caught by Patton, of all people? That stings more than Janus wants to admit, and he scowls fiercely at the stolen goods stashed in his bag. He must be off his game if someone as cheerful and unguarded as the cat-loving healer had noticed him doing a bit of light ‘borrowing.’

“Mmm.” Logan doesn’t sound at all convinced, and Janus shifts his glare to the door. He’d like to see the uptight mage try to survive a single day on the streets, let alone a life-threatening injury without medicine. How dare he judge Janus for wanting to prevent a redo of one of them nearly dying when he’d probably never known a moment of true hardship in his life.

“Do you have any updates?” Logan continues, and Janus presses his ear harder to the door. Updates. Now they were getting somewhere. 

But the echo of footsteps in the shop is getting fainter, a creaking of wood suggesting the pair are headed upstairs to the residence above the apothecary, and when Patton speaks again his voice is faint.

“The Coalition has been spreading their usual nonsense, as always, but…”

The words trail off into indistinct sounds, then nothing, and Janus swears under his breath. But what? Who is Patton talking about? He lingers for another long moment, hoping the two of them will return back within eavesdropping reach, but there’s nothing but silence, and he doesn’t dare risk staying too long lest one of them spot him from the second story windows.

So he pulls back, straightens his cloak, and heads for home, left with more questions than he’d had when he arrived and armed with a letter that might just offer some answers.

~~~

Remus immediately seizes upon the letter when Janus explains what it is and hands it over upon his return home, his eyes burning with ferocity and face pulled into a scowl as he harshly breaks the wax seal and begins to scan the first lines, retreating to the fireplace and collapsing onto the mattress there without taking his eyes from the first page.

Janus doesn’t bother to ask him to recount the contents aloud as he reads. He’s sure he’ll get an earful of Remus’ reactions as he goes, not to mention a lengthy rant after he’s through.

But aside from the occasional muttered bastard or prick, Remus is silent, and more than once Janus glances over to find him staring through the pages, mind clearly somewhere else entirely. Dinner is a solitary affair, since Virgil is already asleep and Remus is so captivated by the letter he doesn’t even glance at the bowl Janus pushes his way, and despite his best effort, when Janus curls up between Virgil and Remus, he can’t keep his eyes open.

It must be well into the night when Janus wakes, his eyes still scratchy with sleep, but Remus is still up, now crouched on the hardwood with sheets of the letter strewn around him and muttering under his breath as he scrawls notes in the margins like his life depends on it.

“It doesn’t make sense,” he insists to no one, and Janus pushes himself upright, nudging back the covers and sliding to the edge of the mattress.

“So he’s lying?” he murmurs, and Remus shakes his head, apparently not at all startled by Janus’ voice.

First being caught stealing by Patton and now not being able to sneak up on Remus? Janus really must be losing his edge.

“No, it does make sense, it just—all this time, I thought he—I—it just—it doesn’t make sense. This can’t be true, right? But it has to be true; I mean, he has proof for everything. But if it’s true then everything I thought happened, everything I thought he did—”

He breaks off, staring at the wild mess of papers around him like the answer will suddenly appear in front of him, and Janus stares at them too, wondering just what secrets are contained within the swirls of ink.

“I don’t know, Re,” he says honestly, trying to be helpful despite not having a single clue what Roman has written to his twin.

“He can’t be making all of this up, not without any inconsistencies, and look.” He gestures to the papers and his copious notes crowding the margins. “Zip. Zilch. Nada. Not a single one. He can’t be smart enough to lie his way through all this without a single contradiction.”

“What about the mage, then?” Janus offers. “He seems like a wily one. Maybe he’s the brains behind the whole operation.”

Remus shakes his head, still staring intently at the letter like it’ll provide him the answers to all his questions if he wills it to hard enough.

“He wasn’t a part of the court when I was there, so I don’t know him. Roman must have brought him on after I left. Maybe he did this? But the writing, the style, all of that screams Roman, and there’s things in here only he would know, so I don’t…”

He trails off and the two of them sit in silence for a long moment, Janus waiting for Remus to offer some kind of explanation about what, exactly, is enclosed in all those pages, but the other man is uncharacteristically quiet.

“Go back to bed,” he finally says, glancing up to meet Janus’ gaze for the first time, and he smirks, a hint of his usual humor peeking through. “You’re a grouch when you don’t get enough sleep.”

“Slander and lies,” Janus scoffs, cuffing Remus lightly on the back of the head, but there doesn’t seem to be much he can do to help Remus at the moment and sleep is dragging at his eyes, so he retreats back to the middle of the mattress and crawls back under the blankets.

“Wake me if you need anything,” he whispers. Remus gives him a thumbs up, sharp gaze already scanning the letter again, and Janus closes his eyes and lets sleep pull him under.

---

Taglist (let me know if you'd like to be added or removed!): @joylessnightsky

[neckromantics]

Spoiling Astarion?

Bringing him back little things that remind you of him whenever he stays back at camp just so he knows you're still thinking of him while you're apart.

Astarion being so used to receiving little gifts from your travels that when you arrive back at camp, he's standing by your tent with his palm outstretched just waiting to see what you've brought him this time. The giddy little grin that's plastered on his face when you fork over the shiniest object you could get your paws on. All varying in degrees of monetary value, for sure, but all with a unique story of their own.

A couple of old coins from an ancient crypt. The entrance of which you'd all stumbled upon when Karlach punched a wall of a cave in victory after a particularly tough battle, only to come back with a handful of bones and cobwebs. The look of shock on her face when the entire wall came crumbling down on the group was enough to have you in stitches, entirely too weak from laughter to stand. You laid beneath the rubble for so long that Gale had assumed you developed a concussion and needed rescuing.

The PRETTIEST, crystal goblet that you'd stolen right from under a rich lady's nose under the guise that you were testing her drink for poison. You'd downed her ale in two gulps the second you exited the building. Was in the middle of patting yourself on the back for being oh-so cunning when you nearly fell on your ass. It was a sick, twisted coincidence that her ale did, in fact, turn out to be poisoned. But, at least you had a spare antidote on you that you gulped down before Shadowheart could find you in such a state. (And make fun of you, no doubt.)

A set of handmade jewelry– not stolen this time, if you can believe it. Wyll had pointed out the small shop to you while the two of you were out shopping for supplies. Said something about how it might be a good idea to pick out a new pair of socks since you'd been complaining about how holey yours had become after so much running around. Which was a good idea, truly– but the second you'd set eyes on the shop window, you knew what you wanted. A matching necklace and earring set, lovingly crafted with silver chain, so very delicate. So very understated that one could almost miss it among the rest of the more garish examples that sat alongside. Three, very small, opalescent stones shone so pretty at you beneath the sunlight that you could hardly look away. You would have given the shopkeep your left kidney just to see Astarion wearing them, but thankfully, it wasn't necessary. (You became so feral in your excitement to hear the very reasonable price that you nearly threw your entire gold pouch at the clerk's head and then kissed him on the mouth.)

You're an eager one. Astarion never has to wait– always receives his gifts before you can so much as slip your travel pack off of your shoulders. He goes real quiet for a moment. Has this far away look while gazing down at whatever it is, turning it over in his palm a couple of times to really study it.

The two of you sit together while you go through the rest of the day's spoils, and he listens while you tell him all about how you found today's special little trinket. Insists you spare no details in how you acquired it. (Unless any of those details are boring, dear. Do spare him of those.)

You know that there have to be some things he enjoys more than others. You know that there has to be some things you've given him that he outright dislikes. There have been a few occasions where he'd poked fun at you for bringing back something silly. Like "The roundest pebble you'd ever seen, Astarion, look at it roll!" or "This drawing of the two of you that you'd doodled on a stray sheet of parchment when you couldn't find anything else no matter how hard you tried!". BUT he has never refused anything you've chosen to bring back for him.

He thinks it's rather sweet that you've dedicated yourself to proving you still think of him when he stays behind. Wonders why you are the way that you are. Sort of loves you to death for it. Definitely does NOT invest in a bag of holding for everything once it all begins to stack up.

Definitely doesn't insist on you taking one half of the jewelry set so you always have a little piece of one another on you at all times. That would be ridiculous. (Earrings or necklace, darling?)

Sequel?

[novaursa]

The Secret Flame

- Summary: You sneak out of the Red Keep again. And as alway, Harwin is there to chase you down.

- Paring: targ!reader/Harwin Strong

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is twin sister of Rhaenyra and has striking resemblance to her grandmother, Alyssa. For more of my works visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 3 599

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

- A/N: I've never posted anything so fresh in my life. This work is just written, like a few minutes ago. I don't usually post my works so soon. They tend to sit way longer before being posted, especially if they are supposed to be made into a series. Those works are posted once all parts are complete, or way, way close to being done. I've slept like two hours, maybe. My blood is 90% coffee. Luckily, it's my day off. 😅 As always, I'll see how you guys like this before it becomes something larger. Enjoy! ❤️

The chill of the night air is a welcome contrast to the stifling warmth of the Red Keep as you slip quietly through the hidden passageways beneath Maegor’s Holdfast. You’ve navigated these shadowy tunnels since you were a child, memorizing each twist and turn like a whispered secret shared only with you. The cool stone beneath your hands feels like freedom as you push through the last concealed door, emerging into the moonlit streets of King’s Landing.

The city is alive, even in the depths of night. You breathe in the scent of the sea mingled with smoke and distant perfumes, savoring the feeling of anonymity that only these stolen excursions bring. You’ve always felt as if you were a dragon bound in chains within the walls of the Keep, and here, at least for a little while, you are free.

You keep your hood low, concealing the distinctive silver-gold hair that marks your heritage. The cobblestones beneath your feet are slick from the earlier rain, and the shadows dance with flickering torchlight as you weave through narrow alleys, away from the watchful eyes of your father’s guards.

The tension between you and your father has grown unbearable in recent moons. He sees in you too much of his mother, Alyssa, and perhaps that is why he clings so tightly. You can’t breathe under his watchful eye, can’t stretch your wings when he’s always hovering, reminding you of duty, decorum, and the precarious balance of the realm.

But here, no one knows you as the princess, no one sees the crown’s burden pressing down on your shoulders. Here, you are simply a shadow among shadows.

The night hums with the distant laughter of taverns and the murmurs of lovers hiding from prying eyes. You’re about to turn a corner when a rough hand reaches out from the darkness, yanking you into an even darker alley.

“Now what’s a fine lady like you doing alone in these parts?” A low, sneering voice slithers out from the gloom. You tense, instinctively reaching for the dagger hidden at your hip, but there’s no time to draw it before you’re shoved roughly against the wall. Two more men step into view, all grinning like wolves who’ve cornered a lost lamb.

“You’re far from home, aren’t you?” one of them taunts, his breath reeking of stale ale. 

You glare up at them, defiance burning in your eyes. “I assure you, you’ve made a grave mistake tonight,” you hiss, your voice edged with the fire that runs through your blood.

“Is that so?” The leader laughs, leaning in closer. “I think we’ve found ourselves a little bird with some fight.”

Before you can spit back a retort, there’s a sharp whistle from the shadows, and suddenly the men stiffen. The leader barely has time to turn before a strong hand grabs his collar and slams him face-first into the wall beside you. He crumples to the ground with a groan.

“Seems you lot forgot whose streets you’re crawling through,” a familiar voice says, smooth as velvet and rich with amusement.

Ser Harwin Strong steps into the faint light, his broad frame and easy confidence radiating a quiet authority that sends the other two men stumbling back in fear. His hand rests on the pommel of his sword, but it’s the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth that unsettles them more.

“Run along, boys, before you find yourselves missing fingers or worse,” he advises in a tone that suggests he’s making them a very generous offer.

They don’t need to be told twice, bolting into the night like startled prey. Harwin watches them go before turning his attention to you. The glint in his dark eyes tells you he’s more amused than surprised to find you here, as if he half-expected it.

“You have a peculiar way of taking your nightly strolls, princess,” he says, the smirk widening into a grin. “I should have known I’d find you stirring up trouble.”

You roll your eyes, gathering your composure as you adjust your cloak. “I can handle myself, you know.”

“Clearly,” he chuckles, giving a pointed look at the discarded dagger still in your hand. “But I doubt King Viserys would agree if he knew his daughter was sneaking into Flea Bottom on a whim.”

You lift your chin defiantly. “I wasn’t in Flea Bottom.” 

He arches a brow. “You’re not far from it.”

Silence hangs between you, broken only by the distant clamor of the city. The moonlight catches the chestnut in Harwin’s eyes as he studies you, his expression softening into something less playful and more sincere. “Y/N… You know I can’t let you stay out here. I’m supposed to be your protector, after all.”

“Are you my guard now, too? I thought you were just Rhaenyra’s Gold Cloak protector.”

His lips twitch at that. “Rhaenyra doesn’t run off nearly as much as you do.”

You let out an exasperated sigh, stepping away from the wall and back toward the street. “You’re insufferable, Harwin.”

“And you’re reckless,” he counters, reaching for your arm as if to steer you back toward the Keep. “Come on, before you get us both into even more trouble.”

But you’re not done with the night just yet. You twist free of his grip, darting back into the alley. “Catch me if you can, Ser Breakbones!”

For a heartbeat, Harwin simply stares after you, caught between disbelief and admiration. Then he shakes his head with a low chuckle and gives chase, the sound of his footsteps pounding behind you as you race through the winding streets.

The thrill of it all—the wind in your hair, the laughter bubbling in your chest, and the sound of Harwin’s voice calling your name—feels like flying. You know he’ll catch you eventually, but for now, you’re just out of reach, teasing the line between freedom and the inevitable return to your gilded cage. 

But that’s part of the dance, isn’t it? The chase, the daring escapes, and the knowledge that while he may be tasked with returning you to safety, a part of him enjoys the game just as much as you do.

And for tonight, that’s enough.

The pounding of your heart echoes in your ears as you dart through the narrow streets, your feet barely skimming the cobblestones. Harwin is right behind you, his heavy boots making it clear he’s gaining ground. You can’t help the exhilarated laugh that slips past your lips, feeling the cool night air whip through your hair. For a brief moment, you almost wish he wouldn’t catch you, just so you could revel in the rush of freedom a little longer.

But then you hear his voice—low, deep, laced with a blend of exasperation and amusement. “Y/N, you’re only making this worse for yourself!”

You glance back just in time to see the determined gleam in his eyes, and before you can react, his hand closes around your wrist. You let out a surprised gasp as he spins you, tugging you close until your chest is flush against his. You can feel the heat radiating from him, his breath ghosting over your lips as he stares down at you with a mixture of desire and reprimand.

“You truly are a wild thing, aren’t you?” His voice is husky, rough with the thrill of the chase.

“Perhaps,” you murmur, a sly smile tugging at your lips, “but you seem to enjoy it.”

Without giving him a chance to respond, you tug him into the shadowed alleyway beside you. The darkness wraps around you both, cloaking you from any prying eyes that might still be wandering the streets. There’s a moment of tension, of anticipation crackling between you like lightning in a summer storm.

You push him back against the stone wall, your hands fisting in the front of his tunic as you pull him down to meet your lips. The kiss is fierce, hungry—born of a shared need that has simmered beneath the surface for far too long. Harwin’s hands are quick to respond, gripping your waist with a possessive strength that sends shivers down your spine. He tastes of salt and warmth, of nights spent in armor and the fire that burns within him.

There’s no room for words now, just the frantic rustle of fabric as your fingers work to loosen his breeches, his own hands tugging at the ties of your skirts. The air is thick with the scent of desire, mingled with the cool, damp earth and stone around you. Your breath comes in ragged gasps as you free him, your bodies already pressing together with the desperate anticipation of what’s to come.

When he moves into you, it’s with a practiced ease that speaks of all the times you’ve stolen moments like this before. Your head falls back, a soft moan escaping your lips as he fills you, the familiar stretch and heat drawing gasps from both of you. For a heartbeat, you both remain still, savoring the way you fit together, the way your bodies seem to crave this connection as much as your hearts do.

“Gods, Y/N,” Harwin groans, his voice low and strained. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

You smile against his lips, your nails digging into his shoulders as you start to move, setting a rhythm that’s as familiar as it is intoxicating. “Better than dying in the Keep, caged and suffocated,” you manage to whisper, your voice breathy with desire.

He lets out a deep, rumbling laugh, but the sound quickly fades into a grunt as your hips grind against his. The tempo between you quickens, each thrust driven by pure, unbridled need. There’s a primal urgency in the way you cling to each other, as if the world outside these walls doesn’t exist, as if all that matters is this moment, this passion, this escape.

His hands grip your thighs, lifting you slightly as he presses you harder against the wall, deepening the angle until you’re both lost to the rhythm of your bodies. Every movement draws a gasp, a moan, a whispered name into the darkness. Your nails rake down his back, desperate to hold onto the sensation building within you. He’s rough and tender all at once, his control fraying with each stroke as he buries his face in the curve of your neck.

“Y/N… you drive me mad,” he rasps, his breath hot against your skin.

You bite down on your lip, stifling a cry as he hits a particularly sensitive spot, pleasure coiling tight in your belly. “Good,” you manage, your voice breaking on the word as your hands slide into his hair, tugging him closer, demanding more.

The pace is relentless now, both of you moving in sync, lost in the frantic need to reach that edge together. You’re barely aware of anything but the feeling of him inside you, the way your bodies collide with a desperate intensity. His name slips from your lips again and again, a plea, a prayer, as the pleasure builds to an unbearable peak.

When release finally crashes over you, it’s like wildfire spreading through your veins. Your body trembles, tightening around him as you shatter, a cry breaking free from your throat. Harwin isn’t far behind, his grip bruising as he thrusts deep one final time, a guttural groan spilling from his lips as he finds his own release. He holds you there, chest heaving, his forehead pressed against yours as you both ride out the last waves of pleasure together.

For a long moment, there’s only the sound of your ragged breathing mingling in the darkness. The intensity slowly ebbs away, leaving behind a warmth that’s almost tender as you both come back to yourselves. Harwin’s thumb traces a gentle line along your jaw, his eyes soft as he studies your flushed face.

“Reckless, wild, and impossible,” he murmurs, but there’s no scolding in his tone, only fondness.

You lean into his touch, a contented smile tugging at your lips. “And yet you keep coming back, Ser Harwin.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips, slow and sweet this time. “How could I not? There’s no taming a dragon, but gods be damned if I don’t love the fire.”

For a moment, you allow yourself to savor the warmth of his embrace, the comfort of his presence in the midst of all the chaos that defines your life. But the night is waning, and the world beyond this alleyway is still waiting.

Reluctantly, you begin to disentangle yourself, smoothing your skirts and adjusting your cloak. Harwin mirrors you, straightening his tunic and tightening the laces of his breeches. There’s a lingering heat in his gaze as he watches you, as if he’s already thinking about the next time he’ll chase you through these streets.

“Come,” he finally says, extending his hand with a grin. “I suppose I should get you back before anyone notices your absence… though I doubt I’ll be able to explain why you’re looking so disheveled.”

You smirk, taking his hand as you step back out into the moonlight. “That’s your problem, Ser Breakbones. I’ll leave the excuses to you.”

With a chuckle, he leads you back toward the Red Keep, but not before stealing one last kiss under the stars, a reminder that, for all the rules and restrictions of your world, some fires simply can’t be contained.

The flickering light of the hearth casts dancing shadows on the walls of the private dining chamber, illuminating the worn but sturdy wooden table where Lord Lyonel Strong and his son, Ser Harwin, sit across from one another. The aroma of roasted meats and spiced wine fills the room, yet Harwin barely touches his food, his mind lost in thought as he absently stirs his cup of wine. 

Lyonel watches his son with keen eyes, noting the subtle tension in his posture, the way his gaze drifts toward nothing in particular as if he’s waging some silent battle within himself. They’ve shared these private dinners often, moments away from the demands of the court, but tonight there’s a charged undercurrent in the air that neither man can ignore.

After a long silence, Lyonel clears his throat and decides it’s time to broach the subject. “You seem distracted, Harwin. A rare occurrence for you.” His tone is gentle, probing, as he carefully measures his son’s reaction.

Harwin’s head snaps up as if he’s been startled out of his thoughts. He forces a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s nothing, Father. Just tired, perhaps.”

Lyonel isn’t convinced, but he decides to tread forward nonetheless. He takes a deliberate sip of his wine before speaking, choosing his words with the precision of a man accustomed to walking the tightrope of politics. “There’s been much discussion in the Small Council of late regarding alliances and… strategic marriages.”

Harwin tenses slightly, though he tries to mask it with a casual nod. “That’s always the way of things, isn’t it? Who’s being sold to whom for power and coin this time?”

Lyonel’s eyes narrow, noting the edge in his son’s voice. “In this case, it concerns someone close to you. The King is making plans for Princess Y/N. It appears he’s leaning toward a betrothal to the heir of House Blackwood.”

The words hang heavy in the air, and for a moment, Harwin’s face betrays nothing. But Lyonel’s sharp eyes catch the brief flicker of something—shock, anger, and something dangerously close to despair—before Harwin schools his features into a stoic mask. 

He swallows hard, the lump in his throat making it difficult to speak. “House Blackwood,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “She’s… she’s to be sent away, then.”

Lyonel arches a brow, watching the way his son’s knuckles whiten as he grips the edge of the table. “It would seem so,” he replies slowly, studying every nuance of Harwin’s reaction. “The marriage would be advantageous for the realm—bringing the Riverlands more firmly into the fold, securing loyalties through blood ties.”

Harwin’s gaze drops to his plate, the food now entirely forgotten. His mind races, a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions churning within him. The mere idea of Y/N being wed to someone else—of her being taken away to some distant castle, away from the Red Keep, away from him—it’s unbearable.

And Lyonel sees it, clear as day. The horror settles over him like a weight as he begins to piece together what Harwin’s response truly means. He knows his son—knows that Harwin has never been one to be so easily unsettled. For him to react this way… there must be something more, something deeper beneath the surface.

“Harwin,” Lyonel says, his voice now laced with a quiet urgency. “You’re taking this news rather hard, considering it is not your place to determine who the princess marries. Why does this trouble you so?”

Harwin clenches his jaw, fighting to keep his emotions in check. But his father’s probing gaze is relentless, cutting through the defenses Harwin has so carefully constructed over the years. “It’s not—” he begins, but the words catch in his throat. He can’t find a plausible excuse, can’t weave a tale that would satisfy his father without revealing too much.

Lyonel’s expression darkens as he begins to draw his own conclusions, his shrewd mind piecing together the puzzle. His eyes widen slightly in realization, a flicker of disbelief crossing his features before settling into grim understanding. “Harwin…” he breathes, the name laced with a mixture of disappointment and concern. “Tell me you haven’t done something foolish.”

Harwin’s silence is damning. His hands tighten into fists on the table as he struggles to find the words, his heart pounding in his chest. He doesn’t need to confirm it; his father already knows.

The weight of Lyonel’s realization crashes down like a hammer. He leans back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face as he exhales a long, weary breath. “Gods help us,” he mutters, more to himself than to Harwin. “You’ve gone and entangled yourself with the princess, haven’t you?”

Harwin’s gaze remains fixed on the table, shame and defiance warring within him. He knows there’s no point in denying it now. “It wasn’t supposed to happen,” he admits hoarsely, his voice thick with emotion. “But I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t stop myself.”

Lyonel closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose as the full implications settle in. “You fool. Do you have any idea what this could mean? What could happen if this gets out? The scandal, the danger—not just to you, but to her?”

“I know,” Harwin snaps, his voice strained, as if the very acknowledgment of the truth is tearing him apart. “But I… I care for her, Father. More than I should. More than I’ve ever cared for anyone.”

The raw confession hangs in the air, and for a moment, Lyonel can only stare at his son with a mixture of anger and pity. He sees the turmoil in Harwin’s eyes, the desperate, reckless need that has clearly consumed him. This isn’t just a passing infatuation or a dalliance. It’s something far deeper, something that could lead to ruin if it’s not carefully managed.

“Harwin,” Lyonel finally says, his voice low and grave, “you’ve put us all in a precarious position. If the King suspects, if the wrong person finds out, it could be the end of not just you, but our entire house. You must let her go. The marriage will happen, and you cannot interfere. Do you understand me?”

Harwin’s fists tremble as he fights back the overwhelming urge to protest, to scream that it’s impossible, that he can’t just let her go. But he knows his father is right. He knows the reality of their situation, knows that they are both trapped in a world of politics, duty, and expectations that neither of them can escape.

“I understand,” he finally grits out, though the words feel like ashes on his tongue.

Lyonel’s gaze softens slightly, a hint of sympathy bleeding into his stern expression. “I do not doubt your feelings, son, but some battles are not meant to be fought. And this is one you cannot win. You must think of what’s at stake.”

Harwin doesn’t respond, unable to trust himself to speak without betraying the depth of his anguish. Instead, he nods stiffly, forcing himself to swallow the pain that threatens to overwhelm him. He can’t imagine a future where Y/N belongs to someone else, where she’s out of his reach, but he knows he may have no choice in the matter.

Lyonel watches him with a heavy heart, knowing he’s asking the impossible of his son but also knowing it’s the only way to avoid disaster. “Be careful, Harwin,” he warns quietly, his voice tinged with regret. “Love is a powerful thing, but it can also be a weapon if wielded recklessly. Do not let it destroy you.”

The room falls into silence once more, the crackling fire the only sound between them. Harwin’s gaze remains fixed on the flames, but his thoughts are far from the warmth of the hearth. They’re with her—always with her—no matter how impossible the road ahead may seem. And even as he tells himself to let go, to do what’s expected, he knows in his heart that the fire between them isn’t something he can simply snuff out. It burns too bright, too fiercely, and like all dragonfire, it may yet consume them both.

[sylusjinwoon]

{ 177 }

the prince and the pauper.

historical romance | fairytale au

prince!jinwoo sung x commoner!fem.reader

you were traveling with your younger brother, trying to survive as you took refuge within the forest after the passing of your parents.

never one to know the joys and luxury of having a stable home with enough riches to keep you and your sibling well-fed, it was a struggle for you to maintain a carefree attitude-

but alas, you had to keep your head held high, for your darling brother was relying on you. since your parents passing, you had to leave them behind, burying them beneath the harsh ground to the best of your abilities while soothing your brother's tears.

despite how hopeless you felt being left alone with such a heavy burden of trying to survive with your brother, you knew that if it wasn't for his presence in your life, then you would have given up and tossed yourself within your parent's graves a long time ago.

all sense of time had become lost on you, with you and your brother continuing to live within the depths of the forest whilst surviving on meager meals of nuts and berries. and moments where you manage to use what little hunting skill you had to bring back a small fowl or a handful of fish were few and far in between.

and during moments when nature's elements were truly testing your chances of survival (from harsh rain that made your ragged clothes dirty and the cold chill that would envelope your form), you felt your sense of confidence dwindling down-

which was what pushes you to your breaking point.

a sense of desperation fills you, and just when you lost all hope, you heard some commotion settled several feet away from you and your brother's current resting spot. the scent of a roaring fire coupled along with some boyish laughter makes your ears perk up in response.

you look back at your brother, seeing him still sleeping peacefully against the tree's trunk, exhausted and completely unaware of the men who set up camp just a mere stone's throw away. he appeared gaunt from the days spent going without food as a wave of love further fills you with a determination.

taking off your dirtied shawl, you place it over your brother and give him a whispered promise of your return. your eyes trail toward the blazing flames and the scent of smoke, padding your bare feet across the dirt path as you made sure to remain hidden within the foliage.

after several seconds spent walking, the sounds of laughter grew even louder as you hid behind a tree, turning your gaze toward the two men that were currently speaking to one another. thanks to the light of the roaring fire, you could see their armors shining from it. you assumed that these two men were knights that had just finished their hunts for the day.

while observing, you take note of one of the knights, noticing his sandy brown hair and boisterous voice that echoes throughout the forest. his armor was bathed in gold and silver, making your eyes water from how gaudy it all appeared. looking away from the talkative knight, you trail your eyes toward his companion-

only to feel your breath get stolen away.

settled directly in front of the bright knight was another young man who appeared to be his exact opposite. whereas the knight with the sandy brown hair was the sun, this other knight was more like the moon. his long, ebony locks of hair seemed to be the same shade as a moonless night, and had it not been for the flames settled directly beside him, you would have missed the startling grey quality of them.

his eyes are like moonlight. you muse to yourself, wondering why you felt a strange sense of familiarity at the mere sight of him.

as you raked through your brain for a viable explanation, you were suddenly brought back to a memory of your parents, back when they were alive and well while you were in your teens as your brother had barely been 5 years old. they spoke about the kindness of the king and queen of ahjin kingdom and had high hopes of moving there to bask in their reign.

they spoke of the prince and princess of the kingdom and how they were achingly beautiful-

and somehow, you just knew that this dark knight was also the crowned prince of ahjin- jinwoo sung.

your breathing becomes labored with anticipation, watching as the golden knight pours what appeared to be sweetened wine within the prince's chalice.

"my prince, are you certain it was a wise choice to leave our steed behind at the castle?" the golden knight asks the prince, earning a rich chuckle from him.

"what's this, jinho? i thought you were much braver than what i assumed. we are not too far away from thy castle, and mother wishes for us to find worthy game for the morrow's feast. i see no issue with leaving our mounts behind to rest. it shall be an easy feat that can be done when dawn arrives."

the sight of prince jinwoo's smile and laughter was enough to make your knees go a little weak in response. never before had you seen such a devastating man. in all of your 20-some years of living, he was by far the most magnificent man you had ever laid eyes on.

forcing yourself to look away from the prince and his knight, you press your back against the hard wood of the tree. you waited for the prince to drain his wine while hearing the other man, jinho, let out a yawn.

"tis best we get some rest, my prince. i can feel the sweet ale coursing through me, and i believe i shall have pleasant dreams tonight."

you listen as the prince hums in agreement, hearing the shuffling and gentle clanks of their armor before retiring back into their makeshift tents for the night. when only the sounds of flickering flames were heard did you finally make your move.

creeping closer to the encampment, you saw two tents, making note of how the one on the right had to have housed the golden knight. snores were heard coming from such a tent as you made your way to the one settled to your left.

holding your breath, you inch inside of the tent to see the dark outline of the prince in a peaceful slumber. he makes no movement, with his long, black hair fanned out beneath him against the dirt ground. a sense of bewilderment fills you at how lackluster his lodging was. you saw no thick blankets made of wolfskin surrounding him, or even a simple pillow filled with feathers. the prince simply lay peacefully with his hands folded across his abdomen, a silk shirt with matching pants covering him as his suit of armor lay in a neat pile next to him.

feeling as though you finally had some luck on your side, you crept closer to his suit of armor and decided to search through it. perhaps he had a piece of jewelry or a gold chain that you could sell for a handsome price?

despite the thought of you stealing something left your stomach in a twist of knots, just the thought of being able to feed you and your brother well with the earnings was enough to push you forward.

just as your hand touched at the gauntlets, you felt a sudden shift in the air before something sharp and cold was pressed against the base of your throat.

"what's this...? a little thief i see."

you were given no time to react, feeling a large hand gripping at the back of your shirt as you were suddenly tossed out into the midst of the campsite. the light blazing from the fire gives you the perfect view of prince jinwoo's handsome face twisted with fury and anger at you.

the sliver tip of his dagger was pressed against your throat, and you were certain that this was how you were to meet your demise. a rightfully furious prince had caught you trying to steal from him, and he was going to show no mercy while cutting off your throat-

yet, oddly enough, such acts of violence never came.

you didn't allow yourself the luxury to breathe, simply staring up at the prince with wide eyes as you saw his expression change from anger to something else entirely- something much softer; something much kinder.

he drops the dagger from your throat, using his large hand to brush back your tangled hair while wiping a bit of the grime seen on your face away. his lips were parted, and just as he leaned down closer to you-

you heard your brother calling out your name.

"DON'T TOUCH MY SISTER!" your eyes go wide as you faced your right, seeing your brother with several rocks within his grasps as he found one to aim at the prince.

you gasp, wishing to tell your brother that you were alright and to not hurt the prince. yet despite how much your brother wished to attack prince jinwoo, an almost amused smile paints his features.

"oh no you don't, little one." the prince's knight, jinho, manages to grab a hold of your brother's collar, nearly ripping apart his paper thin shirt when the prince barks at his knight, "let him go."

jinho's eyes go wide, yet still, he listens to his prince and sets your brother back down on the ground. anxiety and fear were seen painted across your brother's features, and you quickly got off the ground to go to him.

you take your brother within your tight embrace, putting on a brave facade while looking back and forth between jinho and prince jinwoo. neither men looked particularly angry, but you were still running on adrenaline, uncertain of what fate had in store for you.

"my prince, what shall we do with the thieves?"

the prince simply holds out a hand to jinho, meeting you and you brother's gaze with grey eyes that were filled with tranquility. "what are your names?"

swallowing thickly, you relinquish both you and your brother's name, an apology on the tip of your tongue, yet the intensity of prince jinwoo's gaze stops you from speaking any further.

"and just how old are you?"

"i-i believe i am near my twentieth year with my brother being ten years my junior..."

"hn, i see. not much older than me and my own sister."

he snaps his fingers at jinho, "they are coming with us."

your eyes go wide as jinho was heard proclaiming his protests, "surely you cannot be serious my lord! they tried to rob you-"

"i see nothing more than two orphans that are trying to survive." the prince's voice echoes with clarity across the expanse of the forest, the solemn expression within his gaze already making jinho keep his mouth shut.

"we shall take them back with us, and they will become servants for me and jinah respectively."

your mind had gone hazy as your brother clings to you, his eyes appearing wary as the crowned prince of ahjin brings you both back on your feet. a wistful smile paints his handsome features, and you felt the air escaping your lungs in uneven breaths at the sight. "come, the harsh forest is no place for kind souls such as yourselves..."

and with those final words from prince jinwoo, you and your brother returned with him back to his castle, your futures now looking less bleak...

{ ... }

to say you were quite joyful at the fact that ahjin's king and queen were both extremely kind would be an understatement. once jinwoo had allowed you and your brother's dirtied form within the comfort of the castle, he allows you to tell your story to his parents.

after admitting to the king and queen of your own parents' passing due to a sudden illness, their deep gazes were filled with empathy for you and your brother, welcoming you both as part of their staff. as the queen takes you and your brother to the closest washroom, jinwoo was seen speaking to his father in hushed tones.

you and your brother were quickly stripped of your ragged clothes, with the king and queen's own maids placing you both in a wooden bath filled with lukewarm waters. it had been freshly prepared by the queen's gentle demands, and not enough time had passed for the waters to warm up in the fireplace.

but you nor your brother dared to complain after receiving such generosity. as the maids helped you and your brother become cleaner, washing away the dirt and grime that was caked on to your skin while lathering your hair with wonderfully scented soaps that captured the essence of wildflowers growing beneath the summer's sunshine-

you were in absolute heaven.

once you were both completely cleaned, the maids had given you some clothes to wear. you nearly cried upon feeling the soft material covering the expanse of your body, no longer itching as you felt as though you had been reborn once more.

you figured that would be the end of such kindness, with you thanking the king and queen (and their son) for their generosity. however, when the maids lead you to the grand dining hall where several dishes were laid out for you and your brother to indulge in.

your brother, being so young, immediately charges toward the food, biting into the roasted turkey leg while soaking up the soft bread with the juices surrounding it. your own stomach was felt growling in response, but admittedly, you felt overwhelmed with the sheer amount of kindness.

a gentle hand felt against your back forces you to come closer to the dining area, with you looking back to see prince jinwoo smiling down at you. "don't be shy, eat."

he pulls out the chair for you, giving your brother a gentle smile while ruffling his hair. realizing your shocked state, jinwoo grabs what looks like a golden utensil, cutting apart the roasted meat while placing the morsel against your lips.

"say 'ah.'"

heat was felt dyeing your cheeks when you slowly parted your lips for him, your teeth biting down against the savory piece. you had to bite back a moan in response, feeling the tears streaming down your face.

another light chuckle was heard coming from the prince. "is it good?"

"i- yes... it's the most delicious meal i've ever had."

"delicious enough to make you cry?" he notices your tears and gently begins wiping them away with his hand, making a tiny whimper escape from you. unable to speak, you decide to bask in their kindness along with your brother, eating such a filling supper as the prince made sure you both had your fill.

exhaustion was felt coursing through your veins, with your brother letting out a yawn as well. the prince notices how he was nodding off and casually carries him within his arms. you let out a weak protest, reassuring the prince that you could carry him, but he insisted. following close behind him with a look of embarrassment, you notice a light pair of footsteps coming from behind you.

looking back, you see a young girl with light brown hair and matching eyes, calling out to the prince, "big brother, you promised that i would get to play with a new friend soon."

your heart melted at the sight of her cute face and matching voice, seeing the tears fill her vision as a pretty pout paints her lips. prince jinwoo was about to say something to his little sister, but you end up speaking first, kneeling down to her level while reassuring her.

"you will be able to play with a new friend soon. my little brother will happily keep you company. but for now, he needs to rest a bit to regain his strength."

the young princess looks up at you with bright eyes while giving you an eager nod.

and while you spoke to princess jinah, you were unaware of how the prince's gaze was filled with a fondness for you and your kindness, falling for you almost immediately as he vowed to always protect you.

{ ... }

five years has passed since that fateful night, and you were still known as prince jinwoo's sole servant as your brother filled a similar role with princess jinah with little complaint on his end. like jinwoo, the princess kept your brother by her side at all times, and you could see a beautiful friendship blossoming between them as they kept each other company while growing up together.

and while they grew closer, so did you and prince jinwoo-

but in your case, it was a bit more unfortunate, for with each day that passes, you found yourself falling deeply in love with the prince.

despite your best efforts to keep yourself from falling for such an amazing man, you truly could not help it. for not falling for him was as difficult as climbing up a steep mountain, leaving your hands bloodied and bruised as you willed your heart to not yearn for him-

it was so easy, so incredibly easy, to follow your heart and ignore the rationalities of your mind. you knew of the great difference in statuses between you and prince jinwoo.

whereas prince jinwoo was heir to a throne- whose future was basked in brightness as he was meant to marry a princess from a neighboring kingdom, you were just a mere servant meant to obey him for the rest of your life.

after all, prince jinwoo had graciously saved you and your brother from an ill-known fate. had you tried to live off the forest any longer, you were certain that you would have both met your demise due to how difficult it was to survive all alone during such a harsh period of your lives.

however, the prince's kindness only served as a double-edged sword to you, making you fall completely and utterly in love with him. even if it took you a herculean effort to keep your feelings from coming forth from your perfectly parted lips, you had to swallow back such desires, remaining miserable as talk of his marriage to a beautiful princess with golden hair and grey eyes echoed across the castle of ahjin kingdom.

such news put you in a bit of a depressive slump, with your steps losing its bounce as you followed prince jinwoo dutifully from behind. he had woken up before the sun, taking brisk steps towards his father's study when he stops. turning around, he faces you while calling out your name.

you shiver upon hearing it, basking in the way jinwoo's voice spoke the syllables that made up your name with such warmth that it made your heart ache.

"yes, my prince?"

he shakes his head, tilting his lips up in a wry smile when he takes a strand of your hair with his hand. your eyes go wide, seeing this as evident as one of the ways to express his gratitude for you. he admires your hair for a few more beats before pressing a kiss against the strands. "go on and help with the cooks in the kitchen. i have something dire i wish to discuss with my father, and i will join you shortly."

never one to disobey your beloved prince, you simply give him a smile and a curtsy, excusing yourself before heading toward the kitchen. you greet the other servants along the way, catching bits and pieces of their gossip.

"did you hear? prince jinwoo wishes to call off his long engagement to princess hae-in."

you did a double take, nearly running into the wall when a powerful hand stops you. "ah, my dear, just who i wished to see."

you look forward to see an old man with grey hair and deep set eyes the color of a forest. he was the head cook for the royal family as he takes a hold of your shoulders and leads you into the kitchen, "i would like your help in preparing tonight's supper. if you could be so kind as to help everyone cut up the vegetables for the stew while baking fresh rolls."

your mind was racing, and you did your best to complete each task in the kitchen with a steady hand. yet the words of gossip refused to leave the confines of your mind, and you kept going back to those lingering words.

jinwoo wishes to call off the engagement with the princess? but why? she's a renown beauty... she would have been fit to be his wife...

your heart was pounding as you slowly began to organize each freshly cut vegetables into their own separate piles. as you mulled over the words, a strange sense of hope begins to fill you.

perhaps, he didn't wish to take a wife after all... he would remain single-

and you could remain by his side as his sole servant.

despite how much you knew that such rumors could end up being false, you could not stop yourself from smiling so freely. if such rumors ended up being true-

then you could forever remain by prince jinwoo's side.

before you could help the cooks add the vegetables into the large cauldron, a familiar pair of arms wrapped around your front prevents you from moving forward. you look back to see your prince gazing fondly at you, letting out a dramatic sigh as he takes you away from the kitchen.

"i feel weary and tired after discussing important matters with my father. please, prepare a bath for me and wipe the sweat away from my brow."

your heart begins to race at the thought of preparing a bath for prince jinwoo. it was true that you had prepared thousands upon thousands of baths for your prince-

however, this would be the first time he had ever asked you to stay.

shaking your head to prevent any impure thoughts from entering them, you give your prince a nod along with your words of affirmation, "y-yes, of course, my prince."

jinwoo simply hums, placing a hand behind your back as he leads you to one of the many washrooms his castle held. with graceful steps, you enter the room and expertly lit a fire within the fireplace, moving the bathtub a bit closer to the flames before going towards one of the walls.

the king had expertly hired several masons to build his castle in the most convenient way possible. you no longer had to fetch buckets upon buckets of water from the well outside of the castle as now the waters flowed into the castle. each washroom had a stone trough filled with water, and whether such a convenient invention was man-made or made through magical means, you couldn't say for sure.

all you knew was that this was simply one of the many things that made your life a bit easier.

so you spent several minutes going back and forth, filling the wooden bathtub to the brim with as much water you could manage until prince jinwoo stops you. with your back turned to him, you dropped the wooden pail back within the water filled trough, only facing him when he calls out your name.

upon hearing a tiny splash!, you had to bite back a gasp, seeing prince jinwoo's toned chest submerged within the waters as it fell back into the cobblestone floors. he lets out a purr upon feeling the waters against his skin all while beckoning you to come closer to him.

"grab that cloth while taking off your garments, my darling."

you swore that you felt your heart pounding against the confines of your throat just then, leaving you breathless when you shakily ask him, "but, why would you ever need me to take off my garments, prince jinwoo?"

he rolls his eyes, gaze darkening just the tiniest bit when he tells you huskily, "how else is my darling girl going to get into this tub to wash every inch of me?"

the hesitation and shyness was evident in your gaze and heated face, with jinwoo breaking out into a smile. "come now, you have never denied me before. are you truly denying me right now?"

letting out a shaky sigh, you even out your breath before dropping the fabric of your clothes, leaving you completely bare for your prince. with the cloth in hand, you were ready to climb into the tub had it not been for jinwoo's large hands coming around your waist, using his strength to pick you up as you entered the tub with him.

the waters splashed violently around you with your added weight, making the heat dye your cheeks even more. your lips were parted, being met with prince jinwoo's amused gaze as he lay back against the tub.

"go on, wash your prince." he tells you with a sigh, closing his eyes as he waited for you to go on with your duties.

your heart was practically a mess by now, racing so badly that it made your hands tremble in response. you place the cloth within the bathwater before gently working on cleansing jinwoo's body. his skin remained so perfect and clear, leaving you mesmerized as you could feel his powerful body pressing against your softer frame.

when the tip of your cloth touches at the corner of his lips, you were struck with a sudden urge to kiss them; to finally feel such soft fullness against your very own lips. yet somehow, even despite the situation you found yourself in (completely naked with your prince's godlike body settled beneath the waters with you), you manage to reign in your desires and ask him.

"is it true?"

jinwoo hums once more before opening an eye to look at you, "is what true, my dear?"

you look away from him, feeling jinwoo slowly wrapping his arms around your naked back when you blurt out to him, "that you called off your engagement to princess hae-in."

you felt your prince stiffen in response momentarily to the question before visibly relaxing. he proceeds to run his hands up and down your bare back before taking you within his powerful embrace.

left gaping and filled with anticipation, you felt jinwoo press a kiss against your cheek, never once straying too far from your skin as he finds your ear to whisper against them, "why yes, it is completely and utterly true. and do you know why i called off such a pointless engagement?"

you clench your eyes shut, feeling your hands become fists against jinwoo's chest, "w-why did you call it off."

a gasp was felt escaping from you when he bites down against the shell of your ear, "because a certain thief stole my heart one night five years ago; a beautiful thief that tried to rob me, but ended up obtaining my complete and utter devotion in return."

your eyes go wide when prince jinwoo suddenly surges forward, capturing your lips in a searing kiss that takes your very breath away. due to your inexperience, you kissed him back shyly, earning a smile from him.

he playfully licks at the front of your lips before moving away from you. with grey eyes shining with mirth and adoration for you, he runs a hand across your damp hair. "the moment i first saw you, seeing your steadfast gaze on me despite how i had my dagger pressed dangerously close to your throat, i knew that i had to keep you- that i had to have you."

your mind was spinning now. was this really happening? had your life truly turned into this fairytale that you did not wish to awaken from?

"oh, jinwoo...! i-i loved you, too! ever since i was subjected to your unconditional kindness, i knew that i would forever be devoted to you!"

you fall against him, allowing jinwoo to wrap his arms protectively around your frame, "i thought it would be enough to serve you for the rest of my life, b-but to actually have you as my lover, it has been my greatest dream...!"

jinwoo chuckles once more, placing a hand beneath your chin as his gaze burns a bright silver hue for you, "oh, my darling love, the dream has only just begun. for you will not simply be my lover, but my future queen and wife as well. i have made sure to claim you and you alone for that title."

your gasp was quickly swallowed by another one of jinwoo's kisses, with you practically melting against him as you both made a never-ending oath to each other-

that no matter what the future may bring, you shall always remain by his side; a devoted queen that lives to serve and love her beloved king.

a.n. - omggggg this is so self indulgent! i recently began reading a historical romance trilogy, and became so infatuated with the storytelling and writing that i had to write something for jinwoo due to my inspired state! 😭😭😭😭 my desire to write always comes to me in the dead of night, so this will definitely be posted when it's early morning where i live. this is currently unedited, but i hope you readers enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it!

all stories are written by rei; reposts, translations, and plagiarism are not allowed.

[insomniacirl]

Chip has moved in the shadows his entire life almost, he only stood out when he wanted to- when he knew he needed to.

Because he's a thief first and foremost, a bastard, with silent footsteps and the ability to dodge impossibly- to avoid and sneak past at every turn.

But when Jay and Gillion entered the scene, that changed.

When he looks at them he must admit he shines a little brighter, grins a little wider, stands a little taller- but it's not just that... Jay and Gillion are the sun and the moon, and when they turn to look at him, no matter how he tries to hide, to blend in to his surroundings, they always find him. Left, right and centre.

And it makes him feel vulnerable. But it makes him feel seen.

It's a terrifying feeling, having those eyes pierce through him and skewer him right through the middle. The one defense measure he's used his whole life, the thing that's kept him alive all this time- stolen away from him in the blink of an eye, in the turn of a head and the shine of a smile.

Yes, it feels a little bit like dying- but doesn't it also feel a little like love?

For the first time since he was taken on board and given a family, a sister; all of who were torn away from him, he is being looked at like a living, breathing, feeling thing.

Like running out onto the sunlit deck with not a fear in the world, like watching moonlight glimmer on the ocean and hoping to one day swim down there and feel it, like defeating his sister in their play battle and reigning victorious, King of the overseas, King of it all.

That feeling is distant to him now, hidden from the sun for so many years, staying far away from the chill of moonlit waters. All this time, it's felt unfair to him to know that he is alive when they are not. So he avoids sensation, avoids the gold and silver the world offers him freely.

Until he finds the gold of a girl he can't help but run with, the silver of a boy who's hand is cool in his, as he helps him breach the surface of the swaying ocean.

Jay drags him out onto the sunny deck to spar, to dance, to laugh and navigate their course together.

Gillion grabs his hand and pulls him down into the cold midnight waters, pulling him through glimmering waves and showing him even more beautiful things he's never seen underneath it all.

Sometimes he wonders, when he sees Gillion pray or Jay drift, when their eyes begin to glow and magic seems to spill from their lips, seeping out of the corners of their mouth, if their goddesses ever missed him- if they ever noticed his absence, or more prominently, his return.

[cappulcino]

Seven Days Til Fall (Part 2)

Part 1 – Part 2 – Part 3 – Part 4 – Part 5 – Part 6 – Part 7

Read on AO3 (you do need to be logged in, though)

Words: 3,533

Pairing: Lucifer Morningstar x Angel!Reader

Summary: You're an angel sent on a divine mission to retrieve a powerful relic that has been stolen from Heaven. The orders are clear: gain an audience with the Devil, make deals with them if necessary, anything to return that object to the Silver City. But Hell is not quite what you expected, and neither is Lucifer.

Trigger warnings: Non-graphic mention of suicide (the Woods of Suicides)

On the second day, you approached the gates of Hell with powerful strides, determined to get this mission over with as quickly as possible. When that poor soul gave you the mallet to call for Squatterbloat, you winced again but took it with more assurance than the day before.

"Cease your theatrics, demon," you urged him. "As much as this displeases me, I might need to come back more than once. I have no wish to listen to your vile rhyming every time. Let me through."

You didn't have to wait long before the demon's guttural voice resonated through your bones.

"There's one at the door. At the gate of damnation."

He stopped in his doggerel when he saw you through the thick morning fog, just like he had yesterday.

"Oh, it's the holy Dominion. Have you come for an encore?"

Grinning mischievously, Squatterbloat replied, "Feathered pest, draw near… It's my place in the hierarchy that allows me this treat. So mark my words, celestial bore, you'll hear my rhymes each time you pass this door."

Stepping aside, he made a grand, exaggerated gesture to let you in. If Heaven's rules and basic decency didn't matter to you, you would insult him right here and now. Instead, you bit your tongue and started marching forward, only for Squatterbloat to grab you by the arm as you passed in front of him.

"If I were you, I would leave my purity here –it tends to melt in the heat."

You glared at him and yanked your arm free. "To the palace."

"Ahh…" Lucifer sighed contentedly before you even had a chance to greet them.

You had been escorted to some office room. Lucifer had their back turned to you and their eyes fixed on the pages of an ancient volume taken off a bookcase that had directly been carved in the black marble wall.

"We take it the Divine Council has granted Our offer."

"It has."

"Indeed."

"Of course it has."

The Morningstar echoed your words with a calm, almost indifferent acknowledgement as if they had been expecting Heaven to agree to the deal all along. They then closed the book and put it back where it belonged as they spoke again.

"And We suppose you brought a contract with you."

Lucifer elegantly gestured for you to come closer to their desk –which you did immediately– and sat down before picking up their pen, clearly made of bone and embedded with gold chips and rubies.

You couldn't help but cringe a little at the sight of it, wondering what that poor creature –or was it creatures?– had done for the ruler of Hell to turn their body parts into personal stationery, and even more so at the sight of blood that served as ink on the tip of the instrument.

Reaching the desk, you handed Lucifer the contract with reverence, then took a respectful step back. They unrolled the parchment in a swift motion, and there was a certain smugness in their stance that made the muscles of your face contort with disdain no matter how hard you tried to resist it.

Lucifer's eyes skimmed the page and then suddenly their rictus disappeared. You knew why, you had taken a peek at the contract yourself. Since Lucifer had not specified any length of time in their request to visit the Silver City, the Council had ensured that said visit be as short as possible.

"What is this?" Lucifer asked. Their eyes burned with fury but their overall expression remained rather relaxed. "This is not what We asked for."

"How do You mean?" You replied, your tone full of fake innocence.

Lucifer didn't need to stand up to dominate you –they simply leaned forward on their desk, and you realised you had gone too far and bowed your head in contrition. That was not how a respectable angel should behave. Squatterbloat had been right, purity did have a tendency to quickly vanish in Hell.

"Do not mock Us, little angel," the monarch snarled before quoting the contract. "'The Visitation shall be limited to a period not exceeding one hour of celestial time.'" And then further down, "'Any breach of conduct, as determined by the Archangels present, shall result in immediate termination of the Visitation, and Lucifer Morningstar shall be expelled from the Silver City without delay or further discourse.' How does that compensate for the efforts We will make to aid you in your quest?"

"The decision was not mine, Lightbringer. You are free to complain to Your brother, but I'm afraid this is all You will get."

A smirk returned to Lucifer's lips as they leaned back in their chair, delicately lowering their hands on the armrests, and crossed their legs. You noticed in your peripheral vision that the movement made their svelte, pale leg show through a slit in their silken robes, and, for an inexplicable reason, your breath hitched a little.

"We could still decide not to sign this contract, you know," Lucifer finally spoke after a brief silence. "And if We don't, Heaven will never recover the Cup of Eternal Grace, and you…" They were exulting now. "Will have failed in your mission."

"And You will never set foot in the Silver City ever again." The words were audacious, but this time your tone was not insolent at all; this was but a mere remark based on how important Lucifer had made their wish to see Heaven again sound yesterday.

And this constant battle inside you between decorum, sense of heavenly duty, and audacity seemed to appeal to Lucifer because, after gazing at you for a couple of seconds, they inhaled sharply through their nose and let out a clipped, "Fine" before plunging their bony pen in the blood well to their right to sign the contract.

They then proceeded to append Hell's seal on the parchment, after which they stood up, rounded their desk, and walked over to you. Your eyes never left them.

"Thank You, Your Majesty," you muttered as Lucifer handed you the scroll.

Your politeness was met with a dismissive hand gesture, and Lucifer headed out of the room without a word.

"Well?" you said, promptly catching up with the Morningstar with a few, quick strides but mindful of staying two steps behind as etiquette required.

"Well, what?"

"Are You not going to give me the Cup?"

"Dear… If only it were that easy. The Cup is not in Our possession."

"No idea," Lucifer admitted in their annoyingly sweet voice.

That would have been too easy indeed.

"Then would You tell me which demon has it? Surely You must know."

"Yes, We did. And We will, a deal is a deal. But We never pretended to know where the Cup was, did We? Now come. You shall introduce yourself to Our subjects and inform them of your little investigation."

That revelation made you freeze for a second.

"What?" you huffed. "You swore to help."

You found Lucifer's nonchalance about the whole situation deeply infuriating, but at least it seemed they hadn't lied about wanting to cooperate. So you complied and followed them, and soon found yourself back in their throne room, standing on the outlook that overhung the royal courtyard.

Lucifer summoned their demons and the courtyard suddenly filled with millions of repugnant, howling monsters. You could feel their eyes judging you and, despite the torches and fire pit burning in the room behind you, you shivered.

You had never done that, addressing so many people at once. Your position as a Dominion only allowed you to lead meetings of a handful of angels, all inferior in rank. Delivering speeches to Fallen Ones certainly wasn't on the top lines of your curriculum vitae.

But the demons were waiting so you lifted your chin, straightened your wings, and took a confident step forward.

"Peace be–"

The demons listened –or did they? You couldn't tell from up here–, their expressions ranging from boredom to mild curiosity, but they remained silent for the most part, seemingly unimpressed.

False start. You couldn't possibly wish peace upon those former angels if you wanted to be taken seriously. You cleared your throat and started over.

"Greetings, denizens of Hell. I come before you as an envoy of the Silver City, a representative of the Almighty, in the spirit of divine order. The Cup of Eternal Grace has been stolen from Heaven."

You paused, expecting your words to carry weight, but the demons began to snicker instead, which quickly escalated into full-blown laughter. You decided to throw another look at Lucifer, silently asking them to do something, but the Devil remained impassive.

You briefly glanced at Lucifer who raised an expectant eyebrow, waiting to see how you would fare, so you turned back to the assembly below and resumed talking.

"One of you here has it. It is imperative that it be returned to its rightful place, and I expect your full cooperation in the matter."

"I, uh… Assist me in this task, and you shall find favour in the eyes of… God…" Your voice trailed as the laughter grew. "Refuse, and you risk His… wrath…"

You gave up. By now the evidence was hitting you like a brick, Lucifer had done this on purpose. They had felt mocked earlier and now were mocking you, humiliating you, by letting you publicly make a fool of yourself. The message was clear, you were only here because the Lightbringer allowed you to be, and the smooth running of your mission depended only on their goodwill. With that lesson learnt, you lowered your gaze in defeat.

When Lucifer saw that you had finally understood who was in charge here, they raised their hand, and Hell fell silent. The demons listened intently as their ruler ordered them to do as you had said, motivating them with various threats.

Meanwhile, you turned around to look at Mazikeen, whom you had heard laughing with the others. She was still staring at you with a smug grin, her whole body exuding devilish pride. She hated you, that much was obvious, and you had little doubt she would try to put a spanner in the works.

"There, little angel," Lucifer suddenly said once they were done addressing the crowd. "My demons will not hinder your research. You are free to come and go on their lands and interrogate them as you please. Mazikeen will ensure your safety. Although…" They invaded your personal space and let their eyes slide over your face and then trace your silhouette before moving back up. "We have no intention of letting you out of Our sight for now."

The morning had stretched into a long arduous journey through Hell's landscapes. With the Morningstar as your guide, you had visited ruined fortresses, questioned quite a few demonic entities already, and combed through cursed archives, all to no avail.

You couldn't help but inwardly complain about Lucifer's methods and more specifically their decision to walk to each location rather than fly. This realm was vast, yes, but not much more than Heaven, and your wings were strong. Yet, you were made to stay on the ground, enduring either the scorching heat or the icy cold, and always the oppressive weight of Hell's atmosphere.

You had initially wanted to protest but had chosen to refrain. What had happened this morning back at the palace had made you understand that you had absolutely no power here and that being an envoy of God, the Most Supreme, Lucifer's own Father, made no difference. Quite the contrary, in fact. In Heaven, you were a Dominion, a relatively powerful angel. In Hell, even the Damned seemed to be more welcome than you were.

You had not needed to comment on Lucifer's choice anyway. They had indeed quickly sensed your incomprehension and kindly reminded you that journeys were often as important as the destinations themselves if not more, and part of you begrudgingly had had to admit that they were right.

And so you kept on walking, ash filling your lungs and bones breaking under your feet, always two steps behind the sovereign's superb figure, accepting this means for them to assert control and test your resolve.

The light grew dim as you now ventured into a forest, and the air turned cold and thick with an eerie fog that hung mid-air. You noticed the trees first –gnarled, twisted, pale things with trunks that seemed to writhe in the darkness. But it wasn’t until you heard the faint, mournful cries that you realised how painful crossing these woods would be for you.

You looked up, and that’s when you saw them –the Damned, their bodies fused into the bark, faces contorted in eternal torment, limbs tangled with the branches above.

"We know, Our darlings, We know…" Lucifer suddenly spoke in reply to the whimpers of pain and despair.

Had you heard that right? Were they really trying to… soothe those sinners? You didn't want to believe Satan capable of compassion and yet, their intention seemed genuine.

"Where are we?" you asked.

"The Woods of Suicides."

Immediately, you felt the need to do the sign of the cross –taking one's own life was the greatest sin, after all; so you had been taught. But Lucifer snatched your wrist before you even started.

"Do not," they growled. "Not anywhere in Our realm, especially not here. It would be of great disrespect."

"These mortals are unworthy of my respect," you countered. "They have forsaken the Lord."

"The Lord has forsaken them," Lucifer corrected you, finally letting go of your wrist as if getting rid of a piece of rubbish. Their voice remained as poised as always, though there now was a certain edge to it as they continued. "Do you know why humans kill themselves?"

"No. But they have free will. God gave them a beautiful life of endless possibilities, and they squandered them all."

"God… gave them a life of suffering. A suffering so grand they could not wait for old age to come or for someone to shoot them to put an end to it."

"He does not burden a soul with more than–"

"N-No, Your Majesty," you admitted reluctantly.

Lucifer cut you off. They had the intention to lecture you, and there was no stopping them.

"You sometimes seem to forget your place and to speak with arrogance, acting oh so… holier-than-thou. Yet you wear your wings with uncertainty, and We know that beneath that shining armour of righteousness, there is doubt. Because there is so much you do not know, do not understand, and you hate it. God, my brother, and his kind have been keeping you in the dark, using you as a mere pawn in their Great Plan despite your strength and intelligence, and you secretly loathe them for it. Are We mistaken?" You didn't say anything, so Lucifer insisted. "Are We?"

Lucifer let your answer sit for a moment. You felt ashamed and somewhat stupid, and lowered your gaze to the ground.

"These souls you so easily judge were left in despair by a God who calls Himself all-loving and all-forgiving but remained silent when they needed guidance the most. Look at them." Seeing your lack of reaction, Lucifer urged you again. "Look."

So you looked up. Lucifer stepped back then, and only when they were far enough did you realise that it was not to them that the lamentations of the Damned were directed nor was it them that the dead tried to reach with their scrawny hands –it was you.

"What are they doing? What do they want?"

"Why, what you have, of course. The right to walk the gardens of Heaven, an eternal life free of pain, and their Father's love, His forgiveness."

"Forgiveness is always given to those who ask for it," you whispered, though, at that point, you weren't even convinced by what you preached any more.

"Oh, but they asked," Lucifer assured. "Most of them did, at least. Granted, some of them were driven here by their own guilt after committing crimes they could not handle. Some of them have gone mad, too. You can ask Herr Hitler about it, he is hanging a little further east. But the others… They begged and begged and begged for a sign that never came. We will not allow you to dismiss them so easily."

The silence that followed was heavy, the weight of Lucifer’s words sinking into you. You couldn't believe you were actually thinking this, but the Morningstar was right –again. Where had God been when these poor souls started straying from the path? Why had He not prevented this?

You looked up at the dead canopy once more and, not knowing what else to do, you said to any damned soul that would listen, "I forgive you."

To your surprise –and a bit to Lucifer's own– the pained moaning ceased then, leaving the woods in empty, cold silence.

"Quite honourable," Lucifer said. "But what you are giving them is but a mere respite. It's too late now."

You closed your eyes, swallowing the sadness that this harsh truth raised within you, and already the desperate cries resumed.

"Now come. We still have much to do."

You were now back at the palace. This first day of research was coming to an end, and there was still no sign of the chalice. You felt nothing but frustration and a growing sense of futility, and the conversation you had had earlier with Lucifer was still causing much turmoil inside you.

You nodded absent-mindedly –that artefact was not the main thing on your mind right now.

Lucifer, ever watchful, seemed to sense your nervousness and turned to you.

"Do not lose hope, little angel. The Cup will be found soon."

"Perhaps would you care to join me for supper?" were Lucifer's next words.

"It seems the day has worn on you more than we had both expected, and you have come a long way. We thought you might want to rest before returning to the Silver City. Besides… It would please Us to learn more about you beyond our forced cooperation."

Your head snapped when you heard the shocking proposition.

"I beg Your pardon?"

"I'm not here to befriend You, Lightbringer. And I have to be back before compline."

"Of course you do," Lucifer said, finding your devotion endearing. "And We promise you will."

The smile now forming on their face seemed genuine, but you were still unsure whether you could trust them or not –they were the Devil, after all.

"Are You trying to tempt me?"

Lucifer chuckled softly. "Is it working?"

Evidently, it had worked because you were now sitting at a long, ornate table in the grand dining hall of Lucifer's palace, a masterpiece of dark elegance with intricate carvings that seemed to shift in the flickering light of a hundred torches.

The feast that was now coming to an end had been more sumptuous than you had anticipated, and you knew you would have to confess to giving into gluttony once back in the Silver City. But you would be lying to yourself if you tried to pretend you hadn't enjoyed the food.

You had also enjoyed the conversation, which had drifted to matters of history and philosophy –you, arguing with your celestial point of view, Lucifer with their hellish one.

The Morningstar had also inquired about your time in Heaven, the nature of your duties there, and your thoughts on the Archangels and others of higher rank. Their questions, though polite, had probed deeper than you had expected, and you had tried to answer with caution despite a certain level of candour that had surprised even you.

Lucifer, on the other hand, had spoken of Hell with detached pride and had only hinted at the intricacies of its management, mostly skilfully avoiding the very few questions you had dared to ask.

The silence that was reigning now felt awkward –to you, at least; Lucifer, for their part, seemed to enjoy staring at you and making you feel uncomfortable as they munched on a pomegranate. You felt the need to break it.

"I thank You for this meal, Lucifer Morningstar. However, it is getting late, and I should take my leave."

"Of course. We understand," Lucifer replied with a slow nod and a polite smile before standing up to see you to the door. "But you should know…" they said as you reached it. "We were not trying to tempt you earlier. We merely offered, and you accepted. Even angels have free will, and yours, Our little angel, is asking you to… experience new things."

Was Lucifer insinuating that you were starting to stray from the right path? Your jaw clenched at that possibility.

"It is alright, do not fret," they added when they noticed your expression, their voice mellowing though their smile was turning to a more sly one. "You can always ask for forgiveness."

Feeling something starting to crumble inside you, you curtsied weakly and then made your way out of Lucifer's palace to fly back to Heaven, already dreading your return tomorrow.

And there was evening, and there was morning –the second day.

[zukosdualdao]

a wound to close, the whole thing open

zutara month, day 2: journal/diary.

summary: when katara searches the attic of ember island, she comes across a journal, hidden away on an old bookshelf.

warnings: implied/referenced child abuse wrt ozai's treatment of zuko. what's referenced here is emotional abuse and i would say at show-canon levels.

other notes: title is from gracie abrams' "camden". also, this fic is very much 'picture taken moments before mild disaster', because i imagine after the end, katara still finds ozai's baby picture, thinking it's zuko, and her thought process is 'well that was sad but look at cute baby zuko!' oops!

Katara knows she’s wrong to snoop, but it’s just so hard to resist now they’re somewhere a young Zuko once lived for stolen weeks of golden summers at a time. For so long, she’d never wondered about him much at all—she’d had, after all, no reason to want to know the boy who chased them around the world in his pursuit of capturing Aang—but things are different now.

First, there had been the catacombs of Ba Sing Se, and she’d caught another glimpse of that boy, another side of him. Wearing Earth Kingdom robes two sizes too big for him, with grief and sympathy that matched hers shining in his eyes, saying strange things about destiny and curses and seeming so lost.

Katara had spent long weeks after the fact wondering whether any of it was true as she struggled to capture sleep on that stolen Fire Navy ship. 

Of course, that was far from the only anxiety on her mind. Wondering when Aang would wake up, if he would at all… Sokka’s growing plans for the invasion, and what it could mean for all of them… being with her father for the first time in years, how half of her wanted to light up at the comfort of it but the other couldn’t dare because he went away and what if it happened again?

And Zuko…

She would turn to her other side, her chin resting on a flat hand, and wonder about him. He’d seemed so sincere, but Katara had wondered often how that could be the case when just moments later, he was catapulting rage and fire in her direction. 

But then he’d come to them and begged for a chance to prove himself. 

And even before she wanted to, far before she felt ready for it, she’d started to come to know things about him. How he would get up at dawn every morning—rising with the sun, she’d thought bitterly—to practice his own firebending forms before his lessons with Aang. How he’d sometimes frown when making the first batch of tea for them around a campfire and then make a second and always seemed to light up when their meals had a little extra spice to them.

How he would sometimes squirm just a little and hesitate a beat and sometimes even bristle before smiling shyly when the others teased him, as though it took a moment to steady his footing and catch up to the fact that it was only teasing.

She had started to know him, to really know him, before she’d wanted to, before she’d forgiven him, before she decided it was safe to let the distance between them shrink.

But now they’re friends. And with the comet looming in the coming days, with things a little tense and strange between everyone since that disaster of the play, and with the vestiges of Zuko’s childhood right here, it’s hard not to be curious.

And, as she reasons to herself while setting the cooking pot of solid silver atop the bookshelf, at least she has deniability. 

The shelves are lined with old books, with gold thread traced through their spines, and old scrolls with white parchment coloring yellow, with shiny maps, and…

Katara’s brow scrunches as she catches sight of what seems to be an old journal, bound by leatherskins, poking out from behind one of the old tomes, clearly meant to be hidden away.

She reaches for it. It’s such a small, delicate thing, really, but it feels heavy in her hands.

When she flips to the first pages, she recognizes the symbols for Zuko’s name, written out in a long, intense, careful scrawl. She’s never seen his handwriting before, but it matches what she might’ve guessed it would look like, teetering between bold and delicate.

Katara flips past the first pages, which seem to mostly consist of Zuko practicing his letters, and comes across what seems to be a draft of a letter he’d written to Iroh, certain lines crossed out or words respelled after an ink-permanent error. He asks after when Iroh will return from the war—and she shudders to think that the kindly old man who'd helped them on more than one occasion had once been much different, the terrible Dragon of the West, laying siege to Ba Sing Se.

But in another line, Zuko writes to his uncle about a festival and paper dragons. Her heart swells to think he was once so young and even playful.

Atop the right corner of the page, there is a tiny, shaded-in sketch of a blooming fire lily. Katara smiles.

She flips through more pages, most of which are much the same as the first several, but then pauses. On this one, there are dark patches—the kind that she can tell came from water drying on the parchment, and it’s now wrinkled. Once, she might have been able to salvage the page with her bending, but the water has long-since dried up and left only deterioration in its wake.

It’s…

The page is tear-stained. He’d cried when writing this.

Gulping, Katara squints her eyes to read his small script, so much shakier than the previous pages had been. She can’t read most of it, for the smears and the wrinkling of the page, and she’s not sure she even wants to, anyway, because what she does manage to scan through makes her feel a little sick, her stomach clenching.

—don’t know what I can do, he had written, and it’s all too easy to imagine a much younger version of her friend with tears in his eyes, sobs wracking his shoulders, a lonely figure in a dark attic. — to better, to not so weak. 

There's a series of words Katara can’t make out, but she does catch Father and love.

And then, one shining beacon of hope:

But Mom says—

The writing stops there. She will never know what his mother used to say.

She flips through the rest of the journal, but the pages are hauntingly blank. There are no more entries after that. 

Katara places the journal back where it was tucked and has the vague sense that she’s back where she started.

A strange guilt gnaws at her. Somehow, she thinks she understands Zuko both better and worse than she did before.

[hypersonic04]

Gold Rush

hello everyone! I thought that as a last hurrah to the summertime, I'd write something inspired by it. this was kindly suggested by @mybrokenveins3000, and i am so obsessed with the whole concept. i hope you all enjoy, let me know what you think! love u!

word count: 1,429

Your skin begs to soak up every last ray of late-August sunshine. The flashing lights and movie stars feel far away now, a life that belongs to someone else, someone who cares about things that, in this life, have no value. He’s golden, flickering, light pouring from him as you sit beside him in the convertible. The wind tickles at your skin, your eyes glued to him sat beside you. Linen shirt, sunglasses, hair sea-salt-ruffled. His skin has been kissed by the sun since you arrived here all but two weeks ago. You tip your head back, try to commit every last cobblestone and blade of grass to memory. The Italian summer has owned your heart for a while, but the silver R laid flat to your chest is forever, sacred, for eternity.

His fingertips are hot on your sticky skin, the breeze welcome as he carefully turns the wheel. Physically, his eyes are fixed forward, but they’re glassy, dreamy, starry. He looks like something you’d have drawn when you were 15, a figment of your imagination. You wonder how many other people would’ve drawn the same thing - what must it be like to grow up that beautiful? The jealousy that dares to make itself know disappears in an instant, his chocolate gaze melting into yours.

“Are you happy?" He asks you. You nod, wordlessly, because words could never be enough.

"Are you?"

"Very." His gaze returns to the road, swallowing heavily, the sweetest of smiles on his face.

The car takes a left, rumbling up the hill that leads us to our treasure trove, our castle. White stone walls, shutter blinds, a peach tree curving over the balcony. It's silent as the engine shuts off, except for the distant sound of a bird call. Your skirt is soft on your legs as you jog up the stone steps, Ross following closely behind, as ever. His hands on your waist, lips on the shell of your ear, light breaths sending you dizzy,

"Ross," you mumble through giggles, unable to put the keys in the lock for his touches. His presence in a room could do that to you, though, red often flushing to your face at the sight of him.

"What, can I not kiss my fiance?" He smiles against your cheek, emphasis on the latter.

Your engagement remains a secret from the world, from prying eyes, from anyone, really. He'd popped the question three days ago, the silver band on your finger new and novel, the sight of it startling, almost.

You turn around in his hold, back pressed to the wood of the door, head tilted upwards to meet his affirmed smirk, a smugness to it as he gazes down at you.

"Fiance." You breathe out, chest sinking as you sigh. He nods, inching closer and closer to your pink lips until they're pressed together. Your hands hold his face, stubble gravelly under your hot touch, your breath stolen by his kiss. He nods at you with drowsy eyes as he pulls away, smiling. The air is balmy, the dusky sky almost a shade of rust now.

He slips the key out of your fingertips, unlocking the door as you rest against it. Walking you backwards into the house, his hands are on your hips and he's laughing at something you've said, something cocky, the kind of thing that fascinated him in the bar that one night. A loud laugh, the kind that gets stuck in the air, tangled around your ear, lingering in the pits of your stomach on the nights you lay awake in the dark. You want it to sit there forever.

He lets you leave him to get changed, begrudgingly. You can hear him opening and closing cupboard doors as you tie your hair up, slipping out of the linen skirt you'd been wearing. Your skin is tan as you look at yourself in the mirror, bra and shorts the only suitable attire for the sweltering evening heat. The bedroom windows are wide open, and you find yourself gazing out of them for a second. You can see the ripple of lights on water, hear distant conversation from a restaurant you'd sat in a few days ago, the greenery hanging over the window close enough for you to touch. It's still, a stark contrast to your everyday life. You wonder what would happen if you didn't go back.

The sound of the balcony doors opening steals you from your daydream. Padding across the wooden floor, back into the living room, you spot the bottle of red wine he's placed on the table outside, ashtray and deck of cards next to the glasses. A smile spreads across your face, spotting him through the arch of the kitchen, shirt off as he places slices of watermelon on a plate.

He glances at you, then glances at you again as you walk out onto the balcony. You lean against it with a glass of wine in hand, surprised when his fingers ghost up your spine. They're soft, warm, home.

"Thank you for pouring me a glass." You smile, maintaining his eye contact over the rim of the glass.

"You're very welcome, my love." He kisses your temple before taking a seat at the table, leaning back and lighting a cigarette. He takes a drag of it, and you watch as his cheeks hollow. It's inviting, bewitching almost, watching his eyes graze across the view from your balcony, hair falling perfectly, lungs inhaling.

You take your seat across from him, shuffling the cards. He watches as you do it, flicking some ash into the ashtray between you both. You deal them out as he tells you about how George had asked how the holiday was going, how long you were staying, nodding along as he talks.

The wine flows too easily, your cheeks red and glowing as you stare at him dreamily. There's a purity to it, an innocence, your eyes glazed over like a teenager with a crush.

"You're staring." He chuckles, eyebrows raised.

"What, can I not stare at my fiance?" You giggle as you mirror his earlier words, watching his face contort as he laughs. The air is bursting with love, the seams of your bubble threatening to burst as your laughter bounces around, your belly warm and mind fuzzy. "Let me have a drag." You cock your head to his cigarette and hold our your hand.

"You're not smoking a cigarette, y/n." he shakes his head with a laugh. "When have you ever smoked?"

"When I've had four glasses of Bordeaux." you giggle. The sound that escapes your lips sends him dizzy, tilting his head a little so he can see every inch of your face, warmed up by the glow of the living room light falling through the doorway. He wants to bottle this noise, this moment, this feeling.

He puts it out before you can attempt to steal it, standing up to look over the balcony. His back is broad, muscles evident as he rests his forearms on the railings, dark eyes contemplating the scenery around him. It's dark now, little caverns of light hidden in the landscape, evidence of life. Your arms snaking around his waist don't take him by surprise, a kiss pressed to the centre of his back as you rest your head against it. His skin is hot, smooth under your touch, still glazed with sunscreen and aloe moisturiser. Memories of you in fits of laughter the day before, him wincing as you lathered the cold gel onto his back, running around the house like children - you're grateful they exist, you hope they stay as vibrant as they are right now.

You can hear the strum of a guitar from a bar lower down the cliff, faint and gentle in your ears, but enough to know it's something familiar. Humming along to it, he turns around and takes your hands in his, swaying ever-so-gently. He's twinkling, sparkling under your touch, cheeks tinted pink and eyes sleepy. You're drunk on red wine, dancing with your fiance on a balcony in Italy - if only you could freeze time.

His hands move to your waist, smooth and soft under his calloused fingertips, lips pressed to yours, tongues intertwining like ivy, like the way you think your souls might be. He walks you backwards, back through the balcony doors, hitting the wall of the hallway before you can catch your breath. He pulls away, eyes so close to yours, and if you could jump into them, you would.

[impala-dreamer]

Be My Mistake

A Short Story

~ When Rebekah is asked to write with Jensen on his first solo album, the chemistry extends past the page and bleeds into real life. Both happily married, they tried to fight the spark between them, but some things aren’t so easy to ignore… ~

Jensen Ackles x Rebekah Jordan

6,211 Words

Romance, Angst, Infidelity, Sex and Love and Heartache

Inspired by the song of the same name by The 1975. Written for @jacklesversebingo “Bad Decisions Were Made” was my prompt. I was also challenged to put myself into a fic, so here we are!

JacklesBingo Masterlist

Impala-Dreamer’s Masterlist  ~  Patreon  ~ Published Works

He kept a guitar pick in his pocket. 

It wasn’t just any pick. It was the blue one with her teeth marks dented into the top. She’d stolen it from him that night on the beach when the wind was gently lifting her long hair and the fire lit the gold in her eyes. Bare toes dug into the warm sand, they spent the evening writing songs and drinking too much wine. The wine was cheap but the lyrics were good. Her voice was soft and blended almost too perfectly with his. It was magical the way she matched his harmonies, beautiful the way her soft lips danced around his words. The flames transfixed them both and he fell deep into her that night. 

He never left home without that pick in his pocket, never let it out of his sight. It was a secret bit of her that he’d stolen, a tangible memory of the feelings she’d sparked within him. 

Maybe it kept him grounded, maybe it kept him from making the same mistakes again. He didn’t really know why, but the reasons didn’t matter. Whenever he felt the prickling hand of anxiety curl around the back of his neck, a touch of that pick was all he needed to push it away. If the stress of home was growing too strong or another woman turned his head, he’d run his thumb across the pick, feel her phantom marks, and remember the beauty and pain of loving her. 

It was hard to keep it a secret, but happy was easy to fake. He smiled for the cameras; laughed when he needed to. He turned up the charm so those around him couldn’t tell he was shattered inside. 

There was sand on the sheets and salt on their skin. 

Jensen pushed up on his strong arms and hovered over her, staring into her eyes and making her blush for the thousandth time. 

Rebekah bit her lip and shied away, unable to stand the way he looked into her heart so deeply, so contentedly.  

“Don’t do that,” she whispered, turning her head. 

Jensen chased her gaze. “Why not?” 

“Because you’re freaking me out.” 

He grinned and drew his pink tongue across his plump bottom lip. “Why’s that?” 

Beka’s throat tightened and her eyes burned. Emotions were too high, she was too drunk, and he was too beautiful. “You’re like… digging into my soul. It’s strange. No one looks at me like that.” 

He sighed gently and sat back on his ankles between her knees. “They should,” he answered. “They’re missing out.” 

Embarrassed, she tried to hide her face in her hands, but he wouldn’t let her. Tender fingers wrapped around each wrist as he lowered her hands and set them down on her hips. 

“Don’t…” 

Jensen dipped his chin and let his gaze sweep over her nakedness. It was dark in the room but the moon sent streaks of pale silver through the sheer curtains, highlighting every soft curve. “You’re beautiful.” 

Her body tensed. She tried to squirm from his grip and grab the sheet, bury her face, and hide herself away. “Stop it.” 

“No.” He released her wrists but held on, slowly sliding his big hands up her arms. “You are. I’m sorry no one tells you that.” 

His hands went higher and her chest grew tighter. She blinked a tear away but he never closed his eyes, watching every flinch, every breath. 

“You should hear it every fucking day.” 

“Jensen-” 

When his palms settled on her cheeks, her protests fell aside. Transfixed by his gaze and the song of his voice, Beka melted into his touch and invited his kiss with a shy smile that drove him wild. 

“We really shouldn’t be here,” she whispered before his lips found their target. 

“I know, but…” He closed his eyes and his lashes brushed across the apple of her cheeks. His hands pushed through her black hair, holding her close. “Just one night. Please.” 

She always turned off the light. 

It felt safer in the dark. She pretended to believe that if she couldn’t see him then it wasn’t really happening and if it wasn’t really happening, no one would get hurt. No vows were being broken, no hearts would shatter. 

She wished she’d kept the lights on. 

Wished she had kept her eyes open, memorized every line on his face, every hair out of place, every tiny smile. She should have studied him closely, tucked away his image in her mind, and savored his taste on her tongue. She should have stayed focused and pushed away the mind-numbing pleasure and the time blindness that adrenaline brings. She should have tried harder to remember every second with him. 

“This just isn’t fucking working!” 

Jensen ripped the headphones from his head and tossed them across the room. They hit the wall with a crackling thud and Beka watched the black plastic pop off the band and shatter. 

He spun away from the microphone and raked a hand through his hair, aggravated at himself and the time they were wasting. His face was red, his jaw tense, eyes wild. 

Beka leaned on her guitar and watched him pace. He could spend hours like this, running his mind through every tiny mistake, desperate to perfect each note. She sighed. 

“It’s not as bad as you think,” she told him. 

Jensen laughed bitterly as he kicked at the broken headphones. “Yeah. Right. Did you go deaf in the last ten minutes?”

She could tell they wouldn’t get anywhere with him throwing a fit. She huffed her cheeks up and let the air out in a half whistle. “Jack?” She waved at the sound engineer watching them through the big glass window. “Wanna take five?” 

A thumbs up appeared and Jack left them alone.

Carefully, she set her guitar on the stand and hopped down from the stool. Barefoot, she padded over the worn Oriental rug to the door and turned the big dial next to it. The overhead lights dimmed and Jensen froze in place. 

“What are you doing?” 

“I’m giving you a break.” 

He balled his fists and rolled his shoulders. His body was tense; his blood pressure was high. “I don’t need a break,” he growled. “I need this fucking song to be done!” 

Rebekah wet her lips and crossed her arms over her chest, waiting. 

“It sounds like shit! Everything I fucking do sounds like shit!” 

She kicked her right foot back and leaned against the door, watching. 

“Fifteen fucking takes and it’s still wrong! The whole fucking thing is wrong!” He threw a punch at nothing, expending a surge of rageful energy that had collected in his bicep. “This is pointless!” 

“I don’t think it’s pointless.” She kicked off the door and took a step into the room. “I think it sounds great so far.” 

Jensen looked up at the dark ceiling and sighed. He waved her away, annoyed. “You don’t get it.”    

“I don’t get what? That you’re a perfectionist and it’s giving you an ulcer?” 

His jaw twitched. Green eyes pierced through her like daggers. “You don’t understand what kind of pressure I’m under all the fucking time! It has to be perfect! I have to be perfect!” 

His voice echoed through the studio but did not escape the expertly crafted walls. It simply bounced back and slapped him in the face. 

Beka sucked her teeth and took another step closer. “You’re right.” 

He balked; eyes narrowing at her. 

“I don’t understand what it’s like,” she went on. “I don't know what it’s like to spend every day working my ass off and every weekend being talked at, screamed at, and touched by strangers.” 

Jensen sighed heavily and shook his head, annoyed. “That’s not-” 

She kept going. “I don’t know what it’s like to absorb a million camera flashes or hear my name said over and over.”

“I don’t mean it like that-” 

“I don’t understand what you go through, Jensen.”

He softened. His shoulders dropped, his hands unclenched, his breath slowed. He closed his eyes.

“But I do understand what I hear in your voice.” She finished closing the space between them, standing only inches away. “I understand what I feel when I read your words.” 

He shook his head, still unbelieving and frustrated. 

Her voice dropped low. “I know what I know when I’m with you.” 

Jensen opened his eyes and met her gaze.

“And what I know is that you are… amazing and talented and truly… incredible.” She smiled and he dropped his head, too tired to fight and needing every word. “You awe me every day, Jensen. Every part of you is simply incredible.” She lifted her hand to his chin and drew his face up to hers. “And if you want to spend the next… forty years getting these songs out of your beautiful mind… Spend a decade recording them over and over again until they’re painfully perfect, I’ll be here at your side until you’re satisfied.” 

A peaceful warmth washed over him and she could see it in his eyes. He grinned. “Until I’m satisfied?” 

She rolled her eyes at his teasing joke. “I should really choose my words better.” 

Jensen reached for her. “I think you chose them perfectly…” His big hand wrapped around the nape of her neck and he pulled her close. 

His lips were cracked and dry but his tongue was hot, wet; hungry. She sighed into him and grabbed a fistful of his shirt, digging her fingers into the soft black cotton. 

“You’re fucking amazing,” she whispered as he walked her backward; his long strides forcing her to keep up until her back was flush against the wall. “So fucking amazing.” 

He licked into her mouth, dragged his hand down her body; rocked his hips against hers. She tugged at his hair and gasped as his teeth scraped over her pulse. 

“We shouldn’t do this here…” 

“I know…” Jensen sucked a mark behind her ear. 

She shivered at the hard pull of his lips. “Maybe… just a quick break…” 

He never slept much. 

The hours just before dawn were the worst. He’d lay awake staring at the clock on his phone, begging the minutes to pass or the kiss of sleep to return. Too early to move, too anxious to rest. He still craved those midnight masses in her arms, those nights when nothing mattered but her breath on his skin and her lips at his ear. Her sacred whispers too blasphemous to repeat but too beautiful to forget. 

Some nights he would wash his face in the blue light of his screen, scroll until he saw her face, and then hug the phone to his chest. Could she feel him across the miles? Did she know she was on his mind? 

A gentle buzz woke her, the vibration of her nightstand made her move. 

Blinking into two a.m. darkness, Rebekah grabbed her cell and swiped quickly to shut off the alert. Her husband snored beside her, halfway across the world in their king-sized bed. 

The light burned her eyes but the message soothed them instantly. 

‘You up?’

Jensen. She smiled and rolled onto her side with the phone clutched tight. 

‘Kinda. why are you? Can’t sleep?’

‘My head’s too busy. Can I call?’

She closed her eyes and took a breath. Hubby shifted in his sleep. 

‘Yeah. lemme go outside’

‘Meet you there.’

Carefully, Jensen slipped out of bed and crept down the hall. He avoided the creaky spots on the floor and held his breath when he passed the twins’ bedroom. 

The night air was warm and he sat on the patio, staring at the moon’s reflection on the surface of the swimming pool, wondering how cold the water was. He thought to stick his toes in, but before he could move, his phone vibrated. 

“Hey.” 

Beka exhaled a sweet breath into the phone. All nerves and worry faded when she heard his voice. It was always like a blanket around her, warm and safe. “Hey, Jen.” She sat on the back deck under the stars, a bit chilly but it felt good. “What’s got your brain running around?” 

 “Oh, you know. Work. Life. Wife.” 

She laughed softly. “Yeah, I get that.” 

The quiet between them was never hard, the distance never awkward. Just hearing her breathing was enough for him. His gentle hums made her smile. 

“Wrote a new song this morning,” he told her. “One of those ‘in the shower’ moments.”

“I don’t think you can put out a song about jerking off in the shower, sir.” 

He laughed. She could see it in her head: that brilliant smile, his head tipping back, his shoulders quaking. 

“Not like that!” 

“Yeah, yeah. Dirty old man…” 

“So what, you never jerk off in the shower?” 

Her cheeks burned. “I’ve been known to rub one… or two… out in the shower, yeah.” 

He licked his lips, intrigued. “And what do you think about when you do?” 

“You.” 

Jensen shifted, unconsciously spreading his bowed legs. “Oh yeah?”

“Generally, yeah.” 

“What are you wearing right now?” 

She chewed her lip and slid down in her chair. “PJs.” 

He laughed. “Tell me.” 

“Um… burgundy tank top…” 

“Nice… and? Shorts?”

“Nope.”

“Those cute lacy panties I like?” 

She clenched her thighs. “Perhaps…” 

He hummed in lustful approval. 

Beka ran a hand slowly down her body. “And you?” 

“Boxers. Blue stripes.”

“Nothing else?” 

He laughed quietly. “It’s warm here.” 

She moaned. “I wish it was warm here.” Her fingertips grazed her nipple. “I wish you were here.”

Jensen sighed. “Me too, Bek…” 

They watched the sky slowly lighten. He caught the rays first and then a few moments later they hit her face. The hour had come to tear them apart, but neither wanted to move. It was too easy to keep talking, too perfect to give up. 

“The man will be up soon,” Beka said finally. She let out a heavy exhale and sat up, pushing her bare feet onto the old wooden planks. “I should go.” 

“Not yet…” 

Jensen closed his eyes against the light and pictured himself next to her. The pink sunrise glowing on her pale skin, the June breeze lifting her long hair. He wanted to be with her. He wanted to sweep the hair off her shoulder and kiss her there, to pull her close and spend the morning in her arms.

“Jen- you gotta go, too. She’ll be up any minute.” 

He swallowed down the fantasy and huffed. “Yeah… I know.” 

“I’ll see you soon.” 

He smiled sadly. “Not soon enough…” 

His wife was still out cold when he laid back down. Jensen closed his eyes and scrubbed a hand down his face. Calls weren’t enough. Texts were pointless. He needed to see her, needed to feel that rush again. 

Beka rolled toward the middle of the bed and tucked her phone beneath the pillow. None-the-wiser, her husband breathed deeply and woke, stretching his left arm out to catch a hug. She curled into him and won a kiss atop her head. 

“Morning, Princess.” 

She breathed back a tear. “Morning.” 

She always loved the little bottles of alcohol they hand out on airplanes. A few sips of vodka did wonders on a flight from coast to coast. A mini bottle of Jameson masked turbulence enough for the clouds to rattle through the plane without invoking any fear. A nip of Bacardi helped lull her to sleep when the cabin was freezing and her neighbor sat too close. 

Tiny bottles of magic. Magic that made long journeys seem a little shorter, a little easier. They helped lessen the guilt that struggled to hold her back, the pain of wanting, and the fear of the eternal end.

The carpet was thin but her ass was numb. She sat on the floor, leaning against his hotel room door, lamenting her choices and hating her circumstances.  

There hadn’t been nearly enough booze on the flight to Chicago to erase the sins graffitied on her heart, but there had been a liquor store. 

She took a long drink straight from the bottle and hummed as the sweet honey glaze of the whiskey coated her tongue. The sting was long gone. She swallowed hard as the elevator door opened and looked up. 

Through the drunken blur, she saw him. Boots first. The brown ones with two-inch heels, muted gold rivets, and tan laces. The cuffs of his dark jeans were turned up at the ankle and she followed them up his bowed legs. She’d know those legs anywhere. He was so perfectly imperfect that it made her want to cry. Everything about him was wrong in some little way, but it all came together in a heavenly masterpiece. Crooked nose, rocket-fin ears, bowed legs- he was beautiful. 

Tears welled at the thought and Beka wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. 

Jensen stopped a few feet away, eclipsing the light above and casting a shadowy figure over her face. “Waiting for someone?” 

She laughed despite the tears and cleared her throat, trying to hide the emotions running rampant. “Well, I was supposed to meet this guy for dinner but apparently his photo ops ran long and he didn’t feel the need to call and tell me…”

“Fuck. I’m sorry.” He hung his head and sucked at his bottom lip. “Things were crazy today; everything was off schedule. A light popped during solos and the rig almost fell over and crushed Chris and-” 

Beka was staring up at him with disappointment written on her face. He sighed. 

“I’m sorry.” 

She took another drink and shrugged. “Shit happens.” The bottle, half empty, found a nest in the carpet fibers as she dropped it beside her thigh. “What can ya do?” 

“You drink all that yourself?” he asked, crouching down to catch it before it tipped over. 

“Well… yeah.” She sat forward and leaned close. “Ain’t nobody else here, is there?”

He grabbed the neck and she grabbed his wrist, wrapping her fingers around tight. Her bottom lip trembled and a dimple in the center of her chin appeared. She pulled in a deep breath. 

“I really wanted to see you tonight,” she whispered. 

“I’m right here.” 

“You know what I mean!” 

He closed his eyes for a moment as her anger dissipated. She was never mad at him for too long but she needed to let him know she felt slighted. 

“I’m sorry.” 

She nodded. “I know. I am too.” 

Carefully, he took her other hand. He rocked back on his heels and stood up, dragging her with him. She stumbled on a sleeping left foot and fell against him. 

“Oops.” She laughed and wrapped her hand around his neck; nuzzled her lips against his ear. “You caught me… my hero.” 

His laugh tickled her cheek. “You’re very drunk.” 

“No shit.” 

Jensen stepped toward the door and shifted her in his arms while trying to dig the key from his back pocket. Beka held on as if the floor would open up and swallow her whole if she let go. 

“Oh! I got you a present,” she said, remembering the tiny plastic bottle in her pocket. “Lady on the plane gave me gin.” 

“You hate gin.” 

The lock clicked and he opened the door. 

“I know. That’s why I saved it for you and your stupid negronis.” She let him lead her into the dark room and stood still while he flipped on the light. “I know you like those things. I don’t know why. They taste like shit and-”

His hands were on her in an instant, knocking the words from her mind as he spun her around. 

“Please shut up and kiss me,” he begged. “I miss you.” 

“But I’m drunk,” she reminded him, smiling in his arms as his fingertips brushed the bangs out of her eyes. 

Green eyes lured her in, plump lips sealed the deal. 

“I don’t care.”

Sometimes he had trouble remembering. 

One moment, he would be flooded with memory- the taste of cold coffee and stale cigarettes in the diner that first week; the feel of the old, ratty air conditioner blasting down on the back of his neck. The accidental touch of her knuckles as he reached across the table to steal her pen. He’d smile, breathe deep, and linger in the phantom feelings. Then it would all fade. He’d struggle to bring back the taste of her skin, the sound of her humming harmony to his melody. She was slowly fading and he hated it. 

He kept her words in his wallet: a worn slip of paper from the register covered in her handwriting. The first song they’d written together seemed to come so easily in that little diner in the middle of the night. Words and a feeling. Rhymes and a shy smile. 

He missed every part of it. 

The brewery was buzzing with excitement. The crowd was grooving; the band was on fire. 

Jensen clung to the mic stand as if it were the only thing keeping him standing. His knuckles were pale, his cheeks burned bright red.

Rebekah kept her eyes glued to him, ignoring the crowd and the friendly faces that stood out. She watched his stage fright slowly subside as the audience accepted his new songs; saw his shoulders relax and his smile soften. His voice grew stronger and his confidence soared. 

When he looked over his shoulder, she was there just like she had promised. He smiled when their gaze met, so ready to sink into the rich brown of her eyes, the warmth of her body, the taste and smell of her. She blushed and hit a wrong note, her fingers sliding off the strings, distracted by his freckled beauty. 

He had his brewery ballcap on backward and she wanted to reach out and whack the bill, flip it off his head, and let his long hair cascade into his face. She wanted to grab him by the collar and tug his lips down to hers. To crush her guitar between their bodies and lick deep into his mouth, suck gently on his plump lips, take his breath away. 

Applause broke her fantasy and she ended the song with a dramatic sweep over the strings. 

Jensen gave the crowd a little wave and a humble nod. “Thanks so much, guys. Thank you!” He paused and took in the room. The energy was high and so was he, drunk on beer and the moment. He sighed heavily and happily. “Thank you so much for coming out tonight and helping me launch this album. I’m really proud of it and I hope you like it.” 

A pop filled the room and he bit his lip at the adulation. 

Beka was close to tears as she watched him. Incredibly proud. Perfectly amazed. 

“So, uh, I want to just take a second to thank my writing partner…” He turned and waved at Beka who winked in return. “Rebekah Jordan, everybody! Doing everything behind the scenes- writing, singing harmonies, playing drums… badly.” 

“Hey! I told you I wasn’t a drummer!” she shouted back. 

“Yeah, but you didn’t tell me you were so bad!”

She shot up two middle fingers and Jensen smirked. A spark of clear arousal struck them both and he quickly looked away, back to the crowd. 

He cleared his throat. “And- my beautiful wife! Thank you for all the support and inspiration.” He gestured to the back of the room where she stood behind the bar. Arms crossed in obvious displeasure, she simply nodded at her husband. 

“Anyway- this is another new one. Hope you like it…” 

Four simple chords rippled through the air and Jensen closed his eyes. He held the mic in both hands and let his voice float like honey, covering every person there until the audience was swaying in time with the band. 

“So long gone, too far away, 

Spent my life on the road.

Whipping wind and freezin’ rain,

Crossing the river as it overflowed…”

Jensen looked back at her, singing their words and missing her touch. 

She lifted her head to find the microphone, ready to sing behind him, but she caught his eye and gasped. He was too beautiful. He was staring too hard. 

“But ever since I met you I’ve been home.

Doesn’t matter where on earth I roam.

All I have to do is reach out for your hand and I’m

Right back where I’m meant to be…” 

She kept his bandana. Even though she couldn’t look at it, couldn’t touch it without breaking down, it held too much of their time together to get rid of.

The black fabric was soft from years of use, the white design dingy and nearly see-through. It had collected his sweat and wiped away her tears, even staunched the blood when she’d scraped her knee outside of that bar in Pittsburgh. He kept it tucked into the back pocket of his jeans, ready to dab barbeque sauce from his lip or dry a spot for her to sit after a rainstorm. 

It lived forever in a box hidden in the back of her closet somewhere between her winter boots and pants that fit two sizes ago. 

She never took it out, but she knew it was there. 

Ten shows under their belts. Ten small stages knew their chemistry; heard their voices mixing like cream and sugar. Perfectly blended, perfectly in sync, perfectly unable to keep their smiles casual or their eyes from lingering. 

When they sang together it was like there was no one else in the room. Jensen would lose himself in the melody, letting her voice wrap around his mind and heart. She’d be stuck staring at his hands so tightly wound around the mic stand, or the way he leaned back to hit a high note. They were too comfortable with each other, too obviously connected. 

For an hour and a half each night, they were in their own little world. 

For hours after they’d lay in each other’s arms, watch the sun come up over a different city, and share their dreams. 

One Saturday night after a show Rebekah was lingering around backstage, feeling a little out of place around the actors there for the convention. She knew them all from afar but never dared to mingle. It felt strange to insert herself into his life in that way. She was only there for the music, only there for Jensen. 

He was off talking to a short blonde, laughing and enjoying the buzz from being on stage all night. Now and then, he’d catch a glimpse of Beka on the sidelines and smile that secret smile he saved only for her. Every time, it made her heart swell and her cheeks burn. She’d wink back and look away, embarrassed by her girly reaction. 

“Great job out there.” 

She turned to find a shirtless Matt Cohen redressing in front of her as if to impress her. She clicked her tongue and looked around him back at the group. 

“You too.” 

He grinned and followed her line of sight back to Jensen. A knowing smirk turned his lips. 

“You and Ackles are really getting along, huh?” He moved to stand beside her, his back to the wall, mirroring her stance. 

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Yeah, I guess. He’s a great guy.”

“The album is really good,” he went on. “That one song- what is it? Something about the beach?”

“‘The Salt on Your Skin’?” 

He nodded and kicked a foot back against the cement wall. “Yeah. That one. Really nice.”

“Thanks.” 

“Very romantic.” 

He looked over at her. His green eyes were pale but intrusive. She shivered. 

“I suppose,” she replied, trying to hide the nerves growing in her gut. “It is a love song, so…” 

Matt tongued his cheek. “Very… personal, I think…” His eyes flew to Jensen and back again. 

Rebekah tensed up and took a step away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“You do. We all do.” He shrugged and pushed off the wall. “But whatever. Have fun just- be careful.” 

Her stomach dropped as he walked away. His warning wasn’t a surprise; she’d been getting looks for weeks, but hearing it out loud, knowing that people knew- she couldn’t stop the dark shadow of guilt from creeping over her face. 

When Jensen finally broke free of the conversation, she was gone. 

The back of the building was quiet and empty. Fans spilled out around the front, milling about and filling the bright walkways with laughter and excitement. 

Rebekah stood in the dark. 

She closed her ears to the distant noise, replaying Matt’s condemning words and hating herself. If he knew, then everyone knew. 

Everyone. 

Since they’d debuted the album, fans had been whispering online, sharing theories and conspiracies, pointing to lyrics and photographs, spinning a web of fantasy around her and Jensen. Mostly, they’d been wild, elaborate stories about a house at the beach, messy divorces, and a secret love child. 

She barely paid attention, but there was a hint of truth in every speculation, and she knew what had to be done before things got out of hand. 

Lifting her face to the pale half-moon, Rebekah let a tear slip and she closed her eyes. She saw her husband’s face in her mind, heard his voice, and felt his touch. She saw his wife’s hateful stare, her accusing gestures, her utter avoidance. 

Things had gone too far. 

“Bek?” 

She sighed. “Yeah?” 

The security door shut behind him. “You OK?”

She shrugged. 

He moved to her side. “What happened? You just left.” 

“I don’t know. I just… needed some air.” 

Jensen reached for her hand and she flinched away. 

“Did something happen? Cohen say something to you?” The worry in his voice made her turn to face him. His brow was creased, his lips tight. 

“He did,” she confessed, “but it doesn’t matter. It’s…” Her throat grew tight, her eyes stung. 

“Tell me.” 

She shook her head. “No. I don’t want to do this right now. Not here.” 

Jensen leaned in. Worry warped his face, thickened his voice. “Do what? Beka- what happened?” 

Her heart ached. “We happened.” 

The meaning struck him in the chest but he refused to give it attention. 

“What are you talking about?” 

Rebekah spun away and hid her face. 

“Hey, come on-” 

“Us! Jensen. Us. We happened.” She dropped her hands and took a shaky breath. “We happened and everyone fucking knows.” 

Stunned into silence, Jensen dropped his hands to his sides and stared at the light post across the alley. 

“We have to stop,” she whispered, praying the wind would carry the words away and he wouldn’t hear it. 

He heard it. He felt it.

“No.” 

She turned back, brown eyes flooded with tears, pale skin glowing under the moon. “We have to. It’s gone too far and if… if some random soap actor who doesn’t even know me can tell… then everyone can. Everyone.”

Jensen refused her logic. “No. No one knows. No one’s said anything-” 

“Matt did. And who would say something to you? ‘Hey, Jensen, long time no see! I hear you’re fucking your writing partner. How’s that going?’”

He sighed. His shoulders dropping as reality crushed down on him. “OK, so… maybe some people know but that doesn’t mean we have to stop. I don’t want to.” 

A deep breath calmed her tears. “Jensen…” She stepped up to him and stared into the green eyes she dreamt of every night. “If this continues, there will be consequences. Real fucking problems. Your career, our families… it will all fall apart.”

He shook his head. Silent. Unyielding. 

“If we keep going… if we…” She knew what she had to do even though it would rip her in half. “Everyone is gonna get hurt if we fall in love.” 

He winced. 

She swallowed hard. 

He opened his eyes. “If?” 

“Yes,” she whispered. “If.” 

His jaw clenched and he held back a tear. “And if… I’m already in love?” 

It felt as if her heart would stop right there and she’d fall dead at his feet. She cleared her throat, pushing all the pain aside. It had to be done and he wasn’t going to do it. 

“Then this will hurt even more.” 

His tears fell and she held her breath. Everything inside told her to shut up, to take it back, to ignore everything and hold on to him. 

“I love you,” he breathed. “Don’t do this.” 

She dug her nails into her right palm, a bit of pain to keep her on track. She shook herself and put on a mask of indifference. 

“Come on, Jensen. This was never going to be anything more than a dalliance.” 

He stiffened. “A dalliance?” 

“A mistake.”

“You are not a mistake.” Anger lifted his voice. “This was not a mistake.” He pointed at her and then clutched his chest. “Not you and me. Never.” 

Unable to think of anything else, any way to get him to understand, she turned away and wave him off. 

“Go home to your wife.” 

Desperate, Jensen rushed at her, grabbed her upper arm, and swung her around. Her long hair whipped around them both and she nearly lost her grip. 

“Tell me that you don’t love me,” he said. 

“Jensen, stop it.” 

“No!” His fingers tightened. “Tell me you don’t love me and I’ll walk away right now.”

Her jaw dropped but the words refused to come.

“See? You can’t say it because it’s not true! You love me. You do.” He was insistent and breaking, so close to losing it all. 

“Jensen…” 

He grit his teeth, refusing to let her go. “You do. Say it. Tell me you’re in love with me, Beka.”

Shaking, she held his gaze and exhaled a deep breath. 

“I don’t love you.” 

It crackled through the air like lightning and she thought for sure they’d both be struck down.

His hand fell from her arm. He could see the lie written on her face, feel the pain pulsing off of her skin. “I don’t believe you.” 

Slowly, Rebekah pushed up on her toes and pressed her lips to his cheek. She held them there for longer than she should have, breathing in one last breath, savoring one last taste of him.

Without another word, she turned to leave, ready to step into the darkness and leave him alone to pick himself up off of the ground. 

Jensen dragged his hands through his hair as he spun around, confused, hurt, and on the edge of insanity. After everything they’d been through, all the love they shared, all the promises they whispered in the night, he couldn’t let it go. He couldn’t watch her leave without a fight.  

“Fuck you.” 

The words cut right through her and she froze on the spot. 

“Fuck you for doing this!” His shout rang out and shook her to the core. “You’re breaking us. You’re breaking me!”

She tried to stay strong, appeal to his logical brain. “You’ll be fine,” she said calmly. “Your wife loves you. Your family loves you. You’ll be fine.” 

He took a step forward but held himself back from rushing at her and demanding she stay. His voice softened. The tears fell heavy down his face. 

“Please don’t do this.” 

She turned back and her heart shattered. “Jensen, please-”

“Don’t end this,” he begged. “You bring something out of me. Something I haven’t felt in so long. Maybe ever. You can’t tell me that you don’t feel the same. I know you do. We’re better together.”

It took everything in her to stay standing. She wanted to run into his arms and scream her apology, take every word back and shove them into the depths of their forgotten memory, never to resurface.  

“I do,” she said softly. “But it’s… It can’t go on. I’m sorry.” 

His weight shifted. He started to go to her. 

“What am I going to do without you?” 

She met him halfway. 

“Write me a song.” She smiled sadly. “Write me a song, just for me. And whenever you play it, I’ll know you’re thinking about me.” Her shoulders shook. “And… that will have to be enough. For both of us.” 

The distance between them faded and Jensen lifted her chin with two tender fingers; kissed her lips with undying passion. She lay her hand on the nape of his neck and held on, saying ‘I love you’, saying goodbye. 

He pressed his forehead against hers and clutched her hand between them, locking it to his heart. 

“Every word I ever write will be for you,” he whispered. “Every song I sing… will be yours.”

It was never a mistake, not to him. 

It never felt wrong when he was with her. 

When the days were long and he felt like crumbling he’d pull out that old guitar pick and run his fingers over the dents her teeth had made. When the work was hard and his mind was a mess, he’d read her words and remember the way they were then. 

So lost in love. 

So wrapped up in the melody. 

2024 Forever Tags (Always Open! Send an Ask!)

@alwaystiredandconfused @babysimpala @beardburnsupersoldiers @chenshemesh1 @cosicas-cuquis @deans-baby-momma @deanwinchesterswitch @feelmyroarrrr @foxyjwls007 @hobby27 @impalaspixie @jackles010378 @kazsrm67 @k-slla @leigh70 @lunaroserites @lyarr24 @nancymcl @nix-rose @peachy-vans @pizzagirlxnsfwx @rachiem4-blog @rosecentury @sexyvixen7 @suckitands33 @the-wounded-healer05 

[loquaciousquark]

I got a ton of prompts last week; thank you! It turns out crawling all over Hawaii's Big Island doesn't leave a huge amount of time for writing in the evenings. The airport sure does, however!

This is the first of two fills I managed to complete. I'm still plucking away at a few more, but considering both of these ended up much longer than I expected, they may take a bit as well. All will be posted on AO3 once I'm finished.

For @liliactrees, "china aster: jealousy." 2600 words, set about a week post-game.

--

Torches in silver sconces blazed merrily on either side of the fine carved doors. They called to passersby in crackling welcome, as did the cultured cheers and calls of laughter within which burst out at every entering patron. Every now and then the doors opened to reveal glimpses of diners in glittering gowns and robes, two glass chandeliers a trifle large for the space, and the scent of beautifully cooked meat.

Tav, who had a new rent in her cloak and a still-damp mudstain down her entire left leg, would just as soon have gone back to the Elfsong for the evening; but a crew of rebuilding construction workers had at last taken on the inn’s shattered west wall, and all guests had been summarily displaced for the duration. Two days, they’d said. Three, if the Elder Brain’s death throes had fractured the foundation. Not much she could do there without taking up a hammer herself.

And besides, Astarion was here. It was a restaurant and auberge just to his taste: on the low side of the Upper City, grossly overpriced, staffed with obsequious parlor-maids and utterly choked with gilt candelabra. She’d as soon taken up at the Blushing Mermaid, but Astarion had made it clear washed sheets were a non-negotiable, and that had severely limited their options. 

Nothing to be done for it. She shook out the road-grit from her cloak, re-tied her hair more smoothly, and pushed open the door. A man in a starched white shirt leapt to pull it the rest of the way for her—unsettling enough even before he apologized for his lapse in attention—and Tav muttered some generic benediction before fleeing past him. 

The main room was fine, very large and very crowded. On the left side were two dozen tables, crammed with velvet-cushioned chairs and bedecked with platters of steaming fish and cut-crystal wineglasses. On the right was a small dance floor, overcrowded just like the rest of the room with men and women in full evening dress, a small string trio on a corner stage leading them through some swirling dance Tav didn’t know. 

Astarion would be at the bar, she knew. Tav kept her head down as she weaved through the crowd, avoiding the glances of curious diners at her leather armor, her bloodied gloves, the blasted mudstain down her leg. Bloody oozes. Bloody opportunistic looters without a goose’s sense among them, too foolish to understand that what they’d stolen from Sorcerous Sundries might in fact be very, very magical indeed—

There. The crowd parted enough she could make out Astarion’s white hair, and every ounce of tension melted out of her like oil off a hot pan. He was sitting at the bar on the back wall, one leg crossed over the other, his chin on his hand, his whole body turned toward the person sitting beside him. His eyes were lidded and unblinking and beautiful, and Tav wanted nothing more in the world than to walk straight into his arms and bury her face in his chest. 

Astarion’s neighbor said something, leaning towards him, and Astarion laughed. A conspiratorial laugh, low and inviting, and a smile afterwards that seemed full of promises. Tav stumbled to a halt. 

Who—a man. She didn’t know him. A little taller than her, she thought, and an elf, very slim, with tawny hair that fell in a straight sheet down his back. He was dressed in fine robes of orange and gold, and nearly every finger bore a jewel-studded ring. He leaned in towards Astarion again, and though she couldn’t hear the words from here, she could make out enough of his tone to know it was a question. 

Jealousy roared up the back of her throat like bile. Tav recoiled, shocked at her own vitriol—but a second wave crashed over her before the first had waned, and her fingers clenched around the hilt of her rapier. 

How dare he. How dare this man—this stranger—come to this overpriced hothouse of an inn and choose Astarion out of everyone, out of all the wretched jewel-encrusted gentry swirling around them to sink his soft unbloodied hands into—

And just as swiftly as it came, the jealousy vanished.

Why not? 

Why not Astarion? He was clearly the most handsome man in the room, apparently unattached and used to luxury, his fine white curls tumbling over his forehead, his eyes sharp as knives. He was dressed in her favorite black with red trim—the embroidery on this one was more subtle, less garish—and his long, elegant fingers played over the stem of his wineglass with careless grace. Even the silver threading on his shoes shone. He might have stepped down from a painting only moments ago, and she had blood on one cheek and sewer muck caked into the heels of her boots. 

What right did she have, after all? This man might be everything Astarion deserved. Self-assured, wealthy, able to keep him in fine clothes and carriages and company the way he ought to be kept. The diamond on the man’s thumb alone could buy half the Wide, Tav thought; surely someone like that could purchase Astarion safety from the sun. In her experience, the wealthy always knew people, or they knew people who knew people, and if nobody knew anybody then the money could always find someone for them instead. 

To Tav’s horror, her foot took a half-step backwards.  

Better this way, hissed a small voice in the back of her mind, one which sounded remarkably like her long-dead aunt. Better this way, you rotten lead weight. Fucking shackle, what good are you? Let go before you sink him too. 

Her foot took another step backwards, and then Astarion laughed. 

A beautiful sound on the face of it. Not that high giggle he gave when he was being shocking on purpose; not that punch of sound when he was surprised by his own amusement. It was a coaxing, persuasive sort of laugh, very musical, and to Tav’s ears—thin and fragile as a sheet of glass. 

Oh, gods. What was she doing? What was she doing? 

The fear released its hold on her feet as if she’d burst into flame. She strode forward, narrowly displacing a waiter with a tray of expensive-looking liqueurs, and split through a pair of cattily gossiping half-elves with matching feather fascinators. The mud was forgotten. The torn cloak was forgotten. The sideways glances and whispered asides as she passed—nothing at all. 

He loved her. How dare she forget? How dare she think such a precious thing might not be worth fighting for? 

She could practically hear his voice in her head. Little idiot!

She broke through the last of the crowd between them, and Astarion saw her. A shell fell away from his expression, so delicate and perfectly molded she’d hardly noticed it until it vanished, and then a warmth grew in his crimson eyes. Not some great blaze, not a raging fire that leapt from tree to tree; something smaller instead, quiet and very steady, the way one lit a candle at the door to welcome home a weary lover.

His smile was real. She thought she could survive a thousand years on that alone.

”Astarion,” Tav said as she reached him, and then she did what she’d longed to for hours and walked straight into his chest where he sat.

“Hello, darling,” he said to the top of her head, and his cool arm wrapped instantly around her shoulders. She shuddered in relief. “Gods below. Did you know you’re filthy?”

”It hadn’t completely escaped my notice,” she said, her words muffled in his collar. Despite every instinct she had telling her to curl up against him right here and sleep for a week, Tav forced herself to straighten. Astarion’s hand slid to the back of her neck, but he didn’t let her go, and he made no move to displace her from the cradle of his knees. “I see you’re very clean and pressed.”

”Volunteer less often for that nasty rebuilding effort, my dear, and you too can spend your days lounging on satin sheets and reading extremely awful poetry.” 

Tav laughed, and his eyes softened. She said, “I missed you.”

”Yes,” he said, as close as he ever ventured to such admissions in public. The string trio finished one set and began another; his thumb stroked up the line of her neck and down again.

The man beside Astarion abruptly cleared his throat. They both looked over; he lifted a manicured, arrogant brow. “You must excuse me,” the man said with the brassy air of one used to being obeyed. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.”

”Yes, Astarion, introduce me to your friend.”

Ah, he knew her too well. A wicked gleam flashed though his eyes, gone again before she could blink. “Of course. Good sir, this is the succinctly-named Tav, orphan of this fair city turned recently and disgustingly savior of the same. My love, this is…ah. Alexander.”

”Alahonder,” the man said, now decidedly icy. “My wife is Olara Hhune.” 

“I’m sorry, I’m not familiar,” Tav said, and she pulled her glove off with her teeth before extending her hand to shake. He took it for the briefest moment, his fingers limp as eels. “Have you two lived in Baldur’s Gate long?”

“Yes,” he said curtly. 

Astarion lifted his wineglass swiftly to his lips. Tav let him—his fingers were trembling with laughter against her neck—and rested an idle hand on Astarion’s knee. “How wonderful. You two must love each other very much.” 

Alahonder Hhune, who had one of the most infamously contentious marriages in the city’s history—who had, Tav knew, been thrown twice from his Upper City manse within the last three months by his furious wife—curled his impeccable elven lip. “Of course,” he said, even more glacial than before. Then he seemed to rally, and with a visible effort he gathered together the scraps of his composure and turned back to Astarion. “My dear boy,” he said, all coaxing honey now, “let me find you again later. Alone, I think. We could pick up right where we left off, hmm?”

”Of course,” Astarion said gleefully, and he brushed his free hand through the man’s tawny hair where it framed his face. “Come back tonight, near midnight. Don’t worry. I’ll find you.” 

“Oh,” the man said with a bloom of painfully obvious lust, and without another glance at Tav, he stood in a flourish of orange and gold robes and strode away into the crowd. They parted for him, then closed again behind him like water as if he’d never been. 

Astarion, who was still running his thumb over Tav’s neck, turned her face to his. “Well, hello,” he purred. “What curious timing you have, my dear.”

”Just lucky, I suppose,” she said, unable to keep the stupid smile from her face, and before she could succumb to the doubt she leaned up and kissed him. 

Astarion let out a low, surprised noise that made her wish to instantly spirit them both away to privacy, then slipped his hand into her hair and pulled her mouth properly against his. The kiss wasn’t long, but it was uncharacteristically tender, and when it was over he let out a little sigh that nearly took her to pieces. Against her mouth, he said, “You really are filthy, you know.” 

“And you’re impossible. Alahonder Hhune, really?”

He sat back, looking immensely self-satisfied. ”What can I say, darling? Had you felt a little less altruistic today, I would have been a little less alone, and a little less alluring to unhappily married second-rate oligarchs.”

”You could always—“ she began, but the memory of exactly why he couldn’t follow her to these daytime excursions flung itself hard against her, and she swallowed the rest of the sentence like glass. “Look less beautiful,” she said lamely instead.

Astarion smirked. “My poor little love. Jealous, are we?”

”Yes,” Tav said, defiant now, and she kissed him again. “Don’t leave me for a Hhune.”

”Certainly not. I’ll hold out for at least a Linnacker.”

”Hm. You could do even better.”

Irritation sparked briefly across Astarion’s face. ”I don’t want better,” he said, sharp enough the tiefling behind the bar glanced over at them. “I know you can be painfully dense, my dear, but let’s not pretend you’re amnesiac, too.” 

How stupid, that the more acidic he became the more her heart puddled in her chest. “Fine,” she said, leaning into him, and he wrapped his arm around her once more. “Let’s see it, then.”

Astarion laughed. He flicked out his wrist, then held up an earring: a polished amber pendant wrapped in heavy gold wire. He twisted the earring this way and that for her amusement, the room’s lavish candelabra flickering fire through the facets. Then he rippled his fingers in a little wave, and the earring vanished. 

“Very good.” 

Astarion laughed. “How smug you sound.” 

“I take my wins where I can get them,” Tav said, and she splayed her fingers to reveal three of Alahonder Hhune’s rings arrayed between her knuckles. Framed on either side by gold and rubies, the diamond worth half the Wide gleamed like cold fire.

Astarion’s smile widened toothily. There was delight there, she thought, and a certain novel pride; and under all of it that same slow-burning affection, richer than any basket of diamonds. How wonderful to be the reason for that fanged smile; how precious to feel her own proud delight in turn. That she’d failed to recognize the glassy-eyed mask earlier seemed the height of impossibility, especially against such a clear window into his heart. 

“You're wonderful,” she said at last, secreting the jewels back into the pouch at her waist, and she framed his face in both hands. “I’ve a confession to make.” 

“Oh, do tell.”

”I’ve gotten mud on your trousers.”

”Ah—ugh,” he said, with very real disgust, and he pulled her hands from his cheeks to examine the streak she’d left against his knee. “Why do I put up with you? Honestly.”

”Because you love me,” Tav said.

”Because I love you,” he repeated with tremendous longsuffering, and he took her chin between his thumb and forefinger and kissed her carefully on the mouth. “I’ll love you more if you bathe and change.” 

“An easy heart to buy. Don’t you have a date later?”

“Yes, though it won’t be with any Hhunes or Linnackers.” His thumb slid to the vein of her throat and pressed there, carefully. “Dinner and a show, I think.” 

Tav laughed. A few of the patrons nearby cast her a glance, but it was swiftly followed by another whisper of her name and an unexpected summary of her recent erstwhile heroics, and then Tav stopped listening because it didn’t matter anyway, because Astarion was smiling at her and Astarion loved her and that was worth any shade of gossip the city could scrounge up. The strings launched into a sprightly minuet, and a new crop of glittering men and women swept onto the floor in a seamless tide.

”I’m glad you’re here, Astarion,” Tav said, meaning it. “I’m glad I’m here with you.” 

Astarion stood, eyes serious, and looked down at her. “I am, as well,” he said at last, and then he shook off the mood like a cat jumping from a bath. “Come on, let’s go. Before this nauseating sentimentality makes me do something I’ll regret.” 

Tav laughed, and when he put his hand to the small of her back she let him guide her towards the stairs. Halfway up the stairs their fingers brushed; he’d gone for the rings at the same moment she’d reached for his pilfered earring. She laughed again; he snorted, and they settled for taking each other’s hands instead.

—

end.

[bilehwit]

Bilehwit - Old English, also known as Anglo-Saxon, the language of the Bretons after the invasion of Norsemen.

Bilehwit means pure, sincere, honest - absolutely a word to describe a sweet lamb.

Isn't it?

Read More for AU details - This AU is under construction, and will be added to in further posts!

Bilehwit was born on an exceptionally cold spring day, to the dismay of their parents.

'At a time like this, in a place this awful?' This was the only thought the new parents had time to think, before it was time to run once more.

Years would pass, resentment and stolen seconds of fleeting happiness would be grappled with, and one would die to heretics before Bilehwit turned sixteen. Only a few months later, the other died to illness.

This was still long before the execution Bilehwit was suspecting would be theirs at the hands of the bishops. Lambs became more rare, almost mystical to see, glances of wool that disappeared into throngs of shrieking worshippers, eager to please their own Bishop.

Bilehwit learned to hide, to find comfort in cold grass stew, and to ponder the meaning of their name. They certainly didn't feel pure, not covered in muck and cowering in bushes from their end. They didn't feel sincere, thanking people from under their hood as they took goods from hands covered in blood. They didn't feel honest, pointing down an alley at another hooded figure to throw people off of their own trail.

This story ends how you think it will, as you know it has to.

Bilehwit was caught.

It wasn't some chase from an epic, it wasn't some brilliant moment that escaped them just too fast. They had crouched in the dirt, watching a tiny beetle wander in the muck, and a follower of Shamura had pressed a blade to their throat and coldly informed them that they were the last.

The Bishops were not just ones to kill the last lamb - they wanted a spectacle. They wanted to show their power was not easily usurped by mere species. They not once spoke to Bilehwit - instead, speaking to followers in special garb, giving instructions in booming, thunderous voices.

Lambs spoke the common language of the land, but Bilehwit only knew the language of the Lambs fluently. Their common was limited to asking for berries and the usual pleasantries. They were not informed of the next processes as they were tossed around.

Cleaned up by attendants in white, then fed foods covered in strange spices, even dressed in a new robe in silver, Bilehwit had no idea as to what was happening. They were inspected all over, invasive hands pressing and searching until someone made a declaration and pleased voices rebounded.

Once done, they were thrown in a silver coloured cage, and placed on a large wagon. Touring through the domains, they started in Leshy's forests of Darkwood. The verdant greenery towered above, and worshippers of the Chaos Bishop whispered and giggled as they passed.

The procession grew as the wagon toured next through Hekets domain, Anura, mushrooms crushed under the ever turning wheels. A phrase kept being repeated in mocking tones, but Bilehwit kept their head high.

Kallarmar's domain, Waterdeep, was their favourite to be put through - all the followers were covered in gold and jewels, beautiful men and women danced along the route, and the water cast dancing lights around them. The followers oooh'd and aaah'd at Bilehwit - they seemed pleased at their mock finery, and children chambered up parents to catch sight of 'The Last Lamb'.

Finally, they went to The Silk Cradle. Bilehwit felt sick to their stomach - bones cracked constantly under the wheels, the followers of Shamura stared silently or clicked their mandibles, and the cobwebs draped like veils over the cage to the point one of the attendants of the parade had had to brush them away with a sleeve over their hand to allow the spectators to see the Lamb.

Finally, they entered a secluded fortress made of stone brick. Inside was filled with trees that towered above even the bishops, and the comforts briefly afforded to Bilehwit were stripped from them as they were thrown into a cell for their final night. The silver gown was taken, and their meal that night consisted of beetroot stew. Bilehwit entertained the idea of staining their wool with it, but their captors had other ideas that didn't spill a drop.

Bilwhwit was lead out the next day in late afternoon after their last supper - a meal made of a piece of each Bishop's domain.

Leshy's had bitter grass and a holly leaf. Bilehwit had swallowed them with a scrunched face. They were pretty sure Leshy had forgotten and had grabbed leaves off the first bushes He saw.

Heket's had a large mushroom, stuffed with some kind of cheese, dusted with a hot red powder. Bilehwit ate that one slowly, pondering the conflicting tastes - Famine certainly knew how to cook.

Kallamar had sent some sort of raw tentacle from a Squid. It had squirmed when dipped in the sauce, and Bilehwit had been frozen in place, staring at it, before closing their eyes and forcing it into their mouth, chewing and pretending it wasn't still twitching. It had scraped down their throat. As much as they liked the domain, this was not for them.

Shamura's dish was some form of roasted scorpion - a dollop of soured cream on top. It tasted like chicken. Legs crunched as Bilehwit ate something more familiar - bugs had been eaten by them before, and this was not different to them.

Finally, a strange fruit was placed in front of them, by a nervous attendant. It was hard and smooth, and the same golden hue as their pupils and hooves. Another attendant sliced it expertly, until it fell in quaters with firm, pale flesh. Bilehwit stared at it, and stared back at the attendant, who wiped the blade of the clear juice.

Bilehwit ate, and found this fruit was the most delicious of all.

They were given a greyed robe, and trussed in heavy chains, and then lead out into the pavilion.

They walked the path.

They bent their head.

They tasted tart fruit on their tongue.

You know what happened next.

[rosepetalgold]

all the silver stolen (will one day turn to gold) 5

Summary: Roman offers an explanation and Janus finds himself facing a life-changing choice.

Warnings: One suggestive joke courtesy of Remus, fear of abandonment

Word Count: 5557

Read on Ao3 Masterpost

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start - previous - you’re here! - next

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“Roman claims he wasn’t responsible for any of it,” Remus declares without preamble the next morning as they all pile around the table for breakfast, Virgil only half awake and Remus clearly not having slept a wink. “The traitor guards, the attack, me being left for dead, any of it.”

Janus scoffs, rolling his eyes, but Remus plows on without waiting for him to snark a comment about Roman’s trustworthiness or decided lack thereof.

“He claims the whole thing was part of a larger coup attempt by a group of power-hungry courtiers who wanted me out of the way so they could put Roman on the throne and use him as a puppet king they could manipulate to further their own agenda. Apparently they orchestrated a concurrent attack on the castle from the inside to try and get rid of as many loyal advisors as possible, then insisted they were only acting in self-defense and that I was the one responsible for inciting all the chaos and carnage, that I was the one trying to get Roman out of the way. They showed him all these falsified documents ‘proving’ my involvement and how I’d committed the highest of treason, told him I’d been killed in the insurgency and that my body was unable to be recovered, gave him my royal ring as proof of my death, and he just—believed it. He says he has all the original documentation and letters and whatnot that back up his story back at the palace, but in his letter he lays out all the details of why he trusted them and how he learned what they really did and the ways he’s made sure they’re all out of the palace now, and it all sounds legit. He swears up and down that he didn't have anything to do with me being attacked and that he started looking for me as soon as he heard the first rumor that I might not really be dead.”

“And you believe him?” Virgil asks blearily, a spoonful of gruel paused halfway to his mouth.

“I don’t know,” Remus replies, frustration clear in his voice. “He wants me to meet with him in person to talk and answer any questions.”

Janus laughs, and Remus casts him an odd look.

“Obviously you’re not falling for that.”

Silence, and Janus sits up in his chair, staring Remus down across the table.

“You’re not falling for that, right?”

Remus shrugs, which is definitely not the correct answer.

“I want to hear him defend himself in person, and if I can catch him in a lie then we’ll know his whole story is bullshit.”

Janus doesn’t know what happened after he fell asleep, but apparently it has involved something gnawing on Remus’ brain, because he knows Remus can’t be this naive.

“No,” he says flatly. “This is the perfect setup for some kind of trap. You can’t seriously be entertaining the idea of actually meeting him.”

“I am,” Remus says, a challenge clear in his voice, and Janus bristles.

“What, a week ago you were ready to kill him and now you want to have a friendly chat? Should I whip up some hors d’oeuvres for you to take with you?”

“I’m not committing to anything,” Remus argues right back without missing a beat. “I just want to hear what he has to say in person and see if it aligns with what’s in his ridiculously long letter. It’s not like I’m falling all over myself to be all buddy-buddy with him again.”

“That’s sure as hell not what it sounds like!”

“I’m going,” Remus says decidedly, and there’s a stubborn, flinty look in his eyes that Janus knows from experience means he isn’t going to change his mind. “You can either stay here with your delicate little pantaloons all in a twist or you and Virgil can come with me just in case things go sideways.”

Right, because he and Virgil would surely be excellent bodyguards given their respective injuries. He doesn’t trust that even the two of them together would be able to take down Roman, let alone Logan if the king was smart enough to bring the mage along with him.

“Virgil?” Janus questions, turning his gaze on the other man, who has been unusually quiet through Janus’ and Remus’ back-and-forth. Virgil shrugs, playing with spoonfuls of his breakfast for a moment in a clear excuse to not meet Janus’ gaze.

“We can’t let him go alone,” he finally says. “That idiot is sure to get himself killed without some supervision.”

Betrayed by his own family. Whoever had raised Virgil clearly hadn’t done a good enough job.

(Janus is going to squarely ignore the fact that he himself had been the one to raise Virgil for a good portion of his adolescence. That was entirely irrelevant.)

“Jan?” Remus asks quietly.

“This is a terrible idea,” Janus snaps. “Absolutely horrendous. Truly dredged from the deepest swamps of your brain. But—” 

He blows out a sharp breath, hardly believing he’s about to agree to this hare-brained plan, but staying at home while Remus and Virgil put themselves in harm’s way is simply not an option, even if it means walking headfirst into a trap.

“But I will go as long as you promise me that if any of us have so much as a tingle of a bad feeling, we’ll leave immediately.”

“Deal,” Remus agrees at once.

“Pinkie promise,” Janus insists, holding out his hand, and Remus wraps his finger around Janus’ without hesitation.

“You too,” Janus orders Virgil, who heaves a sigh and rolls his eyes but obligingly latches his pinkie around Janus’ other hand.

“Do you even have to ask?” he grumbles. “Like I wouldn’t be the first to haul both of your asses out of there if anyone starts thinking of any funny business.”

The reassurance does little to calm Janus’ nerves, his stomach twisting with trepidation any time he thinks about the astronomical potential for things to go wrong at their little rendezvous, but he manages to take the slightest bit of comfort in knowing that at any point over the past week Roman could have sent an entire unit of guards to their house and taken the three of them into custody, or just killed all of them outright, but he hasn’t.

A sign of good faith, or simply part of some sinister plan that requires them alive for now?

Janus delivers Remus’ return letter with their proposed meeting spot to Patton that afternoon, slipping it under the door so that he doesn’t have to deal with the bubbly healer, and sure enough, when he stops by again the next morning, there’s a crisp rectangle of parchment that must be Roman’s reply propped neatly against the back door.

Janus can’t help but feel a bit put out at being treated like a damn messenger boy, but it keeps Virgil and Remus out of things a little while longer, so he’ll grit his teeth and put up with tramping over half the city with letters in tow.

To all of their surprise, Roman agrees to Remus’ place and time for the meeting without a counterproposal. Remus seems pleased with such a development. Janus is anything but, the other man’s easy acquiescence only adding to the unsettled feeling humming in his chest. Shouldn’t the king try to gain as much of a strategic advantage as possible? Was he truly stupid enough to not question whether such a meeting may be an ambush, or was he so confident in his ability to overpower Remus that he simply didn’t care?

By the time the three of them head out to scout the location well ahead of their meeting time, Janus feels about ready to vibrate out of his skin, and Virgil is hardly any better, clearly having picked up on Janus’ nervous energy. Remus, at least, seems a bit calmer, but he pauses as they file out of the house, cocking his head like he’s hearing something the two of them can’t.

“Interesting,” he mutters, which is not one of Janus’ favorite words to hear from Remus considering it normally precipitated some experiment going horribly wrong.

“Care to share?” he questions, unable to keep the edge out of his tone, and Remus shakes his head, hurrying to catch up to them.

“There’s a spell on the house.”

Fucking stars. Janus just couldn’t get a damn break.

“I knew that mage would do something, that little—”

“Wardings,” Remus interrupts him.

“Now is not the time for making up words for the hell of it, Re.”

“No, the spell on the house. It’s a warding, a fancy protection spell. It’s not malicious or dangerous at all, except maybe if you were a robber and then it might tangle up your intestines from the inside or something.”

Of course, because that made perfect sense. Who better for Logan to protect than the thief who’d tried to steal his coin purse and the man who’d nearly killed his king?

“Wardings,” Remus mumbles to himself, eyes unfocused like he’s lost in thought.

“This meeting is a bad idea,” Janus implores one last time, clinging to the feeble hope that this latest development might be enough for Remus to see some sense, but the other man doesn’t even seem to hear him, just shoves his hands into his pockets and sets off down the street.

One day Janus’ family would actually listen to him. Clearly not today.

“Most of our ideas are,” Virgil quips, grabbing one of Janus’ elbows and tugging him forward. “Come on, we gotta make sure Remus doesn’t get himself killed.”

~~~

It’s a long time they scout the abandoned building Remus has chosen for their meeting spot, watching for signs of anything amiss or the guards Remus had told his brother not to bring. For once, Janus almost wishes they would appear, just so he could have an excuse to drag Remus and Virgil out of such an utterly foolish situation.

But it’s just Roman who shows up, right on time, Logan and Patton in tow. Evenly matched, then, by numbers if not ability of force.

Patton seems more subdued than usual, undoubtedly remembering how things went the last time all six of them were in one room, although he still smiles and waves at them like they’re old friends. Logan is expressionless, not giving anything away, but there’s an unmistakable tension in the lines of his body and his silver gaze is sharp as ever as he appraises the three of them. And Roman looks like he’s caught somewhere between cheering and bursting into tears, staring at Remus like he’s never seen him before and never will again.

“Start explaining,” Remus says shortly, crossing his arms over his chest. “Everything, from the beginning.”

“Can we, um—can we sit?” Roman asks uncertainly, gesturing to the dusty crates scattered across the floor, and after a moment’s hesitation Remus nods, perching on the edge of one of the boxes, although Janus doesn’t miss the way his hand stays casually resting atop the hilt of his sword.

The king settles onto his own makeshift seat, beginning to talk, something about the coup and forged documents and traitors, but despite the curiosity flickering at the edges of his mind, Janus hardly hears it. It’s Remus’ job to listen; Janus’ is to keep the three of them alive.

Logan and Patton have stepped up behind Roman, flanking him on either side, mirroring Janus’ and Virgil’s own position behind Remus, and Janus takes a moment to evaluate them more thoroughly. Neither have any visible weapons, although considering the fact that Janus has no fewer than three blades hidden on his person, he doesn’t doubt that they have something stashed under their clothes.

It’s not like they even need knives, though, not really, not when they have Logan. It’s not a comforting thought. Janus knows from painfully personal experience how to defend himself in a knife fight, but he’s pretty sure even his dirtiest fighting tricks aren’t going to help him against a bolt of magic burning him from the inside out.

Not that any of them need to know that he’s concerned, of course. He edges back enough to lounge against one of the wooden support pillars, crossing his arms over his chest in his best attempt at nonchalance, and stares down Logan, willing every fiber of his being to communicate I’m not threatened by you despite that he is, in fact, very threatened by the other man. 

Logan returns the favor, those eerie silver eyes occasionally flickering to Remus or Virgil or Roman but always returning to meet Janus’ stare, his spine perfectly straight and hands tucked neatly behind his back, meeting Janus’ gaze like it’s a challenge he already knows he’s going to win. The mage is unnervingly impassive, but Janus isn’t stupid enough to let his guard down even a fraction; the scratches on Logan’s face may have healed, but he’s sure the other man hasn’t forgotten who gave them to him.

He’s so focused on making sure none of them will be smote into dust without warning, watching for the slightest twitch of Logan’s face or turn of his shoulder to indicate some imminent spell, that he all but tunes out the conversation between the twins, which isn’t ideal, but then again ideal isn’t a word that has ever been used to describe Janus’ life, so he’ll just grit his teeth and suffer through the hand he’s been dealt.

But even though Remus’ tone verges into blaming or even outright hostile at times, Roman’s never does, so Janus figures things can’t be going too badly, and he trusts that Virgil will alert him if things begin to go sideways without him noticing.

Until then, he’ll continue to stare Logan down. Dangerous work, but someone had to do it.

The meeting drags on late enough into the evening that shadows begin to enshroud them, which is simply wonderful for Janus’ nerves, and by the time they finally part ways a chill has settled into the night air and the first hints of moonlight have begun to paint the streets in pale softness. It’s nothing short of surreal that they’ve all survived the meeting without incurring so much as a scratch, and Janus can’t help but glance over his shoulder every other step as they make their way home, sure at any moment Roman or Logan is going to emerge from the darkness and attack.

But aside from the occasional critter skittering away from their footfalls, the roads remain deserted.

“Congratulations,” Virgil declares dryly as they filter back into the house and he latches the door behind them. “We all made it back in one piece.”

“Barely,” Janus grumbles into a pillow from where he’s collapsed face-first into the mattress. Being on high alert for so long was utterly exhausting. “Did you see the way that mage was looking at all of us? He was plotting something, I could just tell. And those eyes—no one should have silver eyes. That’s just unnatural.”

“So, do you believe him?” Virgil asks, and Janus snorts.

“I wouldn’t believe that man if he told me the grass is green.”

“Not you, you moron,” Virgil chides, kicking lightly at Janus’ legs. “Remus. Do you believe Roman?”

“Kind of.”

Apparently Janus should have been paying less attention to the existential threat posed by Logan and more attention to whatever the hell had been coming out of Roman’s mouth if Remus is falling for whatever bullshit story he’s been fed.

He shoves himself upright, staring at Remus where he’s rummaging through their food stash for something for dinner.

“That’s not a funny joke, Remus.”

“That’s good, because it’s not a joke at all, Janny.”

“You actually trust him?”

“I didn’t say I trusted him. I just said I kind of believe what he’s claiming about there being more to the story than I’d thought. I mean, his version of things sounds reasonable and everything he said checks out as far as I can tell. And he’s my brother.” He punctuates the sentence with a clatter of dishes on the table. “Sure, he was always a royal pain in my ass and ridiculously overdramatic and an insufferable goody two-shoes, but … he’s my brother.”

Janus isn’t entirely sure that counts for anything, given that some shared blood was hardly going to make Remus immune to a sword in the stomach or a blast of mage’s fire, but Remus is still going before he can get a word in edgewise.

“I don’t think he’s lying, for what it’s worth, but then again, he did always like acting and that’s just lying in another form, so maybe he’s just gotten scarily good at making up shit since we were seventeen. What’s your verdict on what my brother dearest had to say?”

“Sounded fine to me, I guess,” Virgil replies, shrugging. “Would have been better if he had stuck to the facts instead of adding in all the embellishing details about himself, but I didn’t hear any major holes in his story.”

“Janus?” Remus questions. “You’re the brains of the group. Thoughts?”

Shit.

Janus clears his throat, smoothing his hands over the blankets.

“I may not have been listening.”

Virgil and Remus both stare at him.

“You went on and on about how convinced you were that this was some kind of trap and then you got there and just decided to zone out?” Virgil asks incredulously, and Janus bristles.

“I would hardly call making sure you weren’t incinerated by a mage ‘zoning out,’ darling.”

“Don’t call me ‘darling’.”

“Okay, sweetie.”

“You little—”

“Don’t fight,��� Remus interrupts. “Bloodstains are fun and all, but not when I have to get them out of the sheets. I’ll catch you up before tomorrow night, Jan.”

That, at least, Janus had heard—Roman asking them to meet again the next day, at the same time and place, to continue their discussion, and Remus, unbelievably, agreeing.

“Here,” Remus says, handing them two bowls and mugs of tea before settling on the mattress with Janus, Virgil perching on the edge of the table. “And I have a favor to ask you.”

“You know how much I adore favors.”

“Next time, do more than stare at the hot mage?”

Janus chokes on his tea, spluttering as he socks Remus in the arm, which only sets him to cackling, and Virgil snorts in amusement into his dinner.

“That is not—”

“Come on, you’re telling me you stared down Mr. Silver and Serious all night and you didn’t once wonder what he could do with those magic hands in bed?”

“I swear to the stars—”

“Relax, snakey. I just wanted to know if you would actually participate, since you’re the one with all the brain cells. If any of us can catch Roman in a lie, it’s you.”

Clearly he was the one with the brain cells, if Remus thought he’d been checking out the walking death threat that was Logan.

“I will do whatever you want as long as you swear to never refer to Logan as ‘the hot mage’ ever again.”

Remus grins, all sharp teeth and sparkling eyes.

“You really want me to make a promise just so I can break it?”

“Insufferable,” Janus grumbles, but he can’t help but agree to Remus’ request. If he can find something off in Roman’s story, it’ll send the whole thing crumbling down and they’ll finally have proof not to trust the king, and Janus wants nothing more than to put this whole thing behind them.

The three of them are up late into the night, first while Remus reads the entirety of Roman’s letter aloud so that Janus can hear it, stopping occasionally to add his own perspective or notes about various things, then while he and Virgil recount everything they can remember from the meeting. Over and over again, both in writing and in person, Roman has sworn that he had nothing to do with Remus being attacked, that the real culprits had been those who’d staged the coup as an internal power grab, that he’d been trying to make things right ever since he’d learned the truth. And as loath as Janus is to admit it, Remus is right: It does all sound convincing, and even picking Roman’s story apart from every angle he can think of, he can only come up with a few potential holes.

Not that the lack of evidence of Roman lying means that Janus is convinced of his claims, nor that he’s going to let the king off easy. Despite being so exhausted that he’s running on nerves and spite alone, he joins Remus the next evening in grilling Roman on everything imaginable at their second meeting, trying to corner him into contradicting himself, but although the royal clearly doesn’t appreciate being interrogated by Janus, his story doesn’t waver.

If the people involved in the coup had truly wanted power, why hadn’t they tried to kill Roman as well and taken the throne for themselves? They’d wanted control and influence without having to deal with the burden of royal responsibilities, and they surely hadn’t wanted to go through the messy process of determining the rightful heir, especially when it wouldn’t have been any of them, so a puppet king was their best option.

Why had Roman believed Remus was a traitor? He hadn’t at first, but everyone around him—people he���d known for years, people he’d trusted—had been unwavering in their insistence Remus had been plotting treason, and they’d provided substantial proof of their claims in the form of forged documents and falsified testimony.

Why hadn’t he realized he was being manipulated sooner? He hadn’t been used to being the one officially in charge and had immediately found himself struggling to deal with the massive power shift resulting from the coup, not to mention the fact that he’d been blinded with grief thinking Remus was dead, all of which rendered him simply too overwhelmed to untangle the web of lies he’d been fed.

Each and every one of Janus’ questions and accusations, readily met with a plausible explanation by the king.

A truly phenomenal turn of events. Janus is just so glad that Roman’s story is holding up and all of them are entangled in this mess a little longer.

Equally concerning is the gradual shift in Remus’ and Virgil’s attitude towards the others. Patton begins sneaking sweets to Virgil when he thinks Janus isn’t looking, and Virgil—the traitor—readily accepts them. By the third meeting the twins’ conversation branches out beyond coups and conspiracies, and by the fourth Remus actually snorts with laughter when Roman cracks a joke.

The four of them clearly aren’t quite comfortable around each other, but their interactions have lost the edge of wariness and distrust that still plague Logan and Janus, who still spend most of their time together eying the other like he’s about to go after the others with murderous intent.

Ironic how the two of them were the only ones with any sense.

Given the amicable air that has fallen over the rest of the group, perhaps Janus shouldn’t be surprised when at the end of their fourth meeting Roman has the audacity to catch Remus’ arm in his grip as they’re leaving. Janus hisses through his teeth, fingers already on his knife hilt, but Virgil sets a hand on his arm, a silent request to stand down.

“Have you thought about my question?” Roman asks, and Remus hesitates a moment before nodding, gaze cutting to Janus and Virgil.

“I’m still deciding.”

Question? What question?

“Just think about it,” Roman says. “The offer still stands.”

Oh, fuck no. Anything that involved Roman and an offer of any kind was bad news.

But Remus just nods again, clapping his brother on the shoulder before striding back to Janus and Virgil, throwing an arm around both of them and shepherding them out the door.

“Come on, let’s go home.”

Janus scowls, squirming out from under Remus’ arm as they emerge into the evening.

“What was that about?”

Remus hesitates, and for a moment Janus thinks he isn’t going to reply at all.

“He asked if I would go back to the castle with him. In his original letter. He said I could do whatever I want there, whether it’s taking back the throne or co-ruling with him or just living the high life at some fancy summer estate.”

Well, Remus had certainly forgotten to include that when he’d been reading it to Janus.

“Good riddance to him, then,” Janus snorts, but Remus doesn’t respond, just kicks a rock down the street, the other man uncharacteristically quiet the whole way back to their house.

Hopefully his silence meant he was doing a bit of overdue reflecting on the whole Roman situation and realizing how absurd it all was.

“Go back with him,” Janus scoffs later that evening, prodding at the smoldering logs in the fireplace from where he’s sitting on the floor. He doesn’t believe Roman’s proclaimed good intentions for a moment. Long-lost brothers did not simply show up out of the blue with the sole intention of escorting their twin and his street urchin friends back to a life of opulence and ease just for the hell of it. “Does he honestly think you’re that naive? There’s no way Roman is offering to take you back, let alone give up his throne for you, without some major catch. This whole thing stinks of a trap, and obviously he has to have some kind of ulterior motive—”

“Maybe there’s not.”

Janus pauses, arching an eyebrow at Virgil.

“Excuse me?”

“Maybe there’s not some nefarious plan,” Virgil says, tone creeping towards defensive even as he crosses his arms and levels a look just shy of a glare at Janus. “Roman hasn’t hurt us. He left us those gold coins so we could actually have enough to eat for once. He had Logan put those protection spells around the house. He’s conceded to all our requests for the meetings. He’s explained everything to Remus. Why would he do any of that if he just wanted to hurt us?”

“Yes, of course you’re smart enough to be able to detect any sophisticated scheming, Virgil. I’m sure there’s no way a literal king could outsmart you.”

Virgil’s look descends fully into a glare.

“Just because you’re so jaded that you can’t see any good in people doesn’t mean it’s not there. You’re not always right, Janus.”

“Me being jaded is precisely the reason the three of us are still alive, but I’m so sorry it’s turned out to be such a terrible inconvenience for you.”

“Would you get off your high horse for once in your fucking life? It’s not even your decision what to do, it’s Remus’.”

That, at least, was true, and Janus turns to the other man.

“Re?”

Silence for a long moment, Remus refusing to meet his gaze, and Janus’ stomach twists. Come on, Remus, don’t make me knock some sense into your skull.

“I don’t know,” he says finally, voice unusually quiet. “I don’t think he has anything up his sleeve. I mean, I still don’t trust him like when we were kids, but Virgil’s right. He hasn’t done anything to harm any of us, and why would he bother explaining everything if this is all some trick? He would never have the patience for a long con like that, anyway.”

Stars above. His two roommates might be idiots half the time, but they were certainly smarter than this.

“Remus—”

“I want to go back with him,” Remus bursts out, only to bite his lip like he hadn’t meant to say it, but when he speaks again his tone has an unmistakable edge of defiance in it. “I am going back with him. I’ve already decided.”

No.

Cold fear snaps at Janus’ blood, almost strong enough to eclipse the shock of Remus’ words. This can’t be happening, it can’t—

“You’re just going to leave us behind?”

“What? No, Jan, of course not. I’m only going on the condition that you two can come with me, and there’s no way Roman can say no to that. He has a lot to feel guilty about, and I’m certainly not above leveraging that guilt into a good life for all of us. You’re both free to make your own choice about going, of course—free will and all that jazz—but come on. You’ve wanted something more than this life for forever, and here’s your chance! Do you really want to keep stealing for the rest of your life until you inevitably get caught again and have a hot date with the gallows, or would you rather live in the lap of luxury with anything you could ever want right at your fingertips? ”

“No, I just—I want—”

I want the three of us to stay here. I want us all to stick together. I want to go back in time and never try to steal from Logan and I want Roman to have stayed home and I want to wake up and have all of this just be one terrible nightmare.

But for once his silver tongue fails him and he can’t get the words out as panic drags icy fingers down his spine, images of himself struggling to support Virgil flashing through his head, the two of them slowly starving with their trio reduced to a duo.

Remus can’t leave.

He turns to Virgil, desperate for some support, but the other man just shrugs.

“This life fucking sucks. I’m tired of living in poverty and stealing to get by and worrying all the time that one of us is going to be caught or killed. Roman might be a bit full of himself and Logan may be a little intimidating, but they don’t seem dangerous, and Patton is nice enough. What’s the worst that could happen? If Remus is going, I’m in.”

No. No, no, no. Janus has already lost his first family. He can’t lose his second one too.

Remus must read something on his face, a hint of the fear and panic and betrayal churning in his gut, because he reaches out for him, defiant expression crumpling.

“Jan—”

Janus jerks away from his touch, staggering upright and stumbling backwards.

“No. No! You can’t just leave. What am I supposed to do here by myself?”

“I don’t want you to be alone, that’s why I’m asking you to come with us—”

“This is absolutely ridiculous. What, you’re both fully ready to drop everything, completely abandon the life we’ve built here, all for the unproven promises of someone Remus was ready to kill a fortnight ago? Why don’t you ever listen to me when I say something is off about this?”

“Please, Janus.” Remus’ voice is hoarse, breaking ever so slightly on the words, face distraught as he stares up at him from the floor. “I don’t want to leave you behind, but I can't stay here either. Please just trust me.”

“I can’t, I can’t—”

He can’t speak, can’t think, can’t breathe around the lump in his throat, and he needs to get out.

He snatches his cloak from beside the door, evading Virgil’s hand as he swears and makes a grab for him.

“Don’t follow me,” he rasps, and flees into the night.

~~~

It’s late-verging-into-early when he finally makes his way back home after wandering the streets, exhausted from struggling to work through the convoluted knot of emotions that has woven tightly between his ribs and taken up a stranglehold on his heart.

He’s made marginal progress, he concludes as he slides down the front of the house, pulling his knees up and wrapping his arms around them, even if the sting of betrayal still lingers. At least he can actually think again.

He hasn’t wavered from his conviction that leaving with Roman is a terrible idea, that there are malicious motives underpinning the king’s desire for his twin to return to Sidera, despite both Remus and Virgil insisting otherwise. Fairy tale endings where everyone lived happily ever after simply didn’t happen in real life, and they especially didn’t happen to Janus, even if an outcast prince being reunited with his long-lost brother was something straight out of a fanciful legend.

Please just trust me.

Trusting Remus isn’t the problem. Trusting Roman is another matter entirely, and it’s not something Janus is remotely prepared to risk. 

But—

—but Remus and Virgil are his family. Where they go, he goes, even if it’s into the lion’s den.

He blows out a long breath, tipping his head back to stare up at the stars shimmering over the city, their light slowly being eclipsed by the dull beginnings of dawn.

He’s going to regret this.

He stands, dusting himself off, and pulls the door open with fingers that have long since gone numb from the chill. Virgil and Remus are both still up, sitting in silence by the fire with two steaming mugs in front of them, and Remus stands as Janus comes in, looking like he’s bracing for the worst.

Janus nudges the door shut behind him, shrugging off his cloak and folding it neatly over one arm as he meets Remus’ gaze.

“When do we leave?”

---

Taglist (let me know if you'd like to be added or removed!): @joylessnightsky

[book-girl4evaaa]

Hehe so... I wrote something

Running - Bea

Word count: 1500+

Genre: au, fluffy I think?

Run, go, don’t look back.

That's what Arudhanti Shah had learned. The last thing she had been taught. The rules all thieves should follow, if you had asked her. Take what you came for, leave, don’t look back. And if they came after you? You should know how to sprint, or hide, or throw a punch.

Or - Aru’s personal favourite - lie. It was one of her strongest skills, even if she did say so herself. She could convince a man that he was secretly a prince, or a woman that she was secretly cursed. She had once convinced someone that she hadn’t taken their gold - how could a 9 year old child, a girl nonetheless, do something like that? - and then walked away with enough coins to feed her for a fortnight.

To be fair to them, Aru wasn't your average 9-year-old. For one thing, most 9-year-olds had homes. Friends. Families. The extent of Aru's family was a chicken she'd kidnapped and named Vajra. Most 9-year-olds had full bellies and bed-time stories and shoes that didn't leave their heels dangling out. Aru told herself stories, if that counted? Most 9-year-olds had a mother or father to watch over them. The closest thing Aru had to that was a bracelet that used to belong to her mother. Most 9-year-olds were loved.

 Most…

Did Aru feel regret for stealing? For lying? For taking things that didn’t belong to her? No. She’d done what she’d had to do to survive. She lived one misstep away from starving for the past five years. So what if someone missed their fur coat? Aru would have missed being alive a lot more. All the pompous brats who were her usual targets had basically been begging her to take their stuff, leaving around so openly; most deserved it, the way they acted like they were above everyone. In fact, it was a chance to put those morons in their place, to show them a fraction of what Aru had felt. Plus, once she’d taken whatever she’d set her sights on, it was hers! Problem solved. 

So Aru had never regretted thieving. Not until him.

The boy had looked about her age, maybe slightly older, but he had clearly never been in her position. His clothes fitted him for one thing, and his thick, dark hair, while not neat, was clean and tidy enough. He looked well fed, his warm golden skin clean and glowing in the sunlight. When compared with her loose, thin trousers, her threadbare dress, her tangled hair and her tawny skin covered in dust, he may as well have been a prince! But his eyes were… different. They were dark, flecked with gold and seemed to hold a deep, weary sadness. But that wasn’t what caught Aru’s attention.

It was the paint set next to him.

Aru wasn’t an artist. She’d never done anything artistic as far as she could remember. But what she did know was that stuff like that was expensive. And if it was expensive, it could and would be stolen.

She hesitated for a moment, looking at the boy. He looked so lonely, it almost reminded her of herself…

Aru shook herself. Now was not a good time to get nostalgic. So, with a quick breath, she darted out, snatched up the art set and ran.

It only took the boy a second to realise what had happened. “What was- Hey get back here!” she heard him call after her. Aru ignored him and carried on sprinting. 

Run, go, don’t look back. 

Aru knew most of the backstreets quite well - she’d spent the majority of her life in them. Her city may have been bright on its face, with its drapes of cobalt blue and stunning silver, its market packed with fruits of every colour, scent, and size, its charming houses almost sparkling in the sun. But behind the curtain, it was a dark, riddled mess that dulled all colours to a greyish brown. A mess anyone could get lost in, even a girl who knew it better than anyone. And of course today was the day she took a wrong turn.

The boy, in an attempt to get his art set back, had followed her down the streets, and right into a dead end. It was only then Aru realised just how much taller, stronger, and healthier he was than her. She muttered something she’d heard a merchant say when their stool collapsed. 

For some reason, the boy looked more anxious than she did. He kept shifting his feet, straightening out his already ironed shirt and looking over his shoulder, as if he was about to get jumped by bandits. Definitely not used to this part of the city, Aru noted. Maybe she could use it.

“Hi,” he started, with a slight tremor in his voice, “Can I have my paints back?” 

“No.” Aru fixed him with a stony gaze. 

“Why not?”

Aru didn’t reply and instead continued to glare at him. Hesitantly, he tried to grab the kit from her hand. She jumped away.

“Take a step closer and… I’ll punch you. Hard. On the nose.” Aru warned. 

Lie. And a boring one at that. Aru couldn’t punch anyone - she’d burnt her knuckles on a pan the other day and it hadn’t recovered yet - and punching wasn’t an interesting attack anyway. 

It was enough to make the boy retreat though. “Please can I have it back?” He smiled sadly at her, probably to try and gain her trust. As pretty as his face was, it wasn’t enough to persuade her or her empty stomach.

“No.” Aru told him, adding a “sorry,” under her breath. 

“Please? My dad’s gone on a trip - he does trips a lot - but this time he’s taking forever to get back and that’s the last thing he gave me before he left us, so I still need it, at least until he finishes whatever he’s doing. And I’m getting really good, at painting i mean, and,” he took a deep, shaky breath. “I just can't go home without it, please?” He looked at Aru with so much hope it almost broke her.

“I-I can’t. I need this,” she continued speaking so as not to look at him, “I need to feed myself. And Vajra.”

His voice shook worse than before “Oh. In that case,” he turned, rubbing his face briskly.

And then it hit her. The guilt. Aru never had it usually, but suddenly it felt as if she was swimming in a coat lined with stones.

Run, go, don’t look back

 But Aru couldn’t run from guilt, not like she did everything else. No, guilt was the sort of thing that only got stronger with the chase. She had to live with it. Face it.

And she really didn’t want to.

“Hey! Um, kid!” Aru yelled after the boy as he walked away.

“Kid? I’m about the same age as you!” His tearstained face shifted to a frown.

“Well, what should I call you then?”

“My name.”

“Which is?”

“Aiden,” he looked at Aru, meeting her eyes. “Aiden Acharya,”

Aru was the first to break eye contact. She took a deep breath, and spoke before she could reconsider. “Well Aiden Acharya, you can have your paints back.”

“Really?” Aiden Acharya’s eyes lit up. 

“Yeah,” Aru said, trying not to sigh. She would have to skip a couple of meals, but at least she wouldn't have to carry all the guilt around with her.

“I… Thank you!” He eagerly took the set from her, pressing something in her palm and embracing the art set to his chest, before smiling shyly at her. “What’s your name?”

Aru looked at the boy in front of her. Aiden Acharya. Maybe they could be friends. Maybe they could understand each other. Maybe…

Run, go, don’t look back.

Aru ran past Aiden, faster this time so he couldn’t follow. She ignored his shouts, his questions. She kept on sprinting until she was sure she'd gone far enough, before checking what he’d placed in her hand.

 A… watch, apparently. It had a pretty basic face, with sea green symbols and hands and a faded engraving on the back. Aru could make out a few letters (-ce–ak-s, it looked like) but it looked pretty rubbed. It looked like it had been intricate once, but time had worn away any finery. Still, it was pretty. Aru was about to slip it into her pocket before noticing the chain that was connected to it. Her eyes widened. The chain was platinum. Actual real platinum, she could tell by the markings. Aru let out a breathy laugh. Platinum was worth at least double the paint's value! She could get 2 weeks worth of food, maybe even some sweets… her mouth watered at the idea.

She darted out of the shadows, in the direction of the market. As she slipped the watch off the chain and pocketed it, she let a single thought cross her mind before sprinting away.

Thanks, Aiden Acharya, she said to herself, before vanishing into the crowds.

Sooo i might continue it into a proper thing... Should I?

[drenchedfireworks]

Of Stolen Moments

Helion X Lady of the Autumn

One of the thousands of stolen moments between Helion and Lady of the Autumn before Under The Mountain.

Word Count: 3.2K

Mostly unedited.

Rhysand is purple (obvs) and Helion is orange.

###

Helion picked another flute of champagne from the passerby waiter, his third one in ten minutes.

In his defense, it took much, much more to get him tipsy and Cauldron be damned, he was trying to get there.

Coming to the Autumn Court always had that effect on him. Beron loved throwing lavish parties the week of his birthday and while all the HighLords were invited to stay the entire week, by some unspoken agreement everyone only arrived on the eve of his birthday and left the next morning.

This year, Helion had been tempted to pull lots and the whichever poor minister of his pulled the shortest end of the stick would have attended as a representative. The idea was vetoed and he had been sent to the hellish court to participate in the even more hellish celebrations anyway. The only saving grace was the fact that it was a masquerade theme which meant Helion had all the reason to not have to greet Beron and simply blame it on the fact that he hadn't recognized him under the masks.

And Helion was going to stick to his story even if it was crystal clear who Beron was considering he sat on a freaking dais, all alone.

Finishing the contents of his champagne flute in one go, Helion was about to go for another one when a whiskey glass was placed in his palm instead.

If he was dressed like the Sun, all whites and golds with the matching white mask with its gold undertone and threads, Rhysand was dressed like his night counterpart. Decked out completely in black with silver linings in his jacket and a midnight black mask resting on his face outlined in silver that was only found on starlight.

"Stop playing safe sober games and drink up"

Helion chuckled, raising his glass to that and throwing it back in one gulp. Rhys grinned, tipping his own glass in cheers before he, too, finished his drink in one go.

"Can you believe this pretentious party?"

Rhys shot him a look, easy to decipher despite the mask he was wearing. "You think this is the only pretentious party we attend in one year?"

"You're right. Tamlin's are just as awful"

Rhys laughed sardonically before making a shuddering gesture "Somehow they are even worse. It's like an invite for pollen fever"

"Where is your lovely cousin?" Helion asked, eyes roaming around like he was searching for a blonde and not trying to avoid looking at a certain redhead.

"With Vivianne" Rhys jut his chin in the direction of where Morrigan and Vivianne were standing next to an exasperated Kallias who rolled his eyes behind his mask exaggeratedly when he found the two Highlords looking at him.

"Think you can take Morrigan away for enough time to let Kallias grab a dance with the girl he swears he's not in love with?" Helion snickered, flagging down a waiter carrying champagne.

"I can also keep an eye on Beron for enough time so you can do what you actually came here for"

Helion paused in the act of taking a sip, slanting a look to the Highlord of the Night Court who casually picked off a piece of non-existent lint off his jacket.

"And what might that be, dear Rhysand?"

"Don't insult my intelligence by pretending to be obtuse, Helion" Rhys smiled, feline-like. "This is the only bracket you might get, don't waste it"

"Who is to say where she is and how many sentries surround her?" Helion gritted out, despite his better judgement.

Rhys smiled, patted him on the shoulder and made his way toward Kallias. Helion watched him go, turned the other way and made his way deeper into the crowd.

On the East Wing, on the 2nd floor, last room. Shares a balcony with the adjacent one. You'll have a ten minute window to slip into that room. I'll let you know if Beron so much as shifts in his seat.

Helion smiled, a secret one. I owe you one.

Stop bothering Cassian and Azriel for a threesome.

Aw, Rhysie, jealous? You can join us too.

Don't forget to put up wards.

Helion made sure he was in Beron's line of sight as he danced with a curvaceous red-head, running hands all over her too-eager intoxicated body. A few minutes of dilly-dallying and then he was leading her into a corridor, through a silent hallway and away from the festivities till they finally encountered an empty bedroom. To her credit, she tried her hardest to pull him in but Helion sent a silent apology to her as he put her under a sleeping spell, warded that room so no one could enter and silently made his way to the other side of the mansion.

Glamouring himself as he passed Autumn Court sentries so no one would recognize him, Helion made it to the East Wing in record time. When he reached the second floor, however, his steps slowed. One of the sentries turned to him, head lolled at an uncomfortable angle, looking at him as if he was seeing right through him. Helion slipped into the adjacent room.

He made quick work of climbing over the balcony into the adjacent room's. Wards, he told himself as he silently put those up. He couldn't trust himself to remember to put those up after he laid eyes on her. Wasn't sure he'd remember to do anything.

Unlocking the balcony door, he stepped inside the candlelit room just as she stepped in through the connecting doorway.

Their eyes met and for a moment, the world went still. Her breath caught, he could hear it, her hand flying to her chest.

"You shouldn't be here-" She started toward him the same time he moved toward her.

"Seraphina" He breathed, one second before her mouth was on his and he was kissing her for all the years spent apart, all the yearning.

Her hands were in his hair, pulling him closer as he ran his hands over everywhere he could touch, trying to familiarize himself with her all over again, worried that this was one of his cruel nightmares where she'd disappear come morning.

"Helion-" She whispered, but Helion didn't stop kissing her to give her a chance to say more "Helion-" She tried again, but he took that chance and plunged his tongue in her mouth, the force of the kiss making her knees weak and his arms around her body the only thing keeping her up "Heli-" She gave up, kissing him back with all the desperation she felt.

"Sera" He breathed, moving from her lips to her cheeks, her nose, eyes, forehead and jaw, anywhere he could reach to kiss her, hands in her hair and around her waist and on her back, scared their time would be up.

"What are you doing here?" And it broke his heart to see she looked worried not for what Beron might do if he found her with another man but for him.

"Ten years" He cupped her face, bringing his forehead down to hers "Ten years I've dreamt of holding you in my arms again" She was crying before he was done talking but so was he.

"You shouldn't be here. He- He can't find you"

Wrapping his arms around her, Helion picked her up and carried her to the bed "I know" He said, sitting on the edge and bringing her down on his lap.

She took his face in her hands, lovingly running her fingers over his cheeks and lips, his eyebrows, the slant of his nose before she moved in to kiss him again "How I've missed you"

And it was as if they couldn't stand to stay clothed for one more second as Helion began undoing her robe and she was pulling at his tunic, while he kissed a path down her throat, biting and nibbling against the skin knowing he'd have to heal it before he left. Knowing she'd have to mask his scent before Beron came to check on her.

Realizing they didn't have that much time to waste, Helion simply loosened his pants, pulling his cock out and positioned himself below her.

"Sera, are you sure?"

She leaned in once and kissed him "Give me all of you, Helion"

Driving into her to the hilt in one go, Helion bit her shoulder to hold in the roar that was building at the base of his throat. Her breath had caught and her legs were trembling but the scent of her arousal was thick in the air, mixing with his own.

He gave her a moment to adjust "I've missed you so much" Helion was soothing the spot he'd bit on with his tongue "This is not how I wanted to do it. I want to do it right, Sera"

"We don't have that time, Helion" Tears were forming in her eyes and the string around his chest tightened, pulling taut against his ribs "But we will" She kissed his brow "And when we do, we will do all of it right" Moving her hips, she pulled a groan of long-suffering from him as he started to move inside of her slowly.

"You feel so good" Helion gritted out, his pace quickening, his movements feral and his thrusts almost animalistic. He was tapping into his beast side, using centuries of his training to hold off on shooting into her like he was a pubescent teenager. She met him for every thrust, arms wrapped tightly around him, lips hovering over his own as her breaths shortened.

"Helion.." Her fingernails were digging into his shoulder "Helion, I'm so…so.." The rest of her words dissolved into a moan that Helion swallowed as he kissed her, his tongue plunging into her mouth in sync with his thrusts.

Holding her by her thighs, Helion made quick work of picking her up and flipping them over. Bringing her ankles over on his shoulders, he was enveloped completely in her warmth, her walls impossibly tight around him and driving him half mad. Wrapping her arms around him again, she brought him down to kiss her as his movements turned frantic, one hand on her belly where he could feel himself inside her.

"Fuck, you're so beautiful" Biting her jaw, his movements turning frantic as he reached a hand between them, rubbing circles on her clit as she whimpered. Helion gritted out "Come for me, Sera" He was kissing her, speaking against her lips, one hand pulling on her nipple peeking out of her robe "Come for me, love"

And she did. Legs trembling, shivering and shaking, Helion swallowed her scream as he kissed and fucked her through her orgasm, his fingers working her up all over again till the tears in her eyes were those of pleasure and she was chanting his name like a prayer.

Helion pretended not to notice the glow of his skin, the string that was pulling uncomfortably inside his chest, groaning while he held himself back as Seraphina moaned loudly, her eyes rolling back in her head.

"Please..please…HelionHelionHelionHelion- oh my-" She was already coming a second time and this time Helion detonated with her, shooting into her without stopping, pulling back only to watch his own cum dripping down her legs mixed with her own. Gathering all of it, he pushed it back into her pussy as he pulled out, a whimper escaping her at the loss.

Helion leaned in to kiss her “I’m kidnapping you” He whispered against her lips, something he’d been saying for decades, trying to get her to agree to disappear with him.

Shaking her head, Seraphina rested her forehead against his “I can’t leave my sons alone with him..he treats them horribly as it is” At that she broke down, sobbing in earnest as he held her, running his fingers through her hair and pulling her against his chest.

“And you?” Helion managed to ask, his eyes catching the bruising against her arms where her robe sleeves had fallen back. Eyes narrowing on them as Seraphina quickly covered them “I’m going to kill him”

“No, Helion” She brushed her fingers against his face as if she, too, was memorizing his face for she didn’t know how long it would be before they got a chance to be together again.

“Mate, Sera” His voice broke, catching at the word “You’re my mate” Her eyes closed as if the reminder pained her, shoulders shaking with silent sobs “I will adopt all your sons if that’s what it takes”

Helion.

Ignoring Rhysand’s voice in his head, Helion took both of her hands in his “Say yes and you don’t have to suffer at his hands for a second longer”

Seraphina pulled her hands back, crying against his shoulder “You should go, Helion. P-Please” But she was kissing him, her actions a complete contrast to her words.

“Sera-”

Helion, Beron’s sentries are alert.

“Go” Wiping at her tears, she stood up, putting much needed distance between them "And thank Rhysand for me"

“Sera- please”

Beron seems to be looking for you.

She turned her back to him, like she had done countless times “I-" She began, considered her words “I-It’s not the time..b-but-” She peeked over her shoulder at him “Please wait for me?”

He was hugging her then, wrapping all of himself around her as he buried his face in her hair “Forever. I will wait another millenia just for you”

Helion. Beron is leaving the banquet hall.

“I have to go” He murmured and she nodded, refusing to watch him go or her control would snap “Stay safe, please take care..I-I’ll try to come back soon” With one last squeeze, he let her go, turning around and leaving immediately or he’d have been tempted to follow through with his earlier plan of kidnapping the Lady of another court as he removed the wards, wiped her room clean of his scent.

Helion, where the fuck are you?

Out.

By out he meant jumping the two floors down from the balcony, so distracted that he had no time to smoothen the fall and dropped straight into a bush, the poor plant flattening under him. Helion had no time to complain, making his way hastily toward the banquet hall hoping he didn’t encounter the birthday boy. For Seraphina’s sake more than his own.

His escape was going successfully until he ran straight into another problem. More like the problem ran into him.

The youngest Vanserra scowled up at the Highlord of the Day Court, rubbing against his forehead where he had accidentally collided with Helion’s side.

Crouching down to reach his level, Helion held an arm out to inspect the damage “Does it hurt a lot?”

“Even if it does, as the Highlord with healing abilities, shouldn’t you be able to soothe it?”

Helion opened his mouth, closed it, utterly and completely speechless before he threw his head back and laughed “Listen here, boy, I’m Helion Spell-Cleaver, Highlord of the Day Court”

“And?”

“And?” Helion gaped “You are talking about Thesan”

“You’re not Thesan?”

“Ofcourse not. Having even 1/4th of my looks would be a blessing for him”

The youngest Vanserra looked unimpressed “Atleast he doesn’t announce himself with a title” he muttered.

Helion blinked, realizing that the little boy who hardly looked to be 8-9 years old, had known who he was this whole time “Who are you?”

At that, the little boy jut his chin out, his aristocratic nose high in the air as he replied “Lucien Vanserra, son of Beron, Highlord of the Autumn Court”

Helion smiled at the arrogance that looked like it was hereditary in the Vanserra household, noticing how Lucien’s hair color was similar to Seraphina’s “Well, Sir Lucien, while I cannot heal your injury as well as Thesan can, I could do something better”

To his credit, Lucien tried not to look too intrigued as he kept a straight face “I doubt it but let’s hear it”

He even had Seraphina’s stubbornness, Helion noted with amusement as he gently took Lucien’s hand in his, sidelining the zap that went through his body and the goosebumps on his skin “I can show you a spell that won’t make you feel hurt at all”

At that, Lucien turned his entire attention to the Highlord, his voice betraying his excitement “How?”

"You do this" Helion drew the symbol on Lucien's palm to demonstrate.

Eyes lighting up, Lucien watched entraced before taking Helion's palm in his and trying to replicate the symbol "Like this?"

Helion corrected it for him, holding his hand and drawing it over his palm again "Like…this"

Lucien looked like he had achieved enlightenment as he laughed, doing and redoing the symbol to make sure he got it right "You're sure this works, right? Right?!"

"Go ahead, try it on me" Helion held his arm out and while he was sure even without the spell, little Lucien wouldn't be able to do much harm he gave him his best weary look "Go easy on me"

"Nuh uh" Lucien tutted, pulling his fist back and swinging with full force, the hit not registering in the slightest.

"See?" Helion asked "What do you think?"

"You could be lying" The amber-eyed prince was not having it "Go ahead, you try it on me now"

Helion worried he might actually end up bruising the kid if he used even a tenth of his energy so he chose to go the easy path and flicked his forehead. Hands flying to his forehead, Lucien pulled them away a second later, his face a kaleidoscope of awe and disbelief.

"I-It didn't hurt at all!" He was jumping around now, making flicking gestures and little punching actions.

"This will come in handy when your older brothers push you around, huh?" Helion teased, a smile breaking on his face replicating Lucien's.

"Nah" Lucien was still in the middle of his happy dance "I’m gonna teach it to my Mom" When Helion's smile dropped, Lucien realized what he had accidentally divulged.

Immediately recognizing that the little boy was about to panic, Helion decided to do instant damage control even if his blood boiled at the reminder of Seraphina's bruises "You're too strong when you playfight with your mother and she needs to be shielded?"

Lucien latched on to the excuse with desperate hands "Yep. I'm going to be stronger than all my brothers one day!"

"That's very commendable" Helion nodded along "However, take care of your mother and don't hurt her. That's not how good sons behave. You have to protect her"

Lucien was silent for a moment before he stepped away "L-Like I need you to tell me! I will protect my mother from everyone!" He was getting flustered and Helion knew it so he stood up and dusted off the dirt on his clothes.

"You're a good boy, Lucien. I'm proud of you"

"I don't care!" Lucien turned away, walking toward one of the entrances too quickly before he seemed to second guess himself and turned back toward Helion "Thanks..for your help"

Helion grinned, all toothy and cocky "You're welcome, little Lucien"

"I'll come visit you in Dawn Court sometime!" Lucien turned away and was already running, an all too familiar mischievous smile on his face.

"I'm the Highlord of the Day Co-! Ah damnit" Helion laughed as Lucien disappeared around the corner, something in his chest warming.

Helion stood there for a long time before he turned and made his way back to the party to pester his favorite Highlord, thoughts of his mate and her youngest son still fresh in his mind, his heart full.

###

My contribution to the Helion X LoA community because I don't see a lot of fanfics on this pairing (or maybe I'm looking at all the wrong places). This is a plea to send all and every Helion X LoA fanfic my way.

[tsaritza-mika]

Sunshine

Pairings: Astarion x Named Fem!Tav (Mika, Elven Bard)

Description: Astarion almost fell while taking down Cazador, but instead, the Lover's RIngs saved him.

Warnings: None, but there is descriptions of violent fighting, and Cazador dies (but that’s a good thing) I tried to be descriptive without being gratuitous

Suggested soundtrack: Under Grey Skies - Kamelot

Guttural growls and high pitched screeches echoed loudly within the cavernous chamber below the Szarr palace, demonic magic crackling in the air as blades clashed against bone and claw alike. Everything that he’d been working toward since he awoke on the shores of Chionthar, amid the smoldering rubble of the nautiloid, had finally come to this. The day he’d not dared to dream of for two-hundred years, the day Cazador would fall, and finally he would know the sweet taste of freedom. Whether or not that meant such incredible power would be stolen from Cazador by stealing it or simply killing him still remained to be decided, but first his minions had to be dealt with. His emotions were running rampant as he cut himself a bloody path toward his tormentor, and though fear and rage were dominant, there was an underlying confidence as well.

He wasn’t alone anymore, and fate willing, after this he never would be again either. That was something that Cazador had gambled on and lost, and damned if Astarion wasn’t going to make sure it was a lesson that would kill him in the process. Dodging out from the angry swipe of another werewolf, he drove both daggers deep into the creature’s throat, kicking it away from him before its blood could pour from the new holes in its windpipe. Taking a quick stock of his position, he looked around for his companions, a somewhat evil smirk playing on his lips at the sight. 

Karlach, in all her fiery glory, the large war hammer in her hands thundering down upon the head of the undead mage Cazador had set upon them, the force of her action knocking back a small horde of bats that had been trying to assist it via death by a thousand cuts. Poor creatures never stood a chance. Shadowheart could only be described as a blazing beacon in the darkness; literally glowing with the power of the divine, each cut of her glaive and spell lit a bright silver-gold over each creature it touched, blinding them with her brilliance and leaving them nothing more than scorched corpses. Then there was Mika, the sweetest and most beautiful creature in all the realms, the first one to ever look upon him and see more than the tool he’d been, to the man he never dared dream he could be. Watching her fight was always akin to watching her dance, and as far as he was concerned, it may as well have been the same thing either way. 

Her blades flashed brilliantly in the sunlight she’d cast and the light emanating from Shadowheart across the platform, her every movement nearly poetic in its execution. Even the splashes of blood across her face and armor held an almost artistic design only she understood as yet another enemy fell before her. In that single moment, his smile softened as he watched her, swords cutting through dark fur and muscle, the sweeping arch of her swords trailing brilliant rubies as she sidestepped another werewolf. It was almost as if the battlefield played a symphony that only she could hear. 

Brought out of his stupor by a clumsily flailing claw, Astarion smirked as it too went up in flames, Shadowheart sending him a haughty nod before she swung her glaive, the wide arc turning yet another cloud of bats to ashes. Catching a shadow at the side of his vision, Astarion turned, his expression darkening with a low growl in his throat as his eyes met matching crimson from across the platform. His grip tightened around his daggers, the rage of two-hundred years of pain and humiliation flaring back up within him. Rushing forward in an effort to finally put Cazador out of everyone’s misery, Astarion’s eyes widened at the sight of the electric arches building around the vampire’s hand, a sadistic smile on his face. “Let us end this quickly then, boy...”

Though he managed to skid to a halt, there was no time to get out of the way, arms and blades coming up in an effort to protect himself as long, jagged trails of lighting came toward him, the force of it making him stumble backward. Thankfully he remained on his feet, though he was shocked when it seemed there was no pain from the spell. Lowering his arms, Astarion’s brow furrowed in confusion. How was he undamaged at all from that? Sure, he was a little singed, but otherwise there was almost no trace he’d just gone through a literal river of electrical fury. Then he noticed the gentle golden glow surrounding him, the moment intensified by the faint clatter of metal scraping across the floor from behind him. 

He knew this glow, and the knowledge that it was currently glowing around him left him feeling sick to his stomach. This glow shouldn’t be around him right now, no, further than that, it should never be around him! That wasn’t how those rings were supposed to work! Turning over his left hand, his horror grew as he finally noticed that the ring on his finger was not the one he’d been wearing since they’d left the Shadowlands. The ring on his finger was supposed to be protecting Mika, but then... Everything seemed to come to a crawl as he turned, his gaze falling on Mika’s body as it lay sprawled on the dark floor, a bit of smoke rising from her still form. The werewolf she’d been fighting kneeled and sniffed at her, deeming her no longer a threat and turning its bloodied maw toward Astarion. It was only when he heard Cazador’s laughter when Astarion came back to himself, fangs bared as his jaw clenched almost painfully tight. “Ah, well isn’t that a shame? I’d learned from your brothers and sisters that apparently her blood was divine... Pity I couldn’t taste it for myself, she may have made an excellent concubine after my ascension...”

As if the pure rage building in him wasn’t strong enough, the thought of her forced to bow to the same monster he had, beating and cutting her for his entertainment the same way he had... Astarion’s hands clenched tightly around the hilts of his daggers, fangs bared with a growl in his throat as he closed the distance between himself and Cazador. Blades flashed and clanged against the vampire’s staff, but no matter what he did, Astarion couldn’t close the distance by himself. Just when he was starting to lose ground, he heard Shadowheart from across the dias, “Astarion! Now!”

The moment he leapt back, Shadowheart took her shot, sending beam after beam of searing light toward Cazador, the vampire’s skin searing to a crisp with each wave. Karlach moved in to join the offensive, roaring furiously as she came down, her hammer crashing against Cazador’s side with a sharp crack, hard enough to knock him back almost to the chasm's edge. With most of his minions dealt with, the situation was becoming dire, and losing was not an option when eternity as the most powerful being to walk the realms was still within his grasp. Focusing himself into a dark, bloody mist, Cazador retreated to his coffin, hoping to recoup what strength he could before the rest of his minions were destroyed and his ritual could finally be completed.

Running toward where Mika had fallen, Astarion cut a bloody swath through anything in his way, blades and fangs tearing through whatever flesh and bone dared to try keeping him from his goal. One final werewolf was all that stood between himself and where Mika lay sprawled on the ground, rearing back with a vicious howl as he approached. Another cloud of bats began to crowd the area, the werewolf licking at its large teeth menacingly as it bent over Mika’s body. Sneering with disdain at the creature, Astarion haughtily cocked his head to the side, daggers coming up in challenge. As if this or any beast could keep him from her. She who believed in him, fought for him, cared for him. Gave her life for him. If it was for her, he’d gladly bring the entirety of Fae’run to its knees.

The rest of the world fell away, each waiting for the other to strike. The large werewolf brought up its hand, long claws extending from midnight dark fur in answer to Astarion’s blades. At the pounding crack of Karlach’s hammer somewhere behind them, both the werewolf and Astarion moved fast to close the distance. Blade, claw and fang clashed, slashing and piercing as two deadly predators fought ferociously to be the victor. Leading the werewolf toward a raised part of the dias, Astarion ducked and pushed off the low stairs, sliding across the marbled floor and under the charging monster. Clipping through the meat and tendons of the wolf's legs, a grim smile came to his face as it fell to the ground with an angry howl. Flipping back up onto his feet, he ran quickly up along the wolf’s spine, climbing up its back and plunging both daggers down to pierce through the back of the wolf’s skull.

With his relentless minion’s dealt with, Astarion’s gaze swept the area from Mika’s body to Cazador’s coffin. Coming quickly to where she’d fallen, he knelt down and carefully turned her to lay on her back, gently brushing soft, ash-blonde hair from her face. She felt so cold... No, no, that was wrong, she was never supposed to be cold! His Mika was warm, she blazed with life like the afternoon sun! Catching movement from the corner of his vision, Astarion held her close and bared his fangs, ready to strike if need be. It took him a moment to recognize Shadowheart and Karlach through the blood haze in his mind, still holding Mika’s still body protectively as they approached. “Astarion, please, you know I need to see her-”

“Don’t anybody fucking touch her!”

“Cool it down there, Fangs. You know Shadowheart can help, you need to let her while there’s still time.”

Reluctantly loosening his hold just enough to see her face for a moment, Astarion carefully set her back down on the floor, frowning deeply at how pale she looked. Gently tucking some hair behind the high point of her ear, his hand cupped her pale cheek, setting his forehead to hers and whispering through the raw emotion in his throat. “Make sure you come back to me, my sunshine...”

Rising to let Shadowheart assess the extent of the damage and get to healing her, he turned and began walking toward the elaborate coffin that held Cazador. Power still seemed to thrum heavily in the air, the knowledge that the ritual could still be completed if he only chose to take the vampire’s place was intoxicating to be sure. It would be foolish to deny his desire to continue his life in the sunlight, to taste and enjoy food again and know that all of it would be forever spitting in his former master’s face with each gratifying moment for the rest of eternity. But, what would she think of him, if he took that power? If he gave into the same allure that Cazador had and decided to sacrifice seven thousand souls, just so that he could have the sun back?

Pushing open the coffin and yanking Cazador from his attempted rest, Astarion felt both his jaw and the grip on his dagger tighten. Even now, when everything he’d planned for centuries had come crashing down around him, this creature was trying to hold himself higher than anyone else. Watching with disdain as Cazador tried to reason his way out from beneath the literal shit storm he’d brought down on his head, Astarion decided in that moment that no sunlight, no food or temptation could ever be worth trading a life by her side. All hesitation gone, Astarion moved with purpose, taking a painful grip of Cazador’s hair and stabbing him. The blade in his hand pierced deep into Cazador’s flesh, again, and again, and again, and again; not stopping until he was sure his tormentor was well and truly gone. 

Leaving the carcass behind, Astarion came back to where Shadowheart and Karlach knelt next to Mika’s body, not even waiting before reaching to carefully gather her in his arms. Already he could feel her warmth slowly returning, hugging her as tight as he dared in relief that she wasn’t lost to him yet. He still had his sunshine. “Shadowheart, she’s-?”

“Yes, she’ll be fine; but that lightning spell put a lot of strain on her body, Astarion. She’ll likely be out for a few hours at least, though I wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t wake until morning.” Slowly rising to his feet, Astarion held Mika’s still limp form against him, frowning as he only just then heard his brothers and sisters gathering.

“It, it’s over? What are we to do now?”

“And all of those other spawns! Gods above seven thousand of them! Astarion, did you not think of-”

“Should I have done it instead then, brother?! Would you have preferred to fuel my eternal existence, instead of Cazador’s!?” Watching the others, Astarion’s gaze drifted back down to the sleeping woman in his arms, her head carefully leaning against his shoulder. “Take the spawn to the tunnels and into the Underdark. Find yourselves someplace, well, not safe... Maybe, less perilous. I... I’d like to leave now.”

~~~~~***~~~~~

Everything hurt, even her head was pounding from behind her eyes. Frowning as she tried carefully moving, Mika groaned quietly at the full body ache. What happened? One moment she had been fighting off against a huge werewolf, then... Then there was pain, so much pain, and then everything just went black. It was hard to recall just what all happened after that, everything was so quiet and still, even the intense pain itself had seemed to suddenly disappear within that all consuming darkness. Then, just as suddenly as she had arrived, out of nowhere a rush of air filled her lungs, and her heart thundered in her chest. In an instant, the still silence she had been in was shattered. Roaring echoes from within her heart beating, blood rushing, and the pain from before reaching deep into every bone, joint, and muscle.

Had...had she died? Was that what had happened? All at once that thought had her both concerned and relieved at the same time. If she had, that meant that Astarion had been saved when he might have been lost to her. But now, the one thought that pushed its way to the front of her mind, was her love alright? Had taking the full brunt of whatever it was that had ultimately killed her, given him the opening he needed to finally kill Cazador and break his chains? Her brow furrowing in worry at the possibilities, she relaxed a bit when she felt the cool brush of familiar fingertips against her cheek, his voice soft like a midnight breeze. “Darling...?” 

Trying to open her eyes, she blinked a few times, finding even the dim light hurt just then, and her vision blurry. Working her throat to try speaking, Mika relaxed a bit when she felt his hand move to gently hold the back of her head, lifting her slightly as the cold touch of metal touched her lips. “I’ve got you, love. Try some water first.”

Parting her lips, she drank greedily from the cup, the cold liquid feeling exquisite as it flowed into her. Whining slightly when he pulled it back and let her head back down, she licked her lips with a slight pout at hearing him gently chiding her, “Not too much right away, dearest. Don’t pout at me like that, Shadow’s orders. Halsin’s too, if that helps any.”

Trying to clear her throat again, she carefully blinked once more, glad when her vision finally cleared and allowed her to see him. Her throat still felt rough, but the water had helped greatly as she tilted her head to try speaking. “What happened...?”

“You were reckless; you stupidly switched our rings and took the full force of a lightning spell! Honestly Mika, what in hells were you thinking taking that shot for-!?”

“Taking a shot for you? Yes, how foolish of me. Why in all the realms would I ever think to put myself in harm's way just to keep the one I love most safe?”

“And what if Shadowheart had not been there!? Doing something that ridiculous...!”

“Astarion...” Ignoring the painful ache lingering in her body, Mika reached out to take his hand, gently rubbing her thumb across the back. “I’m sorry I worried you, but if doing what I did gave you the opening you needed to finally be free... Then no amount of pain is too much for me to handle.”

She frowned as he shook his head, hand turning under hers to hold it as tight as he dared. “No... no, Mika... You’re worth so much more than... I-I can’t be the reason that you...”

“That’s not for you to decide, Astarion. You can’t make those decisions for me, just as you wouldn’t want me to make yours for you. I did it because I love you and want you to be free, and it’s a decision I would make a million times over.” Watching as his frown deepened, she reached up and gently urged him down, slowly wrapping her arms around him and laying his head on her chest. “I’m sorry I worried you, my Starlight...”

“I’ve lost enough over the last two-hundred years, my love. I can’t have you added to that list...”

Smiling gently at him when she realized he’d settled his ear over her heart, she ran her fingers through his silken curls, her melodic voice still quiet and soft as she sang to him in the surrounding silence. “You may call me a dreamer, call me a fool. Just a blue-eyed believer in you. But I’d die for that someone, in the blink of an eye. So tell me, please tell me, just what kind of fool am I...”

“I’m severely hoping that what you're singing is rhetorical right now, darling...”

Smirking at the attitude in his voice, she shifted through the deep ache and stiff muscles to bring his head up enough to kiss him properly. “Believe what you wish, my Starlight. I only want to see you shine as bright as I know you can.”

“I can only shine if I can stay in your light, my sunshine.”

[selfshipgushing]

[Leans into mic] c. custom f/o acrylic charm. ordered.

A byproduct of his media being obscure as SHIT, even in the main fandom space, is that there's no merch for him — official OR otherwise. Like I can at LEAST find fan stuff for me and my source (granted it's mostly art stoLEN FROM ONE OF MY FRIENDS AND I AM GOING TO ATTACK THOSE PEOPLE BARK BARK!!) and maybe it's just that the game isn't even a year old yet, or that hype around the base game is pretty much dead. But nothing? Nothing at all? Not even a pin?

So I. Have taken it upon myself to MAKE it. For myself and also the friend that designed the humanisation I used. Hehe. Everyone else can get the silly shimejis I put out, but the charm is friend EXCLUSIVE! All the commonfolk get to play with the shimeji I made — and I promise I'm working on the other one, dev that asked for another character to match it — but the silly little charm is bestie only. Secret club just for he. >:3

ANYWAY put in the order last night, turn around time says 7-15 days and I am SO FUCKING GIDDY ABOUT IT RAAAA GOD I CANNOT WAIT TO BE ABLE TO LIKE. PHYSICALLY HOLD SOMETHING OF HIM HEHEHEHE I KEEP STARING AT THE ORDER TRACKING LIKE THAT'S GOING TO SPEED UP THE PROCESS I need to do custom projects like this more, the price wasn't half bad honestly! :D (I customised the clasp to be a star but i forgot if i chose silver or gold, either way I am going to carry him around forever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ev—

- LOVE MY SILLY BF SO MUCH THIS WAS THE BEST FINANCIAL DECISION I HAVE EVER MADE. 🍊⚙️

F/O MERCH PURCHASING REALLY DOES GOOD THINGS FOR THE SOUL because I JUST GOT MY GUY IN THE MAIL TODAU AND GUYS IF YOU CANT TELL IM SO HAPPY ABOUT THEI YAYAYAYAYYAYATAYAYAYATATTATATATATTYAYAYA I need to commission an to make an acrylic charm or something of him or really anything