#also I hesitate to just say ‘if you like the spear cuts-- you should read this’ because I think the elements that are similar are done in a

[aroaessidhe]

2024 reads / storygraph

The Saint of Bright Doors

a surreal Sri Lankan fantasy about colonialism, revolution, mixing fantasy with the modern world

follows a man raised by his mother to kill his father, a god-like cult leader

but as an adult he puts aside his life of violence and moves to the city for a quiet life

he becomes fascinated with ‘bright doors’ around the city that never open and have no other side, and joins a group studying them to find out more

and a support group for those with divine heritage that becomes increasingly revolutionary, until the task he was made for reemerges and his life upends

[thinemoonshine]

𓆰𝒷𝓁𝑜𝑜𝓂𝒾𝓃𝑔 ♡𓆪

cha hyun su x female reader genre: romance, angst , fluff (because hyun su is a cutie) type: series (but can be read as a oneshot) word count: 1,791

part 1 of series ◄◄ ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ part 3 of series

౨ৎ ⋆｡˚ synopsis: cha hyun su and (y/n) go on a mission together to find items requested by eunhyuk but then, meets an unexpected danger that threatens their life and death. monster hyun su makes a small appearance ౨ৎ ⋆｡˚

"Hyun Su."

(y/n)'s call snaps the said other to whip his head to her- eyes widening and brows raise along with the makeshift spear in his hands. "Huh?"

"Let's check this room," she says and points to a door she then, swings open. Hyun Su follows her inside before taking the lead once they slip through the entrance.

They're now on a joint task to find a couple of things needed for the livelihood of the residents. Okay, well one of them was assigned on a mission and the other made the choice to tag along. Guess who's who?

Asking Eunhyuk wasn't option. Everybody knows how uptight and aloof he can be- for good reason of course but, that's exactly why (y/n) had to go behind his back. She went ahead and stalked Hyun Su like a tail the moment Eunhyuk left after giving him a rundown of his objectives for the day.

"You shouldn't have come," Hyun Su quietly expresses his disagreement to her decision but (y/n) just shrugs and scans the room for valuables.

Contrasting Eunhyuk's constant character however, Cha Hyun Su had changed little by little. He's more vocal regarding his feelings now compared to before and he's less solemn. He's also less hesitant to reach out to (y/n) when it comes to asking for comfort although, it rarely happens. Still, there a lot of things he keeps silent about such as when he was zoning out before; what thoughts were he thinking, he won't say. All those time (y/n) used to accompany him in the quarantine room bore fruit.

"Ooh! Batteries," she alerts with subtle excitement and points to a torn 4-pack battery set peeking out from under a shattered mirror. She reaches out to grab it but is intervened by Hyun Su who quickly picks it up.

"...You'll get cut," is all he mumbles while stuffing the batteries into his backpack. A small smile stretches on (y/n)'s face at his attentiveness towards her. "These are my tasks."

Her smile widens at his proclamation that indirectly means for her to just do nothing. The search continues.

"So, duct tape's the last one. Where can we find that?" (y/n) wonders aloud after they found the rest of the items in the list. She's responded with a tug on her sleeve to which she reacts with letting Hyun Su drag her away gently to the upper level and in front of a door. "Janitor room?"

Hyun Su nods and quickly pulls his hand away from her shirt- afraid he'll get greedy for her hand if he were to hold longer. "I once saw the janitor tape the hinges of the electric box together before the electricians came. I think, he should have one. Hopefully."

The words he speaks sound incoherent to (y/n)- the letters blurred and jumbled in her head as his rapid action of pulling away causes a slight undesirable tug in her heart. But she manages to brush it off and reach for the doorknob.

Yet once again, being interrupted by her knight in shining armor who sneakily slips to the front and opens the door. He walks in to search for the tape and lets (y/n) to just stand and watch. He mimics a cat when his face snaps towards the tape with large eyes sparkling with quiet glee.

"Here's the ta—" His sentence is cut after he takes the object and turn to (y/n) whose hair gently flutters to the side from a breeze. His brows furrow and (y/n) shares the same reaction.

She turns her face to the direction of the source and lips part in shock at the sight of a broken window. "Hyun Su, that window's broken. Something must've got in."

"What?" Hyun Su blurts and throws the tape in his bag before rushing out to shield her. His eyes then darts to the camera before belatedly realizing that the CCTV on the floor had broken down. This meant that whatever it is that happened here, Eunhyuk would be unaware of. No one will know if anything is to happen to them here. If anything happens to (y/n).

Dread fills him as panic ensues like a sprout rapidly growing its stems and roots to every end of his figure- a siren blaring in his head and heart pounding faster than ever. "(y/n), we have to go."

A faint whimper follows.

He frowns, confused by her lack of response despite feeling her standing behind him. So he turns- and the sight is enough to shatter him whole.

A monster with what seems like the deformed head of a spider and a twisted figure of a sea creature with debris and broken glass sticking out of its back had coiled its tentacles around (y/n) who's frozen with fright. Her eyes are wide with horror as she stays still- trying her best not to agitate the monster who only captured her soundlessly yet have done nothing after.

In fact, it's now staring at Hyun Su with its 8 black protruding eyes that look like they'll pop any second- all blinking in different times which rises goosebumps in their skin.

But Hyun Su's much too terrified at the possibility of losing (y/n) that he sees nothing but a target to kill.

SLOSH!

He stabs his spear into one of its eye, causing it to explode and inadvertently loosen its grip on (y/n) who quickly limps to the ground.

"(Y/N)!" Hyun Su shouts and pulls her up before dashing through the halls with her almost floating behind him. "In here!"

He slips into a room and shuts the door before falling to his knees to be eye-level with her who's desperately trying to catch her breath. The monster's tentacle had suffocated her, turning her skin and lips a shade of blue. Her head's spinning from the lack of air.

"(y/n)! (y/n), are you okay?" Hyun Su asks frantically as he constantly brushes her hair away from her face as she holds her head in his hands. His gaze heavy with concern scans her but is interrupted by a large growl, followed by a slam near their door. "...It's going to find us."

(y/n) sees nothing but colours and shapes and suddenly finds herself in an enclosed space before seeing Hyun Su's face near hers.

His lips form words. He's saying something. But (y/n) can't hear them. She's having trouble keeping her eyes open as her chest heaves for air. Seeing her dazed state, Hyun Su then forms a small smile, a smile that doesn't reach his eyes but for some reason, it reaches so deep into her chest. It... stings.

His shadow then swallows her when he bends down slightly- letting their foreheads touch for just a few seconds long before he hesitantly pulls away.

The light then disappears around her as the closet doors are closed by Hyun Su who leaves a gap big enough for air but not enough to replenish hers completely.

And so, she faints.

She awakes with a gasp and she quickly shoves the doors open- tumbling forward as a result but feels something minimally soft cushioning her.

Hyun Su's backpack.

Panic overtakes as she recalls the mangled monster and the life threatening situation she experienced. And yet, it's now strangely quiet and... Hyun Su is nowhere to be seen.

"Hyun Su," she mutters and rushes out the room with the bag only to gasp at the large volume of blood smeared on the floors and walls- but what scared her the most is the bloody handprints scattered around the windows which eventually increased on the layers of duct tape used to cover the crack they saw before. "He covered this. He's alive! Hyun Su!"

It's as if she's a madman- running around the hallways in search of him and completely disregarding the fact that there could be another monster. It's unlikely, anyways, or else they would've came out before.

"Hyun Su! CHA HYUN SU!" She shrieks and drifts to a stop in front of the janitor room where the door is open by ajar. She's scared to swing it open wider. What if what she sees is worse than a 'missing' Hyun Su? What if... he's not just gone?

But relief settles in the moment she sees him collapsed on the ground, breathing and alive- although, battered and bruised.

"Cha Hyun Su," (y/n) sobs and pulls him into her arms. He stirs.

He pants onto her back as she lays his head on her shoulder. "...(y/n)? Why are you h-here?"

"For you," she answers without pause and she feels him flinch.

"I told you to not come for me... If I don't come back, don't search for me," he strains his voice and (y/n) pushes him up- tightly holding his cheeks against her palms with a glare.

"Stop being sappy and just rest up, will you?" She scolds and Hyun Su's eyes flicker between her angry ones- feeling a thump in his chest and question marks seem to appear on his head. "Now, shush."

She pulls him back down to her shoulder and hugs him tightly in hopes to hide the tremble of her arms and the tears that brim her eyes. Acting tough seems to work, thankfully.

No, it doesn't. Not at all.

And yet, as selfish as it sounds and as much as he wants to hit himself for it, Hyun Su feels... grateful that she's so deeply affected by him. That she's moved by him. His lips stretch to a grin as he nuzzles further into her shoulder- shuffling to the crook of her neck to feel the warmth of her skin.

"...If you try to sacrifice yourself for me again, you better stay alive," she suddenly says.

"Alri—"

"So I can kill you personally."

"Oh..."

Despite her death threat, the joyful miens they each wear show their heartfelt feelings for one another.

'I'd like to see her try,' a voice that's eerily similar to Hyun Su's chuckles in his head and his smile drops- eyes turning completely black before they fade just as quickly.

'Shut up,' Hyun Su snaps back in his head and wraps his arms around (y/n)'s waist- unintentionally leaning towards her for security and comfort which causes a blush to creep on her cheeks.

a/n: do leave a like and reblog if you like them because they will totally help in motivating me!! thanks for reading ઇ♡ଓ

copyright © 2024 thinemoonshine all rights reserved

[spockfallsinlove]

spirk prompt request: a moment on the bridge or at dinner with the bridge crew where Spock says something off handedly (like maybe Jim mentions having misplaced something and without hesitating Spock tells him it's on his nightstand) that subtly reveals to everyone the level of intimacy between Spock and Jim, with a focus on everyone's reactions. thank you!!

"It's not like I tried to provoke a potential galactic war!" Jim protests as he spears a piece of fried chicken off his plate. "It was a woefully inadequate translation."

"But somehow, those kinds of things only seem to happen to you," Bones shoots back. He glares at Jim's plate. "And I told you to have the chicken."

"I am having the chicken."

"The grilled one, you intentionally obtuse man. Your blood pressure—" Bones starts, face already red with an impending lecture on Jim's health.

"So Spock," Jim cuts in, turning to his First Officer. "How did things fare on the bridge while I was away?"

"Quiet, Captain," Spock says with a dainty swipe of napkin across his lips. "I believe Uhura has some interesting communications she picked up while we were stationed," he adds, nodding to her. (She's sitting across from Jim, also having the fried chicken, but no one's yelling at her about it.)

"It's just a few snatches I managed to translate," Uhura says, handing a PADD to Jim over the plates. "And you should really have asked me to do the translations for this mission. Starfleet HQ means well, but they do tend to hire linguists fresh out of the academy."

"I'll never stray again," Jim promises, setting the PADD down in front of him. He pulls up the document in question and begins to read Uhura's notes. Spock, next to him, bends his head down as well, their temples nearly touching as he reads in tandem. The rest of the bridge crew turns back to their usual lunchtime chatter, the hum of the mess room buzzing around Spock and Jim as they read.

"I can't make any sense of this," Jim murmurs.

Spock nods. "Further analysis will be required."

"Could make a great bedtime story," Jim says, grinning at his First Officer. "Better than that math nonsense you always insist on reading to me."

Bones, across from Jim, drops his fork onto the plate midair. His wide eyes dart between Jim and Spock. "Excuse me?"

"Oh, don't get me started," Jim emphatically sighs, leaning back in the chair and waving off Spock's attempt to speak, pitching his voice even louder. "No, don't try to defend yourself, mister. Every night I put up with that nonsense. No one needs to read twenty different arguments on the Pythagorean theorem, much less talk about it, while the poor sap next to you who understands none of it is just trying to sleep and—What?" Jim finally looks at Spock, who has a panicked look on his face. "What's wrong, Spock?"

He realizes too late that the mess room has gone quiet. At least twenty pairs of eyes are staring him down. Uhura has a hand over her mouth, a huge smile hidden behind it. Sulu's jaw has dropped. Bones looks redder in the face than he ever has. Scotty is very intentionally not giving anybody, much less his senior officers, eye contact.

"Oh," Jim says, stupidly, and a little belatedly. He turns to Spock, giving him a bashful grin. "I think this means that you've won the bet, my dear."

There's a smile dancing behind Spock's eyes. He pushes his knee into Jim's under the table; a small but powerful gesture as far as Vulcan standards are concerned. "Two weeks," he says, soft and low. "You have kept the secret longer than I expected."

Jim shrugs, rolling his eyes at himself, before going back to eating. At least he wouldn't have to work so hard mincing his words anymore. "Well, go ahead," he says to the twenty pairs of eyes on him, waving a hand. "Have at it."

Another blissfully peaceful, silent moment passes before the mess hall breaks into a cacophony of cheers, exclamations, and one Southern-tinged horrified wail rising above the rest.

[taetaesbaebaepsae]

What You're Looking For (myg)

Summary: Yoongi's definitely falling in love with you, but he's hesitant to tell you because as an idol, he can't give you what you're looking for.

Warnings: public sex, some possessive behavior, vaginal fingering, little bit of degradation

Word Count: 3633

A/n: A Yoongi commission, hope you enjoy!

Being an idol isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Sure, the money is nice, he doesn’t have to worry about bus fare or how he’s going to eat each week. He can write songs anytime he wants to, has use of all this impressive equipment that his pre-debut self would have lost his mind over. The fame, on the other hand, is something that Yoongi struggles with.

He can’t exactly leave his apartment and go to the store for ramen and beer anymore. He can’t exactly walk to the bus station and go down to the park, feed the birds like he used to. He also can’t take anyone out on a date, which pre-debut Yoongi would have never dreamed of doing, anyway.

But now he’s on the wrong side of his 20’s and actually dating is something he wants to do and can’t, not just because of his fame but also because of contracts. It isn’t as if their manager had sat them down and said absolutely no dating, but it’s certainly implied. Their schedules are tight enough that there’s only a few hours of free time per week, and that’s not on accident, Yoongi knows.

Pre-debut Yoongi had been so focused on music, so focused on making it that now, once he’s made it, he longs for something more simple. Writing lyrics on bar napkins while chatting up a girl, for one. Taking someone out on a dinner date to that diner he likes by his apartment. He imagines that he might take her hand while they walk there, swing it back and forth, make her smile.

He does, in fact, meet you while he’s scribbling song lyrics on a bar napkin, but instead of taking you out on a date, he has to sneak you back to his apartment in a black car, pulling his cap over his face. You know who he is, he knows that much by the blush on your cheeks, but you keep insisting you don’t know much about kpop and he believes you.

Yoongi blames the soju for how he kisses you in the elevator, aggressively, backing you up against the door, but you lean into him, make this little sound into his mouth and the next thing he knows he’s waking up with your bare arm across his waist and he’s panicking because he’s got practice in less than an hour.

“Fuck,” he curses softly when he extricates himself, because you look so pretty and peaceful and he’s got to wake you up and usher you out like some kind of dirty little secret and it makes his heart clench in his chest.

He calls your name, softly, and when you stretch he can see that tattoo on your stomach, the one he'd traced with his fingers last night, and then his tongue.

Yoongi knows he's blushing, can feel the heat in his face, so he turns his face away.

"Um," he starts, and then he hears the sheets shuffle.

"Oh! Sorry, I should go." Your voice sounds husky from sleep and Yoongi almost reaches out to grab your wrist as you pick up your dress from the floor.

He doesn't, and you go with an awkward peck on his cheekbone that he swears he can feel on his skin for days.

Things go on like that, for the weeks he's on break and after, through texts and Facetime calls, for months. It's always rushed and sexy and he always has to go before he wants to, and he hates it.

He finds that the girl he'd thought about taking on dates and holding hands with seems to now have your face, after a while. All his fantasies, sexual and otherwise, start to involve your smile.

Pre-debut Yoongi only fantasized about music, about standing on a stage belting out his truths, cutting pieces of himself to bleed onto paper so that someone would see him, finally, so that someone would know him.

Pre-debut Yoongi would have scoffed at him for wanting only one person to know him, one person to see him.

Pre-debut Yoongi would have called him an idiot, for falling in love.

You never imagined yourself in a situationship with an internationally famous rapper, despite the fact that you weren't overly familiar with his work when you'd met.

You certainly can't call it dating, since it culminates in having a few drinks and hooking up at his apartment or, during one particularly hazy night, in the backseat of a hired Escalade.

He's often out of the country, and on occasion he'll call you in the middle of the day, which is the middle of the night for him, ask you how you are, and eventually, what you're wearing.

You're trying not to look too far into it, not read into how soft his voice sounds when you Facetime and he tells you how beautiful you look, not think there might be something more in the way he wraps you in his arms after sex, plants soft kisses on the back of your neck.

It's fun, it's casual, and there's no reason to need more.

There are other guys that you've had similar situations with, and this is no different.

Maybe it's Yoongi's face that floats in front of your eyes when you're just about to fall asleep, but he doesn't have to know that.

You find yourself stopping yourself from texting him first, and you tell yourself it’s because he’s so busy but you know it’s because you feel too much.

You know his schedule, he emails it to you once a month, and while that seems like a good sign it isn’t as if after months of hooking up, you’ve ever had a conversation about where your relationship stands.

So, one Friday night, you know he’s in town and you know he’s free and when he doesn’t text or call, it feels like bees are buzzing under your skin.

Instead of staring at your phone in an effort to will it to ring, you call a friend and plan a girl’s night out. That’s what you need, anyway, a night where you can drink with your friends and flirt with men you’ll never see again.

You don’t need Yoongi’s low mumble in your ear, making you feel like you’re the only woman in the world.

Yoongi tells himself he doesn’t spend every moment of his free time with you, but he definitely does spend the majority of it at least thinking about you. The way your skin feels under his hands, the slow tilt of your crooked smile. The way sometimes you snort when you laugh too hard and you’re not even ashamed about it.

He babbles all of this out to Jimin and the younger just raises an eyebrow at him.

“Hyung, you have a girlfriend?”

Yoongi feels his face flushing. “N-no. She’s not my girlfriend.”

“Hm. Okay, hyung.” Jimin says dryly, and Yoongi shoves him playfully with the heel of his hand.

“You going out tonight?” Yoongi asks, suddenly, and immediately regrets it when Jimin’s eyes light up.

“Are you gonna come with me this time?” Jimin bounces on the couch excitedly and Yoongi groans.

So that’s how, between the need to stop sitting at home and daydreaming about you and Yoongi’s inability to say no to Park Jimin’s pout, Yoongi ends up at a club.

A loud club. A crowded club.

He orders a whiskey at the bar, people shouldering up against him to order as well and God why did he do this, anyway?

Jimin disappears somewhere within half an hour and he’s stuck looking around the bar for him awkwardly.

Yoongi recognizes you by the line of your jaw, and it’s a rush, the pleasure that shoots through him, the butterflies in his stomach, better than the glass of whiskey he’s been sipping.

You don’t see him, and he wonders if he should go up behind you, plant a kiss on your shoulder, but in the end he doesn’t wade through the sea of people, just watches you sway to the beat, talking and laughing with your friends. It’s interesting, seeing you out and about like this, somewhere he doesn’t have to hide you, and longing spears through him because as much as he hates clubs, he’d like to take you to one, see the way your body moves to the music, how your eyes light up when you laugh.

As he’s watching, entranced, a man puts his hand on your hip, stands from the bar, and Yoongi’s hands grasp the bar hard enough to whiten his knuckles. He’d never considered himself a jealous person, had never been so in past relationships, but there’s this little ball of something vile in his stomach and it isn’t just the whiskey.

He knocks the rest of his drink back, orders another, tries to focus on the bartender but he can see you in his peripheral vision and when you move he turns his head to follow you as the man leads you out onto the dance floor.

It occurs to him that he’d never had a conversation with you about exclusivity. He hasn’t seen anyone else since he’d met you, but he’d been gone more than he’d been with you and maybe you were seeing someone else. Maybe it was this guy, with his hand on your hip so familiar.

Yoongi doesn’t feel angry, exactly, but there’s a rock in his gut and his throat seems to have closed to a pinhole when he takes a gulp of his new drink, watching you dance.

You sway your hips slow, as if moving to a beat in your head instead of the music, and Yoongi would smile if he felt physically able to do so, watching the man behind you with both hands on your hips now, fingers splayed out.

Yoongi has this awful image, wonders if you’d let him put his hands on your hips like that somewhere more private, and he finishes his second drink too quickly, slams it down on the bar. The bartender blinks at him and Yoongi mutters out an apology, orders another.

Three drinks were his usual limit in crowded places like this, throughout the night, and now that he’s downed them within a couple of hours, things are a bit fuzzy around the edges. He tells himself he should stay seated, wait for the alcohol to hit his system, but he’s up and walking toward you on the dance floor before he can talk himself into staying on the bar stool. He’s only unsteady for a moment, a lifetime of enjoying alcohol has given him a good tolerance that he’s grateful for tonight.

Your eyes widen when you see him, a ghost of a smile playing along your lips.

“Can I cut in?” Yoongi asks, and it seems like a stupid, formal thing to say at a club that was blasting hip hop, but it makes you smile wider.

Yoongi doesn’t even look at the man, doesn’t hear his mumbled response, just replaces his hands on your hip with his own.

“That your boyfriend?” He knows he sounds like a petulant child but you laugh and it lessens the tightness in his throat.

“Mm, no. I don’t have a boyfriend.” You answer, coyly, wrapping your arms around his neck and swaying to the music.

“That so?” Yoongi leans down, presses his mouth to your collarbone. He wants to suck a mark there but he resists. “Do you want one?” He mumbles it against your skin and you make a sound in the back of your throat.

He can’t hear your response, can’t touch you like he wants so he takes your hand and you follow him without a word.

When he pushes the door to the men’s room you tug on his arm, though.

He looks back at you and you scrunch your nose and pull him into the women's bathroom instead.

"There's an etiquette to hooking up at a club, Yoongi."

He laughs and finally that knot in his stomach loosens. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. The women's room is cleaner."

You beckon him into a stall, locking the door before backing him against it, kissing him hard, nipping at his bottom lip.

He moans into your mouth, it's been weeks since he'd been able to kiss you, touch you, and he's enjoying it until a flash of memory of that other guy's hands on your hips, fingers splayed, pops into his mind.

He calls your name, softly, and you pull away to look at him, this little pout on your mouth that he has to resist kissing.

"Are you seeing anyone else?"

You'd been fiddling with the buttons on his shirt but you freeze at his question.

"Not really," you reply, and the air feels thin suddenly and Yoongi trails the fingers of his right hand along your spine.

“That’s not really an answer,” Yoongi retorts, and his ears feel hot.

You only smirk, unbutton part of his shirt so that you can slide your hand inside to feel his skin.

“You jealous, Yoongi?”

He scoffs, and then his breath hitches when you place your palm on his bare chest. He pulls you closer by your waist and you lean into him.

“You’re jealous,” you say confidently, moving your hands to unbutton his slacks, and Yoongi’s mouth goes dry.

“I am,” he admits, feeling flushed all over.

“Why’s that? Territorial?”

Yoongi thinks it’s unfair of you to be asking things like this when he’s tipsy and horny, half hard from your kisses and your hands on his skin, but he puffs out his cheeks and lets out a breath through his nostrils and answers anyway.

“No,” he manages, it’s a croak because you’ve slipped your hand into his slacks and underwear, pressing your palm against his cock.

“Hmm. Well in that case, I got asked out tonight, think I should give him a call?”

“No,” he says again, empathically, taking your wrists and moving his body to pin you against the side of the stall instead of allowing you to pin him.

Your breath catches, your eyes dark with lust when you look at him.

“Why not?”

You want him to say it, Yoongi knows you well enough for that, has spent months learning all about who you are, he knows that much, but it’s hard to spit it out, especially like this, in a club bathroom stall with music booming overhead, muffled slightly by the bathroom walls.

Instead, he kisses you, hard, moves his hips against yours, shows you how hard you’ve made him and you whine into his mouth, clutch at the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Want you,” he murmurs, and it isn’t an answer but it’s closer than silence and it’s as close as he can get right now.

“I know you want me,” you breathe, something exasperated in your tone.

Yoongi doesn’t have a condom, had no plans on coming out to meet anyone, and bemoans as much to you.

When you rummage around in your purse and pull one out, smirking, then he is mad, even though he’s not sure he has any right to be upset.

“So you came out to get laid tonight?” His voice is calmer than he’d expected with how his heart is pounding.

You shrug. “So what if I did?”

“You’re lucky I was here,” Yoongi says darkly, and your smirk only widens.

You don’t move a muscle, just tilt your chin up at him. “Why is that?”

Yoongi bunches your dress around your hips, roughly pushes your thong aside so that he can cup your pussy. He slides two fingers inside when you spread your thighs, moaning loudly.

He doesn’t respond to your question, kissing along the side of your throat and nipping at your earlobe instead.

“You’re lucky,” he murmurs, “because no one can fuck you like I do.”

You shiver, goosebumps breaking out on your skin, and he kisses your throat again, sucking and biting there to make a mark. You’re loud, rocking your hips against his hand.

“I bet everyone can hear you moaning like a whore for me,” he whispers into the shell of your ear.

“Yoongi,” you rasp, trembling.

“Hmm?”

He can’t deny it’s a rush, the way you’re shaking, desperate for him, all but begging him to fuck you. He always feels so out of control with you, the way you make him feel, the longing in the pit of his stomach, the way he’d follow you to hell if you’d asked him. He knows how easily you could break him, and he’s afraid of it but he keeps chasing you anyway. It’s nice to see that he can have some manner of control over you, too.

“Please,” you plead, and he pulls away from your throat, wonders about the logistics of fucking in a bathroom stall. It certainly wasn’t his normal scene, but he figures it out, wrapping your legs around his waist, lifting your ass to press you against the wall. Applying the condom is the awkward part but you’re panting, clutching at his shirt, kissing along his neck and he manages.

Your hands move between you, guiding his cock into you and he groans so low in his throat that it almost hurts.

“Always so wet for me,” he says into your ear, and you buck your hips, almost unseating yourself until he rights you with his hands on your hips.

“Fuck,” you curse almost mournfully and he can’t help but chuckle as he starts to roll his hips up into you, the angle making him spear into you deeper than he ever had before. All of your hookups had been quick but none against the wall. Yoongi thinks he likes it, loves the way you look with your dress bunched up, your tits heaving against his chest, makeup sweating off.

“Look at you,” he groans. “You’re so desperate for it, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” you agree in a short breath. “Yes, yes, please make me come, Yoongi.”

Your dirty talk makes his balls draw up and he thinks it might be over before you do but that’s okay, he’s good with his hands and his fingers.

Then you tug on his hair, your teeth gritted. “Harder,” you demand, and Yoongi’s eyes widen.

It’s quick after that, he’s fucking you hard and fast against the door, your ass sliding up and down with a squeaking sound.

He’s close and he lets his mouth run away with him, your cunt clenching around him.

“I want you to be mine,” he gasps. “Not just your body.”

“Yoongi, I’m coming, I’m coming, don’t stop,” you whine, and he isn’t sure you’re listening. Part of him hopes you aren’t, because if you don’t feel the same way he doesn’t want to know, at least not yet.

And then, just as he spills inside you, it comes bursting out of him like a dam has crumbled.

“Y/n, I’m falling in love with you.”

You kiss him, then, taking his face in your hands, your tongue sliding against his and he keeps rolling his hips into yours as you pulse around him.

It’s thirty seconds before he starts to come down, and a full minute before the horror of what he’s said starts to descend upon him.

Lowering you to the ground is more awkward than it should be since he has to pull out of you first, but you giggle when he puts you down on the floor, stumbling a little on shaky legs.

After you each adjust your clothes, you open your mouth to speak. “Yoongi-”

“Don’t,” he pleads. “Please don’t say anything.”

You frown, little wrinkles appearing between your eyes. He wants to kiss them.

“But-”

“Jagiya, please,” he all but begs, and he’s never called you a pet name but it slips out and he wants to disappear through the floor.

“Yoongi.” You say, fiercely. “Stop it.”

Yoongi groans, covering his face with his hands.

“I want to be yours, too.”

He peeks at you from between his fingers, his face flushed.

“You do?”

“I do.” You’re smiling, widely, and he’s not sure he’s ever seen you smile like that. It makes his heart soar.

“What about that guy?” He knows he’s pouting so he doesn’t fully uncover his face.

You laugh. “What guy? He just asked me to dance.”

Yoongi drops his hands from his face. “You...you made me think…”

You shrug. “Well, I didn’t know what you wanted from me. I had no idea you had feelings for me.”

“I’m in love with you,” Yoongi says incredulously. “I’m crazy about you. I’ve been crazy about you forever.”

“You didn’t tell me that!” You insist.

Yoongi laughs, loud and open, his heart feeling lighter, but it’s a short reprieve. His face falls.

“I’m just...I’m gone so often. I can’t give you what you want, what you’re looking for-”

You silence him by kissing him, just a peck on the lips. “Yoongi, you’re what I’ve been looking for my whole life.”

That rush is back, the fluttering in his chest and his stomach that he’s come to associate with you.

“Yeah?” It’s stupid, but it’s the only thing he can think of to say, looking down into your eyes and he’s sure he’s got the goofiest grin on his face.

But you grin back and it makes him feel better.

“Yeah.”

He still doesn’t get as much time with you as he likes and sometimes he still worries that you might meet someone else while he’s away, but you call him every night that you can, facetime him, and he keeps the butterflies, keeps the rush that reminds him of you, even when he’s busy making music or onstage.

You're always happy to reassure him that you've found what you're looking for, and you don't need anything more.

[moonbaby26]

Title: Rare Company

Pairing: Loki x Goddess!Reader

Summary: Story set nearer the Viking Age. You were a Greek sea goddess who crossed paths with the god of mischief. Continuation from previous chapter. Several days after your initial meeting, Loki returns allowing some unexpected time together. And spurring you to wonder what could become of this, as well as trying to address what your own feelings might be for this new god.

Warnings: None, just fluff this chapter.

Chapters: Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Taglist: @rosaline-black , @lawfeys

My Masterlist

——————————

Things had fallen back into routine after a while. Even if you still caught yourself daydreaming from time to time. You had imagined working up the nerve to ask your father for permission to visit Asgard. No one from your family had in ages from all you could tell, and what an act of diplomacy that could be.

Instead of roaming far and wide as you normally would, you had more kept to these southern seas as well. That little voice inside you wondering if Loki would return. The forest nymphs had delivered word to your sea nymphs that he had departed back through what you now knew as the bifrost the very same day you had met him.

He’d only lingered a couple more hours they’d said, seemingly in thought within the forest before he’d called out for the bridge to reopen and had disappeared the same strange way he’d come.

You had taken the form of a dolphin today, idly swimming around the fishing boats you’d come upon in open water. They should know you symbolized luck. And if they seemed grateful, you’d gladly chase more fish into their nets in your boredom.

But it was then that another group of dolphins appeared, though you recognized them instantly for the nymphs that they were.

Excitedly they darted around you.

“He’s back, that prince of Asgard! And he calls for you, milady!”

The shock had been immense. You really hadn’t known if he would return. But you’d hoped, hadn’t you? And now he was actually asking for you by name.

Of course you must go to him. You were a goddess of your word after all.

———————————

And he was at the same beach you’d been on the first day he’d appeared. Through father’s magic, you could travel the hidden currents of the deep ocean, being wherever you needed to be within minutes rather than hours or the days that it would have taken mortals.

You swam slower though as you neared the shore, still underwater as you’d taken your spear from one of the nymphs once more. He was still a stranger to you after all. Though maybe that would change? It was hard to say why he really would have returned again.

There was a nervousness that was so foreign to you as you finally swam shallow enough to stand up and begin to walk from the waters. The gills on your neck that only opened when you were under for any real length of time, now dissolved back into smooth skin as the dry air reached you.

Your dress clung to your wet body as well, far more sheer in the sunlight, and for a moment you wondered if Asgardian culture was more modest in the view of their own bodies or not. You couldn’t remember reading about that.

Hopefully he would not think it obscene. But as you made eye contact with him, you really could read nothing in his gaze. Only his body language looked impatient as he sat in the weak shade of a tree long gnarled by the ocean’s winds.

You bowed lightly in greeting as you stopped before him, even though you still held your spear upright in one hand. “Prince Loki of Asgard, I am pleased to see you again.”

You did notice that fleeting look through his eyes at that, as if he was once again trying to decide your sincerity.

“You think me a fool, don’t you?” Was what he finally said though. Not quite as cutting in tone as the other day however, but still very guarded.

You straightened at the accusation, though curious to his point.

But he continued before you could respond. “You are no minor goddess, (Y/N) of the sea,” He repeated, seeming to mock your wording from your last meeting. “I read more on your kind once I returned to Asgard. Care to introduce yourself with less deception this time?”

You smiled before you could help yourself. So you were the deceptive one? When the very first time you’d ever laid eyes on him, it had only been a false image. What a strange choice of words.

But had he really done the same thing you had then? Gone home and studied you? Was he annoyed that there would be any subject he knew so little about? You wanted to know if your own studying had been enough though, as this time you answered him in the language of the Asgardians, or what you hoped was at least close enough to be intelligible.

“I did not lie to you. I am the daughter of the sea. Because my father is the sea...Poseidon, king of the sea, and god of the oceans, earthquakes, storms, and horses.” Which yes, made you a princess you supposed, niece of Zeus, and sibling and cousin to so many others in the pantheon of gods and goddesses that was the Olympus royal family.

His eyebrows raised a little as his own language came off your tongue. But you could see it would still take far more for him to really show himself impressed even as a slight smirk did cross his face for the very first time. “Your intonation still needs much work, goddess. We can keep to Greek for now.”

True, beginning to learn a new language just through the written word was far different than actually hearing it spoken. “I haven’t had much time to study since you first came.” You smiled back. “I did try.”

“Clearly.” He answered, though still seeming to be just the slightest amused you thought.

“So is that the only reason you have returned? To chide me for not announcing myself a king’s daughter?” You asked, but trying not to sound as curious as you truly were.

He did pause a moment, but you were realizing that seldom did he find himself without quick words. “Partly I suppose.” He responded. “But you also said that I was now a guest here. Unless that hospitality has been revoked, I am choosing to take more time from Asgard in a place where I will not be bothered.”

So he still was mostly wanting solitude after all then? Though slightly disappointing, you knew it was something you could well understand. You wondered if his family could be as chaotic as your own. “This is a good place for it then. To not be bothered I mean. And yes, I stand by my offer of your being a guest here.”

After waiting this many days you really would have preferred to be in his presence more than a few moments. But it would be rude to impose yourself as well. “I will leave you to yourself then.” You spoke, already resigning your own self to likely the rest of the day alone as a shark or a dolphin. Well, maybe something that could dive even deeper. You now felt like going lay in a trench somewhere actually.

“Wait.”

The call back surprised you, even as it had sounded more like a command, pausing your rising disappointment as you glanced back over your shoulder.

“I had actually intended just to read today. But as you evidently have been reading at times as well, unlike so many others I know-” There seemed to be quite a bit of resentment to whomever he was referring to there, “I could be inclined to return to Asgard briefly and fetch some books from our library for you as well if you would like to read with me.”

You stared at the abrupt invitation. Did he really mean for you to sit with him, reading together then? So he was not entirely averse to your presence any longer?

Your silent stare only had him keep talking as if he thought he might need to further persuade you though. “I am sure you would get a far more accurate representation of Asgardian culture and history from our own authors, rather than whatever it was you had clumsily dug up here.”

The air of superiority had returned to his tone as he’d mentioned their writers of course, but he was likely right. If you wanted to read about Asgard, what better source than from the Asgardians themselves?

“I would appreciate that very much,” You said truthfully, albeit still with some surprise.

“Then it is done.” He said decisively, then standing to walk back to the forest.

“Loki,” you called before you could stop yourself though. You also realized it was the first time you had said his name this informally. You paused, unsure if this was something he generally allowed or not.

But when he looked back at you, you saw no anger in his eyes. He looked a little caught off guard himself, but only for the briefest moment.

“I...” You tried to not lose your nerve. “May I follow you? Not to Asgard of course,” You clarified quickly. There were far too many protocols that could be broken there, “But close enough to see the bifrost open? I’ve never seen it.”

He hesitated to consider your request. You supposed any good steward of their kingdom would. But even if you were trying some attempt at subterfuge and intended to force your way to Asgard, what threat could a single Olympian really pose? Especially only a water goddess at that.

He must have agreed you were no real threat either as he finally nodded, motioning for you to follow him.

And once you had reached that clearing again, this time you were close enough to see the symbols his last entrances had cut into the ground. Such a unique way to travel you thought.

But you were smart enough to still keep your distance as you did back back away as you saw him look to the sky.

“Heimdall!” He called. “Open the bifrost, I need to return!” He said in his own language.

For a moment nothing happened, but then the birds began to fly as the trees shook in the growing wind. You could just see the sky, a swirl of clouds beginning before a light as bright as any of Zeus’ lightning bolts erupted down with that boom you had heard before. Loki disappeared into the light, the wind whipping all around you before the bifrost vanished back into those clouds just as suddenly and there was silence again.

“Amazing,” you breathed, just to yourself and any still lingering animals that may have heard you.

—————————-

It felt like far longer than it really was you were sure. Your anticipation just stretching out the minutes as you’d waited for his return.

But when he did come back, in all the same dramatics as his exit with the bifrost opening, then closing to leave him there again in the clearing, he now had a satchel of several books.

You assumed Asgard may be a good deal cooler in temperature than your sandy beaches for as much of him that was covered in clothing. So you tried to help find the best shade that you could, and with an unblocked pass for the cool ocean breeze as you sat together beneath more trees.

“I’ve put a spell on these to make them waterproof,” He commented, “Though do still take care, some of these are from Father’s personal collection.”

“That’s practical,” You admitted, not at all offended, but awed really that he would bring such rare items for your viewing.

It was a bit of a slow go for you though, everything being written in the Asgardian language. But you were happy to find that you could understand enough with some effort, and that the gist of the stories and the histories being told were still coming across to you.

You weren’t sure how many hours the two of you sat that way. Every now and again you could see one of the sea nymphs peeking out from where the waves were breaking, keeping a curious eye on the two of you.

Eventually it was him that finally closed the last book he had been working through though. “I suppose I should return.” He said.

You were gentle with the book you still had, closing it as well as you handed it back to him. You felt as if you should say something more, but a simple, “Thank you,” was all that really came to mind in this moment.

He quieted though, looking out to the sun, now low over the darkening ocean. “It is not as fully terrible here in Midgard as I first assumed.”

You chuckled, how often would he make a habit of these insults? “I suppose any place can have its good qualities.”

But you badly wanted to ask him what had brought him here in the first place then. If he was to come to the mortal realm, wouldn’t it have made more sense to stay to the north where he was already legend? Why come here to the lands of the Olympians?

“You do have a way of staring through a person when you’re curious about something. You realize this don’t you?” He asked you in return though, just observing your features then.

You blinked, genuinely wondering if he possessed telepathy and you hadn’t known it.

“You’re looking at me in the same way as when you wanted to see the bifrost. So what do you wish to know of Asgard that could not be found in those books?”

You hesitated. He was still a god after all, and you knew how fickle they could be. You didn’t wish to anger him with your nosiness, but it would also be rude to ignore such a direct question.

“Well...I’m wondering why you came to our land to begin with. No Asgardians have set foot here in many ages from what I can discern. Why would you be so different?”

“You think me different?” He responded immediately though. Concerning you actually, before he scoffed, “Then you are intelligent. I am nothing like those I came here to seek relief from. My fool brother and his equally boorish companions.”

“Thor?” You asked innocently enough.

But the look he gave you as that name came off your lips would have been far answer enough before it became the key that opened the gates.

“He has been completely insufferable since Father bequeathed him Mjolnir!” You could see Loki’s jaw tightening slightly, the frustrated expression growing and so similar to that angered one you remembered on his illusion’s face that first day in the clearing, when it’d been pacing and cursing.

“Is that what happened recently?” You asked reflexively, but still believing that you already had the answer.

“Oh, he’s been using the hammer for years of course. Yet it always belonged to Asgard, not him. A relic of our realm. But now it is truly his per Father’s public declaration. Thor’s hammer,” He mocked, “Worthy to the one who will one day succeed Odin to take the throne. Father has now cast Thor as his official heir in our people’s eyes with this blunder.”

You remained quiet to digest the information he was providing you. So Loki felt slighted, no disgusted actually to learn the throne was seemingly all but promised to his brother now. So had he really already had that high of expectations for it?

“I guess Asgard and Olympus aren’t so different after all,” You finally mused, though trying to keep your tone even rather than sounding patronizing. “I mean, Zeus, Hades, and Poseidon. Our three kings, they overthrew their father Cronus and locked him in Tartarus to claim rule. Admittedly Cronus had eaten Hades, Poseidon, and their other siblings previously though.”

Loki stared at you and you just smiled oddly then. “My family has not always been on the best terms with each other either.”

“Your grandfather ate your father?” Loki asked as if to reaffirm the insanity he’d just heard. “I thought that was just a myth.”

“No, father has the scars still,” You admitted. “Cronus devoured his children as he didn’t want anyone to succeed him. But my grandmother Rhea, she hid Zeus away when he was born. And Zeus forced Cronus to regurgitate the others later.”

“Ugh,” Loki said, making a face.

You laughed, glad you seemed to at least get his mind off of Thor for the moment. “That all happened ages before I was born though. Luckily it’s now more frowned upon to treat your children in such a manner. Those were the old ways.”

“And you do have many siblings don’t you?” He questioned. “I read the Olympians were quite, how should I say, prolific in their child bearing.”

“Truth I’m afraid. Which is why I like to keep to the seas rather than Father’s palace or Mount Olympus. At least you only have one Thor, rather than a dozen.”

“Gods,” Loki spoke, the evident horror in that thought too much to contemplate seriously.

But you were just smiling again, realizing how much the ice had finally been broken to even be having this type of conversation right now. You were honestly enjoying the back and forth. It would be a shame to not do this again sometime.

And you had to try and convey that, at least somewhat if you could. You didn’t know how many other chances you would have. “Before you go...I did mean it, Loki, when I said you were welcome as a guest here. You can always come back when you need a little hideaway from whatever transpires to irk you in Asgard.”

He stared at you again then. It troubled you though of how little you seemed to be able read him at times. As if he could just cast a curtain between you whenever he wished.

“Perhaps I just may.” Loki said at last though with little emotion, then finally standing now and collecting his satchel of books.

It was only then that you really realized how dark it had already gotten with the sun now setting. And you caught yourself admiring him a little in the red and purple hues now coming from the sky. He really was so different than the gods you’d known before. Should you say something more?

As you stood as well, picking your spear back up from the sands, you saw several nymphs quickly sink back down into the surf, pretending as if they were not also very interested in how else you may say goodbye to him.

“You must not often entertain guests,” Loki spoke though, evidently having noticed your audience as well even as he began to walk away from you.

“Not men,” You answered honestly, though pausing as you realized how that really sounded. You continued though, not sure if you were making things sound worse or better. “Mostly we stay at sea. And I have no interest in unwashed sailors.”

But he stopped at that before entering the forest. He posed such a simple question to you then, although one that could mean so much more. “Yet you have interest in me?”

You felt as if you’d been hit in the chest at his words. Said quietly even as you saw his blue eyes on you once more, analyzing...waiting.

But how could one word have so many meanings? Interest as in he was just a curiosity, a strange foreigner to study like some new sea creature you had found? Or interest like a friend, to read together and talk and vent on the very particular family aspects you shared just as you’d done today?

Or...and this was surely the most disconcerting of all, interest as in how he could feel if you were allowed to touch him? How he would taste if you could kiss him? Your kind took lovers frequently. That should be no secret to him or anyone else. But just because other gods and goddesses of Olympus bedded one another left and right, it didn’t mean you did.

But did he you wondered? Did he have his choice of consorts at his palace, a full court always vying for his attentions to try and pull themselves further up the social ladder via way of his bed? Surely he would, wouldn’t he?

Yet your hesitation in answering was enough to indict you of your own desires you feared. Surely if he meant little, that would have been an easy response. To think on it this long, just made your confession for you didn’t it?

You took a breath, trying to remind yourself that you should fear no man. On a whim you could transform into a great shark and consume any prey, you could move the waters themselves, wreck ships, destroy harbors should you truly wish to. These were the gifts given to you from your father.

You were a goddess after all, not just an enamored young woman. And all you could do was speak the truth. “I do have interest in you, Loki.” You finally answered. “But to what path that will take is highly dependent on your own desires I’m sure. I know nothing of Asgardian preferences when it comes to choosing who to court, if at all.”

He had only been looking at you before, but now turned to fully face you. Unlike yourself, it seemed he had no problem in finding words though. “Your beauty is not something rare in Asgard, that is true.” He said, yet continuing before you could feel that as too harsh a barb, “But your mind, your ability, and even your desire to learn of what is outside your own world, that may be something wholly more compelling.”

Yet this didn’t sound like something that should be considered rare to you, or enough to set you apart at all you thought. And he seemed to read this disbelief clearly on your face as he then admonished you for it.

“You think I exaggerate? That even one of those vapid headed children could sit still for more than an hour without having to go break something or fight someone to prove their worth? Or that any other would sit here with me as you have done today and it not be just farce to try and get closer to my brother or to get in Odin’s favor?”

So you had been right on one thing at least. The Asgardian court did have its share of social climbers then. Maybe in this you could finally see some weight to his words. Because what did you care of such things? Your father was already a king. You did not need to seduce a prince to find anything in your life that you could not have by birthright already.

But if this was his way of admitting he at least approved of your company, it still didn’t clarify as to what all he really wanted from you.

“Well, I still leave the decision as yours. You know how to find me should you be willing to see me again. If you bring books, I will read with you. If you only want an ear to listen, I will do so. And if you desire for more...we can address that as we come to it.” You said, in what you hoped was a mature sounding way to deal with these burgeoning feelings.

“Very well.” He answered too simply though. And you were sure you saw some enjoyment in his eyes as your expression showed you were left a bit unsatisfied by that. “Goodnight, (Y/N).”

And it was night by then, the fresh stars now fully surpassing the light from the fading sun. You stayed on the beach this time though, watching him disappear into the wooded hillside.

In not too much time, you then heard the boom that signaled the bifrost’s open and close and you knew that he was gone.

————————————

(Continued in next chapter here)

[javistg]

A Second Chance CH 4.

Chapter 4 is ready!

I want to thank you all for your messages and support. I can't believe you've stuck with me and my story for this long and I'm incredibly grateful.

Also, I have added one more chapter to the story.

The next chapter is almost ready, but it won't be very long. It's just a short epilogue. Still, I hope it will be enough to answer all those questions I haven't answered so far.

In the meantime, thanks for reading. Hope you enjoy. ❤️

Based on prompt 110: A time travel AU: Katniss from Mockingjay, (any part of the book, it's up to you), winds up back the day before her sister's first reaping. What does she do now that she knows what's coming? Now that she knows how Peeta feels about her, and she knows how desperately she needs him, and what they could share? What on earth could she, or should she, even do/change? And what is she should lose it all again? [submitted by @wingletblackbird For EFE 2019]

Want to read from the start? Go to AO3 or FF.net

CHAPTTER 4. 

Claudius Templesmith’s voice booms all around the arena. “Ladies and gentlemen, let the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games begin!”




As soon as the clock runs out, Katniss jumps from her platform and makes a beeline for the nearest backpack.




She’s almost at the tree line when she feels the impact of Clove’s knife sticking into her bag.

Right on cue, Katniss thinks as she slips into the woods.




Relying on her memory, she runs through the narrow paths and slopes until she reaches the lake. Getting on her knees, she shrugs the backpack off her shoulders and makes a quick inventory of its contents.




One thin black sleeping bag that reflects body heat. A pack of crackers. A pack of dried beef strips. A bottle of iodine. A box of wooden matches. A small coil of wire. A pair of night-vision glasses. And a half-gallon plastic bottle with a cap.




After filling her water bottle to the brim, Katniss starts walking again. She doesn’t want to go too far from the water —she refuses to deal with dehydration once more. Still, she tries to keep to the route she followed the first time she was there.




As she retraces her steps, she eventually comes across a familiar tree. A willow that’s not terribly tall but set in a clump of other willows, offering concealment in its long, flowing tresses.




She climbs up, sets her sleeping bag, straps herself to the branch, and waits.




The sky has already gone dark when she sees a small fire begin to bloom.




Katniss curses under her breath. Even now, she can’t bring herself to feel any sympathy for the tribute who’s decided to advertise their location in a place full of predators.




A few hours later, the Careers come traipsing through the forest. They’re about ten yards from her tree when an argument breaks.




Katniss grabs onto her branch and holds her breath in expectation.




Peeta’s words cut the bickering. “We’re wasting time! I’ll go finish her and let’s move on!”




Up on her tree, Katniss presses her lips together to contain her smile. The cameras are on her, watching her every move, and she stubbornly refuses to let the Capitol see her relief.




As Peeta walks away, she tries to conjure up all the anger and hurt she felt during her first Games so she can glare at him as he disappears from view.




XXXXX




Katniss runs through the woods, crushing branches and trampling down leaves and flowers in her rush to escape her nightmares, but it’s no use.




As the tracker-jacker poison courses through her veins —turning the world into a big shimmering bubble— Katniss berates herself for her carelessness.




She can’t believe her bow and arrows ended up stuck in Glimmer’s hands again; or that she needed Peeta’s warning to start moving.




Now, as she rushes through the forest trying to fight the ever-growing hallucinations, she knows that, once more, her clumsiness has placed Peeta’s fate in Cato’s hands.




Katniss turns a bend on the road. The earth shakes beneath her feet with the force of an explosion. She knows it’s not real, but she can’t fight it anymore. She sinks to her knees, exhausted, doomed.




Her nightmares have found her, and all she can do is give in.




XXXXX




Katniss wakes up a few days later to find her bow and arrows placed neatly by her side and Rue hiding behind a tree.  




Together, the girls hunt and forage and --just like the first time-- their fast, easy friendship blossoms.




When the time comes for Katniss to leave to blow the Careers’ supplies up, she hesitates. Maybe I should take Rue down to the river, she thinks. We could dig Peeta from the mud and start treating him. The three of us could hide in the cave and…




With a shake of her head and a heavy heart, Katniss gives up. Thanks to Peeta’s intensive training for the Quarter Quell, she knows how that story ends. Alliances in the arena never last.




She would only be postponing Rue’s death. And for what? So that she can end up holding her mutilated body after a strange mutt kills her? The thought makes her shudder.




I need to weaken the Careers, she reminds herself as she walks towards the Cornucopia. Otherwise, Peeta and I won’t stand a chance.




XXXXX




Katniss is perched up on a tree, waiting.




A part of her mind is still consumed with Rue. Images of her, bloody and speared, play on a loop behind her eyes. She tries to block them out, to distract herself with something else, but she doesn’t have the strength; she’s too disgusted with herself.




Overcome by despair, Katniss hates the choices she’s made.




She hates that, despite having a second chance, she’s still helpless to do better, that she still thinks she has to put her life first.




As the sun sinks behind the trees, her mind flies back to Peeta. He’s somewhere out there, hurt, slowly bleeding to death by the stream.




She wants to drop this stupid pretense and rush to him, but she can’t.




There is one way out of this arena, and she needs to stick to her past actions to find it. So, Katniss wraps her arms around herself and waits.




She’s almost reached the end of her rope when the sky finally lights up. No deaths.




Her heart nearly jumps out of her chest when she hears the trumpets. Eager, she perks up in anticipation.




Claudius Templesmith’s voice blares down from overhead, congratulating the six tributes who remain. “There’s been a rule change in the Games. Under the new rule, both tributes from the same district will be declared winners if they are the last two alive.”




Claudius pauses, giving his audience time to digest the news. He repeats the change again, “Two tributes can win this year. If they’re from the same district.”




He’s barely finished speaking when Katniss reaches for her belt and begins unbuckling herself. The last time she was there, she waited for day to break, but she can’t do that this time. Not when she knows Peeta needs her.




With quick fingers, Katniss packs everything in her bag and slips the night-vision glasses on.




“Hold on, Peeta,” she says as she shimmies down the tree. “I’m on my way.”

XXXXX




As soon as she reaches the edge of the water, she realizes her mistake.




It’s a cold night. A bright round moon bathes the arena in pale light but, even with her glasses, that's not enough to make her way through the slippery mud.




Muttering obscenities under her breath, she backtracks until she finds a tree to spend the rest of the night.




With the first light of day, Katniss heads downstream.




After a while, the stream begins to curve to the left into a part of the woods where the muddy banks, covered in tangled water plants, lead to large rocks that increase in size.




Keeping her eyes to the ground, she spots a bloody streak going down the curve of a boulder.




Her heart picks up speed. Hugging the rocks, she moves, as quickly as she can, in the direction of the blood.




The blood trail stops. There’s no sign of Peeta.




She knows he’s close, though.




Crouching down, she whispers, “Peeta?”




The voice that answers back is hoarse and weak, but she would recognize it anywhere. “You here to finish me off, sweetheart?”




Katniss whips around.




“Peeta?” she whispers, biting back a smile. “Where are you?”




There’s no answer. So, Katniss creeps along the bank. “Peeta?”




“Well, don’t step on me.”




Katniss jumps back.




His voice is right under her feet. Still, there’s nothing.




Then his eyes open, unmistakably blue in the brown mud and green leaves.




Katniss’s gasp is rewarded with a hint of white teeth as he laughs.




“Close your eyes again,” she orders.




He does, and his mouth too, and completely disappears.




Katniss kneels beside him. “I guess all those hours decorating cakes paid off.”




Peeta smiles. “Yes, frosting. The final defense of the dying.”




“You’re not going to die,” she tells him firmly.




“Says who?” His voice is so ragged it makes her chest hurt.




“Says me. We’re on the same team now, you know,” she tells him.




Peeta’s eyes open. “So I heard. Nice of you to find what’s left of me.”




Katniss pulls out her water bottle and gives him a drink. “Did Cato cut you?”




“Left leg. Up high.”




Her heart drops, she had hoped Peeta would fare better this time around, but it seems that they’re exactly in the same situation as before.




At least I didn’t leave him lingering here while I had breakfast, she thinks as she helps him take a few more sips. “Let’s wash you off so I can see what kind of wounds you’ve got.”




“Lean down a minute first,” Peeta says. “Need to tell you something.”




She leans over and puts her good ear to his lips, which tickle as he whispers. “Remember, we’re madly in love, so it’s all right to kiss me anytime you feel like it.”




Katniss bursts out laughing. “Thanks, I’ll keep it in mind.”




Remembering how hard it was to move him, she decides to skip that part and strip and clean him right where he is.




“Alright, let’s get you cleaned up,” she says as she begins digging into the mud and plants which seem to have imprisoned him.




To her surprise, Peeta shakily pushes his upper body away from the ground. A little push from her, and he’s sitting up.




His new position doesn’t last long, though. With a pained grunt, Peeta slumps against a nearby rock.




“How do you feel?” she asks, brushing the matted hair from his face.




“Woozy.”




Using her two water bottles and Rue’s water skin, she begins cleaning him up. It’s slow going. The water is cold, and he’s so caked with mud and matted leaves that she can’t even see his clothes.




When she’s done, she gently unzips his jacket, unbuttons his shirt, and eases them off him.




His undershirt comes next. It’s stained, but at least it’s not stuck to his skin.




“Can you lift your arms?” she asks.




Peeta complies, lifting one arm at a time and dropping them limply by his side as soon as he’s done.




With one last tug, Katniss pulls the undershirt over his head.




Tears well up in her eyes when she takes him in.  




He’s badly bruised. There’s a long burn across his chest and a superficial cut on his arm. There’s also a bit of good news, though.




Only one of his tracker jacker stings looks bad. The skin around it is swollen and angry. The other three have been treated, Peeta's covered them with wads of chewed-up leaves.




“Did I do OK?” Peeta asks.




“You did great,” she tells him as she gently peels the dried leaves from his skin. “You only missed one.”




Peeta closes his eyes. His head lols back. “Where is it?”




“Right under your ear.” Carefully, she pours some cold water on the spot to clean it. Just looking at it makes her chest hurt. “Hold still,” she says as she digs the stinger out of the lump.




Peeta winces, but the minute she applies a fresh batch of chewed-up leaves, he sighs in relief.




Cleaning his clothes seems pointless right now that the sun isn’t hot enough to dry them. So, she uses the cleaner side of his undershirt to pat him dry and applies some burn cream to his chest.




His skin is warm but not excessively hot. This feels like good news but, Katniss isn’t sure. They’re out by the stream, and the nighttime chill hasn’t dissipated yet. The cold weather could be masking Peeta’s fever.




Since they can’t afford to waste any time, Katniss keeps going. Standing up, she shrugs off her jacket and gently drapes it over Peeta’s shoulders to protect him from the cold. Then, she digs through the first-aid kit she got from Marvel until she finds the pills that reduce temperature.




“Swallow these,” she tells him. Peeta obediently takes the medicine. “You must be hungry.”




“Not really,” says Peeta.




“We need to get some food in you,” she insists. Remembering what happened last time, she forgoes the groosling and gives him the dried apple instead.




“Can I sleep now, Katniss?” he asks after he’s had a few bits.




“I need to look at your leg first.”




Gently, she removes his boots and socks and then very slowly inches his pants off of him.




Her heart plummets when she sees the tear Cato’s sword made in the fabric over his thigh. Gritting her teeth, she keeps going.




As Peeta’s leg comes into view, Katniss gasps.




The wound isn’t exposed. Just like the tracker jacker stings, it’s been covered with leaves.  




With trembling fingers, she carefully removes the green plaster.




The wound is terrible, a deep inflamed gash, but Peeta’s done a better job of taking care of it. It’s not oozing as much blood or pus as it did the last time.




“Pretty awful, huh?” says Peeta. He’s watching her closely.




Katniss shrugs. “I’ve seen worse,” she tells him honestly. “I just need to clean it well.”




Scooting her square of plastic under him, Katniss begins washing down his lower half.




Except for Cato’s cut, Peeta’s legs have fared pretty well. There’s one more tracker jacker sting, which he’s also cured, and a few minor burns that she treats quickly.




After pouring a few water bottles over it, the wound doesn’t look any better but, at least, it doesn’t look any worse.  




Katniss applies a handful of chewed-up tracker jacker leaves to the wound. Within minutes, pus begins running down the side of Peeta’s leg. She repeats the process. This time, very little pus comes out.




“What next, Dr. Everdeen?” Peeta asks.




“I have a bandage I can use, but there’s something I need to do first.” Reaching behind her, Katniss pulls out Rue’s backpack. “Here, cover yourself with this, and I’ll wash your shorts.”




“Oh, I don’t care if you see me,” says Peeta.




Katniss sets her jaw. Anger and humiliation rush through her veins as an image of Johanna --stripping in front of Peeta-- comes to her mind.




Fixing him with a blistering glare, she growls, “I care, all right?”




With an aggravated huff, Katniss stands up and turns to look at the stream.




As she waits for Peeta to shimmy out of his undershorts, his words come back to her. “For the Capitol, you’re pure,” he had said, clearly trying to mollify her. “For me, you’re perfect.”




Placated by the memory, Katniss sighs.




As soon as Peeta’s undershorts splash into the current, she turns to look at him.




There he is, her boy with the bread, so strong and fierce and brave. He looks small right now, pale and weak and vulnerable, but she’s not worried. Peeta's done better this time, and he’s going to push through. Just as he always does.




Katniss walks over to him and puts a few dried pear halves in his hand. “I'm going to wash your clothes. In the meantime, you eat these,” she says before heading down to the stream.




XXXXX




Katniss holds the small vial of sleep syrup in the palm of her hand. She doesn’t like what she’s about to do, but she knows she has no choice.




Peeta’s condition is not as critical as the last time. She’s managed to keep his fever from spiking, but the wound on his leg isn’t getting any better.




Besides, if she doesn’t go to the feast, Thresh won’t kill Clove.

With grim resolve, she gets to work. She mashes up a handful of berries and adds some mint leaves for good measure. Then she heads back up to the cave.




“I’ve brought you a treat,” she tells Peeta, “I found a new patch of berries a little farther downstream.”




XXXXX




“You better run now, Fire Girl,” Thresh tells her.




Katniss doesn’t need to be told twice. She flips over, digging her feet into the hard-packed earth, and runs away from Thresh and Clove and the sound of Cato’s voice.




She reaches the woods and keeps going. Blood pours into her eye, but she just swipes it away.




After a few minutes, she hears the cannon. Clove has died.




When she finally reaches the water, she slows down. She’s fairly certain Cato headed out after Thresh. Still, she doesn’t want to waste any time.




Katniss pulls off Rue’s socks, which she’d been using for gloves. Setting them aside, she splashes water over her forehead to clean the cut.




Moving quickly, she presses the socks to her forehead to staunch the flow of blood.




She knows the socks will be soaked in minutes. So, she reaches for the bandage in her small backpack and wraps it, as tightly as she can, around her forehead.




That should do the trick, she thinks, standing up to continue her trek downstream.




She makes it back to the cave in record time.




After squeezing through the rocks, she pulls the little orange backpack from her arm, cuts open the clasp, and dumps the contents on the ground—one slim box containing one hypodermic needle.




Without hesitating, she jams the needle into Peeta’s arm and slowly presses down on the plunger.




Exhausted, Katniss sighs. Her head is throbbing.




Her hands go to her forehead. When they drop back on her lap, she sees they’re clean.




After taking one of the fever pills, Katniss snuggles next to Peeta and drifts off.




XXXXX




Cato rushes through the woods, making a beeline for the Cornucopia.




Without question, Katniss follows him.




Her hands have just landed on the metal at the pointed tail of the Cornucopia when she turns back to look at Peeta. He’s not that far behind, but the mutts are closing in on him fast.




She sends an arrow into the pack, and one goes down, but there are plenty to take its place.




Peeta waves her up the horn, “Go, Katniss! Go!”




Katniss starts climbing, scaling the Cornucopia on her hands and feet. The pure gold surface has been designed to resemble a woven horn, so there are little ridges and seams to get a decent hold on. But after a day in the arena sun, the metal feels hot enough to blister her hands.




Cato lies on his side at the very top of the horn, twenty feet above the ground, gasping to catch his breath as he gags over the edge.




Katniss stops midway up the horn, loads another arrow, and points it at him, but just as she’s about to let it fly, she hears Peeta cry out. She twists around.




Peeta’s just reached the tail, and the mutts are right on his heels.




“Climb!” she yells.




Peeta starts up while Katniss keeps her eyes on the mutts. When one of them places its paws on the metal, she shoots her arrow down its throat.




Peeta reaches her feet. She grabs his arm and pulls him along.




Remembering Cato is waiting at the top, she whips around. He’s still doubled over with cramps and apparently more preoccupied with the mutts than with his fellow tributes.




This is my chance, Katniss thinks. She’s replayed this moment hundreds of times in her mind. She’s ready.




At the bottom of the Cornucopia, the mutts are beginning to assemble. Katniss can hear their calls for blood. She knows they won’t stop until they get it.  




She tugs Peeta’s arm to get his attention. “Think you could push him over?”




Peeta glances at Cato. He still hasn’t regained his feet, but his breathing is slowing. Soon he’ll be recovered enough to come for them and hurl them over the side to their deaths.




“Shoot straight,” Peeta says before taking a step in Cato’s direction and crouching.




Katniss aims her arrow at Cato’s head.




In. Out. Katniss breathes as she tries to block out the sounds of the mutts sniffing and tasting the metal, scraping paws over the surface, and making high-pitched yipping noises to one another.




Smirking, Cato pushes himself up and ducks his head under his arm to deflect the attack.




Katniss’s arrow flies and reaches its mark, piercing right through Cato’s unprotected hand.




Cato cries out and doubles over in pain just as Peeta slams against him.




Knocked off balance, Cato plummets to the ground.




XXXXX




“Greetings to the final contestants of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games. The earlier revision has been revoked. Closer examination of the rule book has disclosed that only one winner may be allowed,” Claudius Templesmith says. “Good luck, and may the odds be ever in your favor.”




Katniss looks at Peeta in dismay. She’s exhausted. She just wants the whole thing to be over.




“If you think about it, it’s not that surprising,” Peeta says softly as he pulls the knife from his belt and throws it into the lake.




Katniss doesn’t falter. She immediately drops her weapons.




“No,” Peeta says, reaching for her bow and pressing it back into her hand. “You need to use this now.”




“I can’t,” Katniss says, shaking her head. “I won’t.”




“Do it.” Peeta tightens his hold on her wrist in a silent plea. “Before they send those mutts back or something. I don’t want to die like Cato.”




“Then you shoot me,” she says furiously, shoving the weapons back at him. “You shoot me and go home and live with it!”




“You know I can’t,” Peeta says, discarding the weapons.




He turns to look at the lake. Frustration drips from his voice as he says, “This is why I didn’t want you to go to the feast, why I didn’t want you to risk your life for me. I knew it was pointless, that in the end, they were going to make us choose.”




Peeta drops on one knee and begins untying his shoelaces.




Katniss scowls; this is something new. “What are you doing?”




“I think I’m going to go out for a swim.”




Panic rises within her. The lake isn’t too deep, but Peeta doesn’t know how to swim. What if the Gamemakers decide to create waves or a strong current?




She needs to think. Fast.




Katniss kneels next to him. “Peeta, please don’t!”




“Katniss,” Peeta reaches for the end of her braid and gives it a little tug. “This is my choice. It’s what I want.”




“You’re not leaving me here alone,” she says, reaching out to grab a fistful of his jacket.




“Listen,” he says, pulling her to her feet. “We both know they have to have a victor. It can only be one of us. Please, take it. For me.”




Katniss swallows thickly. This is the opening she was waiting for.




Her fingers fumble with the pouch on her belt, freeing it.




Peeta’s eyes widen. His hand clamps on her wrist. “No, I won’t let you.”




“Trust me,” she whispers.




He holds her gaze for a long moment, then lets go.




Katniss loosens the top of the pouch and pours a few spoonfuls of berries into his palm.




She fills hers. Her heart races in fear and anticipation as she asks, “On the count of three?”




Peeta leans down and kisses her once, very gently. “The count of three,” he says.




They stand, their backs pressed together, their empty hands locked tight.




“Hold them out. I want everyone to see,” Peeta says.




Katniss spreads out her fingers, and the dark berries glisten in the sun.




She’s not afraid this time. If the Gamemakers call their bluff, she and Peeta will have a quick death. Protected by their anonymity, Prim, Gale, and the rest of District 12 will be safe.




Still, as she gives Peeta’s hand one last squeeze as a signal, she hopes it’s not a goodbye.




They begin counting.




“One.” Did she get it right?




“Two.” Maybe this do-over is not for her but for Snow, who’s wanted her dead from the start.




“Three!” She’s about to find out.




Katniss lifts her hand to her mouth.




The berries have just passed her lips when the trumpets begin to blare.




The frantic voice of Claudius Templesmith shouts above them. “Stop! Stop! Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to present the victors of the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games, Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark! I give you — the tributes of District Twelve!”

XXXXX




The tribute train speeds back to District 12.




Alone in her compartment, Katniss washes the makeup from her face and puts her hair in its braid.




As she stares in the mirror, she tries to remember who she is and who she isn't.




My name is Katniss Everdeen. I am seventeen years old. My home is District 12. I was in the Hunger Games. I escaped. The Capitol hates me, but I came back. Peeta is safe. Our families and our district are waiting for us.




With a steady hand, she pins the mockingjay back on her shirt and adds, Snow’s days in power are numbered.




The train makes a brief stop for fuel, and they’re allowed to go outside for some fresh air.




There’s no longer any need to guard them, so Peeta and Katniss walk down along the track, hand in hand.  




As soon as they’re out of earshot, Katniss leans into Peeta’s side and asks, “Have you talked to Haymitch?”




Peeta shakes his head. “About what?”




Remembering how poorly this conversation went the last time, Katniss grabs his arm to keep him close. “He told me the Capitol didn’t like our stunt with the berries.”




Peeta’s body tenses under her touch. “What?”




“He says it seemed too rebellious.”




“Seemed?” Peeta deadpans.




Katniss’s jaw drops open. This is not the reaction she was expecting.




“Come on, Katniss, you can’t be that surprised. We basically forced their hand into doing what we wanted. It’s no wonder they’re upset.” Anger and suspicion quickly flash through his eyes. “Why didn’t he tell me anything?”




Afraid that he’s going to storm away, Katniss tightens her grip on his arm. “Because he didn’t want me to mess up in front of the cameras. He was afraid I’d be all prickly and aloof. So, he told me I needed to act like I was so madly in love that I wasn’t responsible for my actions.”




She knows she’s messed up the second Peeta takes a step away from her. “Act?”




“For the interview,” she quickly clarifies. “Only for the interview.”




The explanation seems to placate him, but he still asks, “So, what you did in the Games, was that—,”




“That was not an act,” she tells him. This time it’s the truth. Her only hidden motive was to bring him out with her.




Peeta nods but, before he can say anything, Haymitch appears by his side.




Even in the middle of nowhere, the old mentor keeps his voice down. “Great job, you two. Just keep it up in the district until the cameras are gone. We should be OK.”




“Thanks for the update,” Peeta growls under his breath.




A deep frown settles on Haymitch’s face. “What’s up with you?”




“I just told him what you said about President Snow,” Katniss whispers.




“Why didn’t you tell me anything?” Peeta asks.




Haymitch lets out an exasperated sigh. “Since when do you need coaching on how to act in front of the cameras, kid? You’re smooth and personable, and you always know exactly what to say.” Hunching closer to the two victors, he adds, “Besides, the walls have ears, even here. I didn’t have that many openings, you know?”




Mollified, Peeta nods. Katniss knows it's just a reprieve, though. Peeta's never liked being kept in the dark, and he'll probably go after Haymitch once they're back home.




“Alright,” Haymitch says, “fun’s over. Time to hop back on board.”




The three victors head back.  




Katniss is already on board when she notices Peeta has fallen behind.




Alarmed, she whips around to look out of a window. Peeta’s just a few steps away. A smile splits her face when she notices the bunch of wildflowers in his hand.




As soon as he climbs up the stairs, he presents the pink-and-white flowers to her.  




Katniss bursts out laughing. Her eager hands reach for the offering. “You brought me lunch, how thoughtful!”




Peeta tilts his head in question. “Lunch?”




Katniss nods. With soft fingers, she traces the edge of a pink petal. “They’re wild onions. Gale and I gather them sometimes.”

Peeta’s face turns serious. “Katniss, I’m sorry about earlier, I didn’t mean to snap—,”




“No,” she cuts in, “I get it. We’re a team. We’re in this together.”




Peeta reaches for her hand, interlacing their fingers to bring their palms even closer. Hope lights up his face when he asks, “Together?”




Katniss nods. Standing on the tips of her toes, she presses a soft kiss to his lips and whispers, “Together.”




XXXXX




The Tribute train pulls into District 12.




Katniss and Peeta stand side by side, watching their grimy little station rise up around them.




Through the window, Katniss sees the platform’s thick with cameras. Everyone will be eagerly watching their homecoming.




Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Peeta extend his hand. His eyes are warm and soft, her safe place in the storm that’s about to be unleashed.




Smiling back at him, Katniss takes his hand and holds on tightly as she prepares for the cameras. Her heart feels full, grateful for the fact that she won’t ever have to let go.  

XXXXX

On the first Sunday after the Capitol cameras leave, Katniss sneaks out of Victors’ Village.

Partially hidden by the dim light of dusk, she quietly walks to the Seam.

A part of her wishes she could sneak under the fence and go to her and Gale’s meeting place like she did before. She mises the sounds and the smells of her woods and longs to hold her father’s bow, but she knows the rock ledge isn’t safe. Not today.

President Snow has eyes and ears everywhere, and she can’t afford to repeat her past mistakes. Not when what she has to say is this important.

Two blocks away from Gale’s house, she finds the perfect spot; a narrow corridor that stretches between two shacks. Despite being open on both ends, it’s dark and much too small for foot traffic or lampposts —which makes it a perfect hiding place— and it faces the street Gale uses to go to the woods.

She’s only been there for a few minutes when a silent silhouette walks past.

“Gale!” Katniss hisses as loud as se dares.

Gale stops on his tracks and turns towards the sound, leaning slightly into the small dark corridor.

Smiling fondly at her friend, Katniss lifts her hand and wiggles her fingers in greeting.

The glimmer in his eyes tells her he’s surprised to see her there, but he doesn’t hesitate. In two long strides, he’s by her side with open arms.

Just like she did the last time, Katniss jumps into his embrace.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she remembers crying —sobbing in Gale’s arms until she began to hiccup and tremble— but she doesn’t cry now. She doesn’t have time for that. Instead, she buries her face in his jacket and breathes him in, letting his fresh, clean scent comfort her and give her the strength she needs to carry on.

Pulling away from her friend, Katniss smiles. “Hi!”

“Hey!” Gale points his thumb back towards the woods. “I was on my way out to meet you.” Dropping his hand, he turns around and inspects their tight hiding place. “What are you doing here?”

“I knew you’d pass by.” Her smile drops. “We need to talk.”

A dark cloud passes through Gale’s eyes. “What’s wrong, Catnip?”

Grabbing a fistful of his jacket to keep him from storming away, Katniss begins to talk. As quickly as she can, she tells him about President Snow’s anger.

“He’s mad at us for showing the Capitol up in the arena and turning it into the joke of Panem,” she says. “It’s something that wouldn’t have mattered much before, but Snow’s control over the country is slipping. His enemies are gaining strength, and he can’t afford to look weak in front of them.”

Anticipation lights Gale’s eyes. “His enemies?”

“Rebel forces are organizing all over the country,” Katniss says, “even the Capitol has a few dissenters, but Snow’s biggest problem is District 13.”

Gale takes a step back. “Thirteen? There’s no Thirteen. It got blown off the map.”

“No, it didn’t,” Amused with the look of shock on Gale's face, Katniss smiles. “District 13 is still there. That footage we’ve seen, with the rubble and the ruins, is always the same shot. The Capitol just uses it as a backdrop for its TV presenters.

“The people of Thirteen have spent the last 74 years living underground, and they're done waiting. They’re eager to get rid of Snow.”

Gale shakes his head, still too disconcerted to fully grasp what’s happening. “How do you know all this?”

“I heard about it while I was in the Capitol,” she lies, convinced that this is the only possible explanation she can give him that will make some kind of sense. “I overheard some conversations during my training, and then, while I was recovering, I was... approached.”

“Approached?”

Katniss nods, hoping Gale won’t press any further. She’s ready to tell him what she knows about Eight and a few other districts, but she doesn’t want to go into any specifics in case someone decides to check up on her info later on.

Luckily, Gale is a man of action, and his hatred for the Capitol runs deep. He has all the information he needs. “So, what are you going to do?”

“Well... All eyes are on me right now, so there’s not much I can do —not if I want to keep my family safe— but I was thinking...”

Katniss looks up, silver eyes bright with trust and hope. “Nobody knows who you are, Gale. No one is following you. You could go. You could just sneak under the fence and march down all the way to Thirteen and tell them everything I know."

"Wait a second," Gale says, raising his hands as if to shield himself from her plan. "If what you're saying is true, District 13 must have agents in every district. So, why would they need me to relay your information?"

Katniss shakes her head. "Thirteen is in contact with a few people, but they don't have access to every district. My information is not very detailed, but it comes from every corner of Panem. The leaders of Thirteen might be able to use it to band the rebels together before Snow sends his Peacekeepers to start cracking down on us."

Pulling his shoulders back, Gale backtracks until his arm touches the cold cement wall. Looking past Katniss, he stares at the empty street at the end of the corridor.

Enveloped by silence, she sees his mind working, turning, and churning ideas as he tries to come to terms with what he’s heard.

“What about my family?” he finally asks.

“I’ll take care of them,” Katniss promises, “just like you took care of mine.”

When Gale looks back at her —full of fire and determination— she knows, clear as day, that she’s made the right choice.

Gale Hawthorne wants the revolution more than he wants anything else.

“I’m going to need a few supplies,” he says, his mind already thinking ahead.

“That’s not a problem. I’ll help you get whatever you need.”

Crossing his arms, Gale tilts his head to study her closely. Uprisings and rebellions are far from his mind when he asks, “So…you and the baker’s son. How long has that been going on?”

Katniss shrugs. What should she say? A year and a half? A month? A week? She doesn’t really know when to start counting. So, she sticks with the vaguest thing she can think of. “A while.”

A mirthless chuckle escapes his lips. “I can’t believe I never noticed.”

“Well," Katniss slips her hands into her pockets. Discussing Peeta with Gale --or Gale with Peeta-- has always made her uncomfortable. Luckily, her friend's tone is a lot more subdued than it used to be.  "We weren’t exactly shouting it over the rooftops, you know?”

Raising a questioning eyebrow, he locks his gray eyes with hers. “I thought you didn’t want to get married.”

“I changed my mind.”

As soon as the words pass her lips, she knows they’re true.

She still doesn’t want to have children. If her trips to the Games have taught her anything, it's that Panem is not a safe place to live. But she doesn’t want to be alone anymore, not when she can be with Peeta.

Hoping to put the conversation to rest, she lifts her chin and adds, “Peeta changed my mind.”

Gale nods, slowly taking her in as if he's seeing her for the very first time.  

In the small space, Gale offers his hand. "OK, Catnip, I'll do as you ask."

Smiling, Katniss reaches out to shake it and seal their deal.

Katniss heads back to Victors' Village feeling lighter than she has in weeks. Her plan is in motion. Gale is going to District 13.  

As she reaches the steps of her new home, a thrilling thought crosses her mind.

She's back on uncharted waters. The future is about to become uncertain once more.

[ginger-danica-snapps]

The Wolf Queen and Her Crow Prince

By Ginger D. Snapped

Written for @jonsaseasonalbash day 3 - 24 April: crow and little bird/king and queen/stone and snow.

I was out of town unexpectedly for Day Three, but here is my completion for the Jonsa Seasonal Bash, using the prompt King and Queen. This is written as snapshots of the time when the freefolk began to gather and the end of the long night. This is not betaed, so please be gentle. 

You can also read on my AO3 at https://archiveofourown.org/works/30930386

Summary: Sansa knows she didn’t always live beyond the wall. Mance and his wife were not her parents, but she was freefolk to her bones and it didn’t matter who discovered her. She would save her people from the Night King and never kneel to a Southern King or Queen. 

 Sansa knew there was a time in her life that she didn’t live beyond the wall. She knew the same way that she knew what lemon tasted like and that somewhere there were people who were not always fighting the cold. Where people were fed when hungry and she was loved. The only thing she remembered from that life was her name being Sansa. 

Not that she was not loved by her people. Mance and his wife had been good to her. They had even told her some of the truth of how she came to be with the Freefolk. It was not a pretty story and she knew she had basically been stolen long before she was ready to be taken as a wife. Mance had killed the man that brought her beyond the wall, but worried about what would happen if he took her back across. 

So, she stayed with Mance and Dalla and learned the way of the freefolk. She became a sister to Val and while she did not have the fighting ability of many of the spearwives, she could hold her own well enough to dissuade any more men who came to steal her away. 

Still, she found her way across the great white to peer upon the wall several times in her growing years. She would stare upon the great monstrosity and wonder who beyond it would remember her. Was she missed? Was she loved? 

It made her melancholy in a way that was hard to explain, though Val tried to understand. 

Something else began to settle into the freefolk’s general attitude towards her in the latter year. She’d been one of them for so long that when she was happened upon by a shadowcat and thought herself dead that she was grateful to have lived free. It was not her day to die, however, as a gigantic beast flew from the rocks above them. 

She had scrambled backwards on her hands and bottom, boots scuffling against the ice and snow. Val, Mance, and Ygritte reaching her just as she stood and she leaned gratefully into Val’s own warmth. The cat was now had by the neck with what Sansa realized was a gigantic grey and white direwolf. 

They had seen only trackings of the great beasts before and often avoided the area they were found. 

When the cat was obviously dead, Sansa pushed Ygritte to the side when the girl went to draw back her bow string. 

“NO!” she cried out before she had formed a thought for what she was going to do. Then she was pulling away from Val and rushing forward to the wolf. 

She hit her knees as she reached forward, kneeling before the wolf, and realized for a moment she felt a savage joy at destroying the shadowcat and tasted blood in her own mouth, though there was none. The beast leant to her and rubbed it’s humongous face against hers. She let a giggle escape her before she was flinging her arms around the wolf. 

“Nothing to be said for it now. The rumours about the Stark girl going missing were true,” Val murmured and Sansa looked up to Mance. He looked as if he had aged twenty years in the span of moments. As if he had already not been struggling over their people going missing by the tribes, clans, and societies. 

Sansa was not stupid. 

If a Stark child had gone missing some years before and now she had a direwolf in front of her who seemed to want to keep her, then by all rational thinking she was this Stark girl. 

Amazingly, for the first time in many years, Sansa saw a flash of something in her memory. A grey and white flag with a direwolf upon it. 

She wrinkled her nose as she realized what this meant. 

She had always known she was born to someone below the wall, but she was not just the child of a kneeler. She was a child of someone that the people kneeled to. 

“Child,” Mance’s voice reached her and she looked up with a tilted head. She huffed as she realized he was worried about her reaction. 

That was stupid and she told him so. If he, a deserter of the crows, toted her back to the wall they would have thanked him, taken her, and then promptly hung him for desertion. Then it was likely they would have drummed up the support of these Lords and Ladies she was apparently blood kin too and brought an army into their home to kill indiscriminately. 

“It is fine, stop being stupid. I understand that it was even more important to not return me if I was...am...this Stark girl,” she finally murmured. 

They made their way back to the camp Sansa kept her hand on the nape of the direwolf. 

“Whaddya gonna name her?” Ygritte asked eventually and Sansa looked over in surprise. She truly had not thought about it. 

She looked at the wolf and then thought about how she hit her knees in front of her. She grinned savagely and laughed. 

“Well, I kneeled before her, so I guess she must be a Lady,” Sansa answered and Mance barked out a laugh. 

“Lady it is,” he chuckled and they made their way back to their tents, the freefolk around them all giving them wide eyes. 

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

It was three moons later when the world went to shit.

Their people, those that called Mance King and those that did not, were being slaughtered by these dead creatures. Sansa had seen three of her milk siblings rise and attack the same as that which had killed them. 

She’d cut the head off of one herself with Val thrusting a lit torch against the creature and setting it aflame. They’d barely managed to hold Dalla between them before Lady had returned from wherever she had been hunting. They all clamoured on top of the direwolf, gripping hands into the fur, and Sansa murmured an order for Lady to run. 

They’d met with Vance and many of the others who had been hunting and Sansa had to shut her eyes at the cries of those who realized that they had lost all their elderly and the children too young to join the hunt. 

“No one is left?” Mance asked quietly as Sansa helped Dalla down. 

“No, it was slaughter. We need to be moving,” Sansa whispered back harshly, pushing aside all feelings for the time being. 

Mance nodded, “Aye, we make for Frostfangs.”

“This will be happening everywhere, Mance,” Val added as they began to lead their people away.

Mance grunted, “Maybe now they will listen.”

Sansa was sitting before the fire, Lady beside her, working her needle through the last of the seal skin that had come at the same time as the whale blubber that Val was stirring to render over the low flame. There was not much brought by the last traveler and Sansa knew this would be the last they would receive here. 

It would not be long until they’d made their bid to make it over the wall. There had been rumors of ill tidings in the kingdom of the kneelers. A king dead, rebellion, and only little Starks in Winterfell. 

Over the last moon, Mance had taught her all he could of the world below the wall. 

He said just in case, but Sansa could read his wishes between the words unspoken. 

In case all else fails, use her name to the best of her ability, and take care of their people. 

The tent flap few open and they all looked up, Sansa’s hand automatically reaching for the spear she kept beside her at all times now. Lady was up on her feet as well and lips already pulled back in a snarl. 

“Ygritte!” she exclaimed as the girl came in and eyes settled on Mance. Sansa settled back down into her chair when she realized there was no immediate danger. 

“What is it? Why are you back?” Mance gruffly asked. 

Ygritte hesitated only momentarily before stating, “I brought a crow. Says he has forsworn his vows and wishes to join our people.”

Sansa watched as Mance’s eyebrows raised, “Well, bring him in.”

Ygritte hesitated again, “He has a wolf like our girl. Big old white thing with red eyes. Says it's the companion of members of his family.”

Sansa stood again, her spear dropping to a clatter this time as she grabbed at the fabric of her tunic. 

“He’s a Stark?” she said, her voice barely a whisper. 

Ygritte grunted in agreement, “Said something about natural and true, but I couldn’t tell you what his lips were flappin’ about. Seemed to be important to him though.”

“He’s a natural born son of House Stark. The bastard brought back from the war against the Targaryen’s by the Warden of the North,” Mance mused before adding, “Your half brother. I don’t remember his name.”

“Jon,” Sansa murmured as Ygritte answered as well, “Snow, Jon Snow.”

Sansa looked up with wide-eyes. She remembered his name and suddenly a young boy was in front of her young self with dark curly hair and solemn eyes. The same spectral boy she dreamt of on a nightly basis. She had thought him nought but her imagination. 

“You should not climb that, Lady Sansa. Your mother would be quite cross.” 

Then before she could say another word, a man was coming through the tent flap. Sansa’s breath caught as she knew without a doubt that this was the man from her dreams. This was Jon Snow, her brother, and she realized without a doubt that he was her downfall. 

She felt her heart beat faster, her palms growing sweaty, and when his eyes met hers Sansa was lost in the darkness. 

“It...it can’t be,” her crow brother whispered as his eyes darted to Lady and back up, “Sansa?” 

“Hello Jon,” she responded without thinking and then she could think no more as she was swept into strong arms and she was inhaling deep the scent of her kin. 

-----------

Sansa stared at Mance with a gaping mouth. 

“Absolutely not,” she bit out. 

Mance did not look impressed, “Absolutely so. Every leader, chieftain, and speaker has decided. I have stepped back and you are the Queen-Beyond-The-Wall.” 

Sansa shook her head fiercely. 

She’d spent the last three days just getting to know her brother. She’d already decided to steal him for her own as soon as the chance arose. After all, he was only her half-brother, and it was not unheard of among the Freefolk. 

Menfolk were sometimes in low commodity and surviving had been more important than the sharing of a parent. 

Still, Jon was sweet, if a bit naive. 

Ygritte had told her of her advances on Jon on the way to Frostfangs and she didn’t quite believe the man was truthful in his defection. This surprised Sansa not one bit. She had already come to that opinion in the three days she’d spent with him. 

It was only the wildness in his eyes and the obvious wish for the freedom of her people that burned in him brightly that kept Sansa from truly speaking out about his duplicity. Brother or not, she had an entire people to protect from the crows and those below the wall. 

“This is a mistake,” Sansa finally muttered. 

Mance shook his head, “No. This is the only way to get most of us past the wall with little to no bloodshed.” 

Sansa snorted in derision, “Whether the slaughter happens this side of the wall or once we’ve settled in some nice little field and are betrayed, the kneelers will betray us,” then she sat on a stool and lowered her face into her hands. 

“Are we even positive that Jon can help? That he will be listened to?” she asked quietly, at almost a whisper. 

Mance made an encouraging noise and sat down in front of her, “They say his brother became a king before dying and that the entirety of the kingdom is at war. We will take back proof of the dead and show the watch. I am hopeful your presence will encourage less hostility. If they decide to be fuckers all around, then I’ll take the people over the wall the way we planned and take the castle.” 

Sansa sighed and stood again, “Then I suppose I should explain the truth of things to Jon. I get the feeling he expects to return me to the stone houses to wear pretty dresses and sew little pieces of cloth with no purpose all day.” 

Mance chuckled and leaned in and kissed her forehead. She turned and went to join her brother in the tent they’d been keeping him in. 

She could not help but laugh when she entered and found Tormund and Ygritte keeping guard. Jon had apparently said or done something they didn’ t appreciate, because he was trussed up like one of the wild boars they hadn’t seen in years. 

She pulled her knife from her belt and slipped it through the ropes at his wrist. She gave him a leering smile and watched, pleased, as he turned the same color as her hair. 

“Leave us,” she demanded and didn’t bother to look and see if they obeyed. The soft falls of feet and the fabric flapping closed gave her all the answer she needed. 

“Will your crows listen?” she demanded and Jon looked at her confused. 

She huffed in response, “Your crow people and the southerner’s, will they listen when we tell them of the dead and allow us to give proof. The wall holds for now, but that will not be forever. It will fall and when it does then this is all of our problems. If you leave my people to fall behind the wall then the force that rises will be unstoppable.” 

“Sansa, you are a Stark. The last living Stark as far as I know and the Lady of Winterfell,” her crow kin told her and Sansa resisted the urge to roll her eyes. 

“I am the Queen-Beyond-the-Wall, chosen by my people here, and I will not forsake them for stone walls and kneeling sycophants,” she muttered. 

“You're the Queen? I thought Mance…,” Jon began but Sansa held up a hand to stop him. 

This time he glared at her and Sansa resisted the urge to snarl back at him. 

“I am now the Queen. The people decided just this morning and I will be the one to deal with your people. Now, answer my question and none of this manure about you supporting the freefolk. We are not stupid and you might have the heart to be free, but your mind is terribly chained up,” Sansa demanded. 

Then Jon motioned for her to sit. Sansa moved to sit and crossed her legs underneath her and they began to hammer out an accord. 

--------

Four moons later,  Sansa found herself sitting across from a man with a sterner face than any she’d ever seen. 

“You are a Stark and I am your rightful King,” the man said gruffly. 

Sansa sniffed, “I choose to be Freefolk and I am their chosen Queen. I cannot be this Stark you want to put in that stone cage and you cannot be my King. We are not married and your wife is unlikely to take kindly to the idea of you taking another one.” 

The man called Stannis, who she had taken to just calling the Southern King in her head, was now resembling one of the fish with whiskers that she’d been served since coming through the wall. 

“Put my brother in it. He seems to be fond of stone cages,” she added. 

“He’s a bastard,” the wannabe king growled. 

Sansa barked out a laugh, “You think these Northern people will accept a Stark raised as Freefolk over a bastard raised as a Stark? You must be stupider than you look. Make my brother this Lord Stark and offer my people the right to live below the wall if they fight for you and this chair you want so badly without kneeling. They’ll agree to follow the law of these lands while we are here and will allow Jon to be the direct voice to yourself. I speak for my people to Jon and he speaks for me to you. Problem solved.” 

She stated her demands and leaned back in the chair, folding her hands in her lap, and just stared at the man.  

“Your father…,” he began again, but she didn’t even let him make another excuse. 

Sansa stood and turned to walk out. She looked back over her shoulder before she exited. 

“I do not remember my father, nor my mother, nor most of my siblings. Apparently there were two I never even met. Appealing to my sense of familial ties will do nothing but frustrate me. Give me what my people need and we have a deal. Otherwise, there is no reason to send for me again.”

With that Sansa exited the room as calmly as she could. She stopped briefly on the outside and listed as the fire witch spoke to Stannis. 

“I believe she is correct. We now know where the war truly is,” the woman said. 

Stannis made a noise of derision, “Her brother already turned down my pardon of his vows, legitimisation, and being the Warden of the North. I need to place a Stark back in Winterfell or I will never draw enough support to take the throne. We need the kingdom to fight this damn war you are speaking of.”

“Then do as the fire commanded,” the woman responded. 

“Now see here,” the man that Stannis called his Hand, though Sansa did not understand why he needed someone’s else’s when he had two himself that worked just fine, “You can’t just marry a man to his sister, half or prophesied, regardless.” 

Sansa wanted to choke. What had her idiot kin done now? 

Swallowing hard, she marched off to find Jon. 

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

“I made a vow,” Jon was now glaring at her and Sansa was getting rather tired of people glaring at her and speaking to her of words that were someone more important than doing what was necessary to survive. 

She gave him an unimpressed look, “So, did the majority of the men in this stone cage currently, but they sure seem to enjoy getting their cock wet with my spearwives.” 

“Do you know the whole of what is being asked, Sansa? Or are you going to stand there and lecture me? Marriage, Sansa, he wants us to marry,” Jon growled out and Sansa stood to meet him when he began to move away. 

She pressed her hands into his chest and pushed back with all his strength, “You will listen to me, Jon Snow. You made a vow to protect the realm of men. Staying on this stupid wall, freezing, with a bunch of other stupid men is not going to keep this realm safe. You all already apparently forgot who the actual enemy the wall was built to stop was, nevertheless leaving my people as fodder to build an army the likes of which you’ve never seen. Taking Winterfell and Stannis’s offer, regardless of what it is, will protect the realm of men.”

Jon gaped at her, speechless, and Sansa took it as a sign to do something. She stepped closer, not letting him escape her gaze, and pressed her lips against his. He made a sound that reminded her of a dying man’s last breath, before suddenly kissing her back with a fury. Sansa gasped as he lifted her and sat her upon the table. 

She had just managed to get her fingers under his leathers and was about to yank at laces when he stepped back with a panicked look on his face. Sansa wanted to scream at his ridiculous morals. 

He turned to run from the room, but she stood swiftly and passed him, sweeping her leg under his to send him sprawling down. She slammed the door closed and bolted it. Looking around, Sansa made herself not grumble at the lack of furs or a bed. 

Beds were the thing she could grow used to the most. Although Jon had said the beds here were nothing like in this Winterfell. Sansa could not imagine anything softer. 

She looked down at Jon and reached behind her to undo her laces. 

“Sansa…” he said hoarsely, staring up at her. Sansa ignored the plea in his eyes and let her dress fall from her shoulders. 

The dress had been a juxtaposition of painful and enjoyable of being below the wall instead of behind it. She’d run her fingers over the soft material when it had been gifted to her to wear instead of her leather breeches and fur jerkins. She thought Val would have liked it, for all the girl would have argued. 

She’d have liked the monstrosity they called a bathtub too.

It all made Sansa incredibly uncomfortable at the reminders of what she had been born into and sometimes, in the darkest part of night, she could see the sweet, innocent, stupid thing she would have been. She both was grateful to not be her and mournful of what could have been. 

“Now, if you can truly say you do not want me, then I will redress and walk out of this room. If you cannot honestly admit that, though, then I’m taking you for my husband, you’re taking the offer of this Stannis, and we’re going to let my people behind the wall,” She murmured as she knelt in front of him, her braid falling over her shoulder and brushing against the top of her breast. 

She watched his eyes track the movement and grinned at the heat in his eyes. She knew without a doubt that Ygritte had been correct. Jon was definitely a pure man and Sansa ignored the heat that flooded her core, causing her to grow quickly wet, at the thought that he was going to be her man to have. 

No one else would have him again, unless she was dead and buried. She’d had lovers before, occasionally a spearwife and at times a man from another clan, but never one she wanted to keep. 

Jon was staring at her still, this time with some sort of worshipful awe, when her fingers reached to his breaches and unlaced him. 

“Sansa,” he whispered, this time more like whispered words of love. 

She pulled him free and pulled herself over him to straddle. Lowering herself slowly, Sansa sat on his cock and groaned at the stretch of his girth. She wondered if these Southern boys compared cocks the way the youth of the freefolk did and if Jon realized how blessed the gods had been to him. 

She comforted herself with the knowledge that she was helping him break his vows as it would be a travesty to waste such a cock. She began to move her hips in a languid, smooth motion, rocking against him hard on the downfall to press her button into his groin. She added a longer roll as she grew hotter and hotter. 

Then without warning, Jon decided to be an active participant. He surged up, hand cupping the back of her head, as he moved them over. Sansa was pleased to find he had unclipped his cloak and she was now laid out against it. She moaned in pleasure as he immediately set to fucking into her. 

Then his mouth was against hers and she was shoving her own hips up to meet his furious pace. Sansa chased the feeling that was building inside of her and she refused to allow his control to stop her pleasure. She grabbed one of his hands and pulled it down to her button and pressed against his palm as she felt his cock inside of her as she ground upwards. 

“Sansa,” Jon groaned as she felt herself begin falling. 

“Jon!” she screamed as pleasure ripped through her body and she felt him respond to her own cry with wetness flooding inside of her. 

She prepared for him to collapse on top of her as most men she’d taken her pleasure from were apt to do. She found herself moved and cradled against him as he laid back on the floor. 

“I don’t know if Ygritte explained how this works, but I took you for my husband,” she said succinctly and dared him to argue with her stare. 

He sighed and looked over at her, “Our father and your mother will probably crawl out of their graves to kill me, but aye, I accept you as my wife. The North will not love this, but they will accept it to get a Stark back in Winterfell. Now, I can take my wife’s name instead of legitimation from Stannis. That will make them even more accepting. We have to take Winterfell first, though. Without Winterfell we will not be seen as legitimate. They might balk a southern king releasing me from my vows.”

Sansa sighed against him. The man knew nothing of bed talk. Sitting up she pulled him after her. If he wanted to talk business then they should get to it. 

Cutting her eyes back over to view his backside before she slid her dress over her head, Sansa also thought that the sooner they finished the business then they could get back to the fucking. 

A voice inside her head added, and baby making. 

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

They meet with Stannis...it’s about as enjoyable as Sansa had imagined. They reach an accord. 

They go beyond the wall and speak to her people about the agreement to help take back the Northern key that was supposed to be her birthright and then the truly southern city where Stannis has his stupid chair. Then Stannis will bring the full force of the kingdom North to handle the enemy beyond the wall. That discussion is even less enjoyable with much yelling and even one clan defecting completely and leaving. 

Sansa says a prayer to the old gods that they find their way to somehow burn in one of the red witch’s fires before they join the army of the dead. Stupid fools. 

Stannis and Jon both choke when she tells them that there are at least 85,000 fighting men and women. The rest are too old to be an asset or too young to understand how to tell the difference between two living enemies. 

They both insist the women don’t fight and Sansa plans to ignore them. If the enemy doesn’t care about killing women, why should they care about fighting them? 

Finally, they send ravens. So many ravens and Sansa is astounded how the birds manage to find the people and return with a warg to guide and control them. Jon is astounded to learn that wargs exist and that he has the ability. He does it regularly with Ghost but had thought it was a dream. Sansa and he both begin to learn together with a freefolk skinchanger. 

Jon and her marry before the red witch in part of their agreement with Stannis and Jon is released from his vows to the watch and officially becomes Jon Stark. Then they wed again before the heart tree beyond the wall and Sansa imagines for a moment that her forgotten parents are watching. 

Mance, Dalla, Val, and Ygritte are there in the flesh though and Mance tells her later, when they are all huddled around a fire, that he is proud of the free woman she is. Dalla and he both ask if something happens to them that she takes care of Val and the baby Dalla has yet to birth. 

She drags him back to the heart tree alone and vows before it that she will save as many as she can, but she will watch for Val and the unborn babe with every breath she has. 

He is the only father she can remember. 

Her people agree, as long as they are allowed to have the truth north back as soon as the final war is over and it not be a part of the southern kingdom. They will not kneel. 

Sansa will not give her crown until the war is over and her people are safe. 

By then it would not be necessary as her people would have no need for one when they are free in their home and not in danger of the dead. 

Jon and she share a bed every night and Sansa is pleased to learn that her husband is a quick study. She also thinks her men are sharing ways to please a woman, because he attacks her center with fingers, lips, tongue, and teeth that is clumsy, but not knowledgeable in the fundamentals. 

If she was the type of woman she was born to be, she’d demure her eyes and shyly thank the wives of the men. She’s not that woman though and she makes sure her own clan of people receive three casts of the shit ale the night watch’s call a drink and leads the toast herself. Ygritte claims the majority of the thanks. 

She will never tire of Jon’s blush. 

Two men and a boy try to kill her husband by tricking him into an ambush, claiming his uncle has survived. 

She calls bullshit and when the idiot tries to go rushing down, she draws her blade and motions for the ten men and women she’d chosen to guard her and her husband follow. She’d thought it ridiculous when Stannis told her that she should have an honor guard of some sort since he was recognizing her as a queen and it was only proper. 

Her own clan had sent ten forward without hesitancy. Ygritte and Tormund among them. 

Ygritte is the one who shoots the boy, her husband’s steward, when Jon cannot do it. He cries into her breast that night and Sansa runs her fingers through his hair and comforts him the best she can. 

Tormund somehow decides that her husband should be brought closer to her people after this and begins to heckle him at every opportunity. Sansa finds them fighting in the yard most mornings now. 

Jon fits her people more than he wishes to admit. Sansa tries not to think of the day they will send them back beyond the wall. 

They begin the march to Winterfell. A winter storm takes them by surprise, but the Freefolk laugh at the southern men in Stannis’s army. Very few Northmen answered their call, but Sansa is not particularly surprised. Jon is only half Stark and she was raised among the Freefolk. Even together they won’t draw the North to them until they sit in Winterfell and the dead is more known. 

The freefolk begin to teach the southerners how to best pad their armor and they stop before dusk every night and her people train them how to move on snow and ice. Stannis, his hand, and witch take dinner every night with Jon, Sansa, and Mance. 

It’s an odd group, but they make it work. 

Melisandre is oddly good at helping keep everyone focused on the real war. She watches Jon in a way that Sansa is not happy about, however. It was on one of the later nights that Melisandre finally addressed whatever it was she had been pondering. Stannis and the others were already abed in their tents and it was only her guard, Jon, and Melisandre left around the fire. 

“Your mother, do you know who your mother was?” the witch asked and Sansa resisted the urge to scratch her eyes out when her husband almost immediately became sullen. It was a particular talent of his. 

“No, My Lady, Lord Stark never deemed it the time. He promised he would the next I saw him, but you know what happened with that,” Jon said quietly. 

Sansa’s eyes narrowed as Melisandre stood and asked for his hand. Jon, the stupid fool, didn’t hesitate and then yelped when Melisandre obviously pierced him in the palm. She was sopping the blood up with a scrap of fabric before he could move back and Sansa stood angrily. 

The witch just held up her hand and walked to the fire with the fabric before anyone could say anything. 

“For the night is dark and full of terrors,” the witch murmured and tossed the cloth in. 

Sansa could not help but find herself intrigued as the fire almost doubled in size and suddenly there were images. Jon and a short, blond woman standing before huge beast’s that could only be dragons. Jon wearing black and red and flying on the dragon. Then nothing. 

She looked to Melisandre, who looked back at both of them before sighing. 

“I fear that I might have misinterpreted the flames in regards to Stannis,” the woman said as if announcing what she wanted for breakfast, “It’s you who is our prince or the girl.” 

“Who was that woman?” Sansa asked. 

Melisandre sat and began to draw in the sand a rudimentary symbol of three creatures wrapped around one another. 

Jon whispered, “House Targaryen. That is their sigil.”

“Yes, Jon, and the only interpretation left to us is that you are a member of said house, or atleast of their blood. That woman was Daenerys Targaryen, the lost Targaryen Princess, who swears to return to Westeros with fire and blood to reclaim what she says is hers.” Melisandre finished. 

Sansa raised an eyebrow, “Well, don’t be telling Stannis that. You’ve told him that he was the promised one or some other rot. Best to let him keep thinking that.” 

“Lyanna Stark is my mother,” Jon whispered and Sansa looked at him in confusion. 

Jon swallowed hard, “Lyanna was your father’s sister. They say Rhaegar Targaryen took her away and our Uncle Brandon and Grandfather went to King’s Landing to demand her back. Aerys...oh gods, he was my grandfather...burned them alive before demanding that Jon Arryn bring him the heads of your father and Robert Baratheon. It’s why they went to war and deposed him...deposed House Targaryen.” 

“Deposed or not, you are Targaryen and Stark, the culmination of the song of ice and fire,” Melisandre said, “Your blood is the blood of kings, the blood of the dragon.” 

“I am not a dragon,” Jon snarled and stood with such a quickness and fury that Sansa found herself preparing for battle, “I am the bastard of a deposed house that holds no right to anything in Westeros unless this Daenerys Targaryen returns to conquer it again. It will not be me.” 

Melisandre hummed under her breath and Sansa watched the witch consider his words with a sense of trepidation. Sansa reached into her skirts to put her fingers on her knife. If the witch made to do something that would expose her husband, then Sansa would slit her throat before she could speak it. 

“Yes,  My Lord Stark. You have married into the house of wolves and therefore, I suppose, you are not a dragon any longer. There would be no reason to discourage King Stannis from battle and if Daenerys Targaryen returns, R’hllor will bless the one who is supposed to sit the Iron Throne,” Melisandre finally said and with a quick dip of her own skirts, she moved to head back to her tent. 

Sansa let her fingers fall from the hilt and went to stand before her husband and cousin. This made her think of something and so she reached up to cup his head. 

“Now you don’t have to worry the Gods will strike you down for fucking your sister, cousin. Do these southerner’s marry cousins?” she said with a smile and grinned when he choked in surprise and met her eyes. 

“You do realize your still in the north beneath the wall?” he asked incredulously. 

Sansa snorted, “The North is not a place, it’s a people, and those people are the Freefolk. There might be some among the kneeler’s whose heart is Northern and for that they are more my people, than Stannis’s or this Dragon Aunt Lady.”

Sansa tartly turned and made way back to their tents.

-----------

They were crossing beside a large lake when Sansa thought to ask. 

“How did this Theon Greyjoy take Winterfell if it is as large a fortress as you say it is?” 

She was sandwiched in between Stannis and Jon, riding a grey garron that was older, but sturdy. Melisandre, Mance, and Davos behind them. 

“Trickery,” Jon muttered, “He had a force attack a nearby vassal and when Winterfell sent the majority of their fighting men to stop it, Theon led a small group over the wall and took the keep.” 

Sansa hummed, “And this Dreadfort, the Bolton’s own keep is not but a bit over 100 leagues from here?” 

“Yes…” Jon said cautiously and Sansa could see that he recognized something in her face, “What are you thinking?”

Sansa thought of her men and the number they said were at Winterfell. There could not be many left at the Bolton’s keep, but these southerner’s seemed very attached to their stone houses. 

“Could we not do something similar? Surely this Roose and Ramsey have heard of our army marching, but they might not know it is made up mainly of my people. They probably assume it to be your own army and one not used to fighting battle in this terrain. Send a group of my own to take this Dreadfort and draw these pretenders from Winterfell. They would easily be taken care of by ambush on the journey between Winterfell and their own ancestral stones. Then we take a smaller contingent and take back Winterfell,” she said aloud and tried to ignore the way Jon was staring at her. 

“You would have us be as dishonorable as a filthy ironborn?” Stannis said incredulously. 

Sansa could not help but roll her eyes, ”I’d see as few of our combined men and women die as possible so that we may better survive the long night, but call it what you will. I care not for your southern ideals of morals beyond a night’s enjoyment of listening to pretty songs and fables.”

“Lord Stark was honorable, Robb was honorable and it got their heads cut from their body and practically destroyed the North. I say we go with Sansa. Roose Bolton broke guestright and his own oath to his King, he has no honor to be dishonored,” Jon quietly said. 

Stannis was quiet for a bit and Sansa wondered what demons of his own he was fighting in his head. Then he turned and looked at Jon, before sighing. 

“Select your men that will go to the Dreadfort, Queen Sansa. I will do the same among mine. You know Winterfell best, Lord Stark, so you select the contingency that will take the keep once the men are gone,” Stannis gritted out as if being forced to say the words. Then he turned and galloped back. 

----------

It was nearly a moon more when a large number of the Bolton forces left Winterfell and marched towards the Dreadfort. There were forty of her people with her and several men Jon had chosen hiding among the thickness of the recent snow. They made way carefully at the hour of the wolf.

It took no time at all to catch the walls with their hooks and scale the wall. 

Sansa took great amusement in the idea that they were taking back her ancestral home the same way they had originally planned to scale the wall itself. She watched amused as Jon kept her behind him and they made their way further in. 

Her people made quick work of all watchmen that came near before they began to move into the keep that Jon pointed out. It was when they were in what appeared to be the living quarters of the family that Sansa had her first moment of recognition. A woman with hair a similar shade as her own was standing in front of Sansa and curly haired boy and waving her finger. Sansa knew it was her mother and she could almost hear a soft, singing voice in the back of her head. 

Shaking herself out of her memory, Sansa stopped at the end of a hall and motioned for two of her people to go forward and kill the men standing guard in front of a specific set of chambers. They made quick work and the men did not even have a chance to raise an alarm of any type of sound. 

She stood by Jon, who had drawn his sword, as their people busted through the double doors. 

A rather pretty, but thick woman jumped from the bed as an older man did the same. His hand went immediately to a crossbow, but Tormund threw a blade to pierce at the palm of the man. 

“Who the…” the man began but was pressed into the floor onto his knees. 

“Take the woman and find a place to secure her until this is over,” Jon ordered as he stepped forward with Longclaw. He looked at the man on his knees and then around the room. His hand reaching out to caress the wooden bed frame. Sansa realized it was a carved wolf and she wondered if this had been her parent’s chambers. 

“Do you know who I am?” her husband asked as he stepped forward into the light of the moon shining through a window. The man glared and took him in from head to toe. 

“You must be the bastard. You're too old to be any of the others if they had been still alive. Did you break your vows to the wall to be here?” he said in a low voice. 

Sansa finally just laughed, the dramatics of everything was too much. 

“He is Lord Stark, but you should be more worried about me,” she said with a light voice as she stepped forward.

“Stannis named you Lord and legitimized you. The north will never follow a bastard,” the man ignored her and continued to stare at Jon. Sansa narrowed her own eyes as responded again, not giving Jon a chance to speak. 

“My name is Sansa Stark, Lord Bolton, I presume?” she icily demanded and when the man’s eyes widened. 

“Good,” she answered at his obvious identity when the man refused to speak, “I was planning to let Jon just cut off your head since he thinks that's the way to do this, but I think we might see how you’ve been treating the people here that served the Starks. Let’s see if your House has lived up to its words. You see, even my people, go around your lands when escaping the land of always winter. I think after we discover the worst of what you have done here, then we will do the same.”

With that Sansa stepped forward one more time and brought her foot down hard against his face. Roose Bolton fell to the ground in a heap. 

“Secure him until we finish sweeping the keep and clearing it out of Bolton men,” Jon ordered, “And open the gates to the rest of our people.” 

Hours later, Sansa and Jon stood facing one another in the rooms that had been her parents. Staring into her eyes,  Jon pulled her tight against him and pressed his lips to hers in a fevered kiss. 

“Winterfell is yours, Lord Stark,” Sansa whispered against them. 

Jon made a noise of discouragement, “No, My Queen, Winterfell is yours as is my heart, now and always.”

-----------

It was almost three years later when Sansa stood before her father's statue in the Stark Crypts. It would not be long now till her husband and herself would return to their people beyond the wall. They still called her queen and Sansa would honor their choice everyday of her life. Jon's responsibility to the North would soon be over and they could be free. Between bringing the North the heel in time to prepare for the dead, Jon and her people attempting to help Stannis take the throne only for him and many of his people to be blown up on ships, and reminding a dragon queen that it really did not matter if the North knelt or not since the dead were coming for them all. Sansa grinned as she remembered Jon standing before the black glass throne and telling it to the woman's face that she was welcome to take her people back across the sea if she wanted to wait to die where it was warmer. 

Then the green dragon slamming in front of Jon and putting his wing down and the secret being blown. Thankfully the dragon queen had played nice till after the long night and when Sansa refused to kneel to her, Jon took to the skies with Rhaegal. By the time the fight was over, both Drogon and the dragon queen were dead and Jon encouraged Daenerys's people to leave with Rhaegal. They were not happy, but they did as they were bid, except for the Dothraki left. They seemed to think that Jon's battle meant that he was their new Khal. Jon and Sansa just combined them with their own people and sent them beyond the wall. 

Then the great rebuilding began and continued until the day a raven came that announced that Cersei Lannister was dead, along with the remaining Kingsguard, Jaime Lannister, and several other members of the small council. 

A crunching noise drew her attention back to the present. 

“When the snows fall and white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.”

The girl that spoke to Sansa was a brunette with short cropped hair and she held a small sword and wore breeches. There was a familiar look in her grey eyes and Sansa tilted her head as she considered the strange girl who had come upon her in the crypts of her bloodkin. 

Ygritte stood back in the shadows and Sansa knew she had her bow out with an arrow knocked, but Sansa held her hand out to stay any sudden shots. 

The girl laughed. 

“I will not hurt your freefolk guard, although this place is for Starks and Stark blood alone. You are the lost Stark daughter, arrived home as the Queen-Beyond-The-Wall. Do you know who I am?” 

Sansa felt herself smile, probably showing a little too much teeth, “Grey eyes as serious as a widow made five-times-over having her sixth husband die mysteriously, what appears to be more brashness than commonsense, and a wild look about you that reminds me of my husband’s fury when his aunt tried to kill us after the long night?”

She paused and stepped closer, “That would make you my supposedly dead sister, Arya.”

The girl tilted her head and considered Sansa, “You are not what I expected. The septa always said I was never enough of a lady and it was a shame that you had disappeared as you were nothing but a lady.” 

Sansa barked out a laugh, “There’s not room for ladies beyond the wall. Welcome home, Arya. My husband, your cousin, will be glad of your survival. Bran came home before the long night and Rickon was brought home by a fat lord from the sea.” 

“Lord Manderly, I heard. I’m sorry I didn’t make it home before the battle that happened. I did not hear of it until it was over and I was in King’s Landing,” Arya murmured as they turned and made way from the crypts. 

Sansa’s eyebrow raised, “What were you doing in King’s Landing?” 

“Killing a queen. That last name on my final list before coming home,” Arya said as they climbed out and into the coolness of the spring night, “Is it true that Jon and you are going back beyond the wall once Rickon is settled in as King in the North with Bran as his regent?”

Sansa startled at her sister’s knowledge, “Aye, Jon and I will be returning North to settle our people now that the threat is gone. It seems that enough of the old guard died that we will perhaps be able to establish some sort of relations beyond the wall and North Westeros.”

“Can I come with you?” Arya said as they entered the keep. 

Sansa smiled as a shout came from the head table and her husband began rushing forward. 

“I think I would like that. Who better to help the bond between the Queen-Beyond-The-Wall and the King in the North than a sister of them both,” Sansa managed to answer as Arya was immediately swept away from her side and into her husband's arms. 

[pleasantwizardphilosopher]

Roll over, baby

I’m currently obsessed with the song “Roll over, baby” by LANY, I just find it extremely relatable, the lyrics have gotten to my core. I think is because I feel like being on a relationship is just that, choosing constantly to meet each other halfway. And the, out of literally nowhere, an idea popped into my head and I decided to write a Supercorp fic based on that song, here’s the result, I hope it warms your heart the same way it does to me.

You can also read it in AO3, please leave kudos if you like it

Most of the times we see eye to eye

They don’t fight. Not usually at least. After being together for three years and more than four of friendship it is hard for them to encounter a situation that escalates. Sure, they argue sometimes and more than frequently hold different points of view, however, they are also capable of understanding each other, to get each other’s views and where they are coming from, they know the other perfectly after all, their buttons, fears and insecurities.

And it’s not like us to be staying up to fight

Today, today is different though. It’s almost midnight and Kara just came back (was brought back) to their shared apartment after going solo in a mission to stop a 5th dimensional imp. She was meant to wait for Brainy and Lena to build, an prepare for launch, a stunning beam that would momentarily cut the connection between their rouge alien and the 5th dimension powers, so Kara could step in as Supergirl along with Nia and take him down. However, waiting a few more minutes was apparently a little too much for the Kryptonian since she headed there by herself after 10 minutes of restless pacing in the Tower. The fella was causing trouble downtown, destroying several local businesses and a school, no one was injured though, still the Girl of Steel couldn’t refrain from being helpful and decided to go by herself.

“It’s going to be fine Lena, I’m just going to play bait while you guys finish off the slowing beam and then we can just send him off to one of our holding cells” she said confidently, just before bursting out of the Tower’s balcony. Barely spearing a second to kiss her on the lips.

She didn’t play bait.

She became an alien boxing bag for the being. He was more powerful and attuned to the 5th dimension than they all, Kara particularly, had anticipated. After a rather violent fight where Kara ended up severely beaten up, he had the guts to threw her into the 5th dimension and afterwards they both vanished.

They spent a whole week trying to find her and bring her back. When they did, she had been held captive in a pocket dimension, restrained with kryptonite cuffs. She was absolutely disoriented and extremely weak, having spent a long period of time under the effects of the green rock. Moreover, the problematic imp kept running rampant trough the city and letting loose God knows what. The Superfriends were torn between stopping him and bringing the hero back. At the end, they concluded that the more productive outcome would be to restrain him and then force him to bring the Kryptonian back. One problem at a time.

They set up a trap. Brainy and Lena designed a quantum net that followed Schrödinger’s principle, the space held by it simultaneously existed, and it didn’t, they had to use nanotechnology capable of producing a quantum field, theoretically, it would allow them to break his connection long enough to be restrained, albeit the challenge would be to find his exact location within the quantum realm. However, they needed someone within the range of the net to bring him down. J’onn was the chosen one, since he is the second strongest among them, that way Dreamer would stay behind with the rest of the team in case something went wrong and J’onn needed backup, or in case the net didn’t work, and they needed to move civilians to safety.

Fortunately, the trap worked, and after being thoroughly interrogated by Alex, he brought Kara back. They were absolutely relieved to see her unharmed, mostly, since all her battle injuries were worse than previously thought, due to having been cuffed with kryptonite for a prolonged timelapse and deprived of yellow sunlight. Her injuries were tended by Alex and Lena, and then she was sent to spend several hours under the sun lamps. Nevertheless, after a few hours she was totally bored and wanted nothing more than to go home, her sister agreed, knowing the genius of a woman had sun lamps installed all over their place.

Most of the time, yeah, we’re so in love

What did I do? What did I say? What’s up?

“How could you?!” she yells, even though she is trying not to lose her bearings, jade-green eyes sparkling with anger and clouded by fear. “We told you to wait for us! We are a team, Kara” They had come back, and as soon as they crossed the threshold her fiancé asked her why she was being so reserved, they had barely exchanged a few words, not even a greeting kiss or a ‘welcome home’ hug. It was the drop that broke the dam.

“I had to go! It is my duty to protect the people of National City and that guy running rampant through the city was definitely withing my responsibility, someone could have gotten injured for Rao’s sake” the blonde reboots with all her might, her voice straining from the effort to keep it leveled and not scream at the CEO. Tears threaten to spill from stormy blue eyes.

“And what about me, us, our friends! Did you even stop to think about how much it’d hurt us to lose you?!” It’s meant to be scolding, using her best boardroom voice, but it comes out as barely above a whisper. She stares intently into sapphire blue eyes.

“I know that you have to protect those who are more vulnerable, I’m not asking you to deny that part of yourself, I’m just asking you not to be so reckless, to wait for backup, you can’t do things on your own” the green-eyed woman voices, hesitantly, pleading.

“I am thinking about you Lena, and the others, every single second, every moment that I put on this cape I do it for you and them, so you can be safe, can’t you see that?” it comes out as a tremor, her voice wavering, a silent tear streams down her cheek.

“I see it all the time, but why can’t you understand that it is not your responsibility to be the hero all the time, that we are there to help you through it?” the genius pleads, voice quivering, more tears smearing her makeup. Forest green eyes seem cloudy with unshed tears.

The Kryptonian scoffs, “It IS my responsibility, I’m the one who has this powers and I’m trying to do good with them” she states in a hoarse voice while raising her hands and waving exasperatedly, a glint of anger flickering in ocean blue.

“Uh-huh, no! You’re not seriously telling me that. I thought we had moved past your god complex, you can’t fix everything!” she hisses between gritted teeth, her hands are clenched into fists, and she has to stop herself from shoving her finger into the blonde’s chest.

“Maybe I can’t but that doesn’t mean I should stop trying! You knew what you were getting into when we started dating! It’s not my fault you forgot” she regrets the words as soon as they leave her mouth, she can see the shift in kryptonite-green eyes, all defensiveness gone, substituted with hurt and insecurity.

“Lena…no…I-“, the blonde stammers, but it is too late. Lena is turning on her heels towards their bedroom, not even sparing her love a glance. Her shoulders slumping and her head is low, almost ashamed, she could hear the jump her heart made, it sounded painfully breaking. She is left there, alone in their kitchen. With a groan she drops her head in her hands and tries to regulate her breathing and organize her thoughts.

Tomorrow we’ll be just fine

But let’s not waste tonight

Kara peeks into their bedroom, is really dark but she can still make out Lena’s form, she’s laying on her side, facing away from the door, her hands are covering her moth, or so she guesses, from the way she’s positioned. Even without superhearing she’d still hear the soft sniffles and sobs coming from the woman. Her own eyes start filling with tears, knowing that her impulsiveness has led them to this. She bites her lip, reclining against the doorway.

After a moment of consideration, she pushes herself off the door frame and moves towards the bed. The blonde slides under the covers and scoots closer to the CEO, her whimpers are a lot more evident now, being so close to her, she can see the way her body shakes slightly with every new wave of tears. The scent of cinnamon that is Lena’s signature fills her nostrils and she wills herself not to cry harder. Laying on her side she reaches a tentative hand to caress the raven-haired woman’s arm.

Roll over baby, don’t be upset

When she doesn’t pull away from her touch, she slides her hand down her belly and scoots closer. She pats around blindly for a few seconds until she finds the slender alabaster hand she was looking for. She intertwines their fingers and starts rubbing smooth, tender circles over her knuckles, squeezing it slightly every now and then. They stay like that for a while, until she can hear her breathing even out and some of the tension leave her body, she places a soft kiss on the back of her neck, then, she pulls her hand softly, coaxing Lena to turn around and face her.

She does so slowly, albeit without hesitation. The Irish woman’s eyes are red and puffy from crying, there’s a little snot on her shirt and her cheeks are marred with drying tear trails, a light pink blush is dusting her cheeks. She looks up at her fiancé, her gaze seems sad still, although the hero can make out a little curiosity as well. Kara starts scooting backwards, to the edge of the bed, bringing Lena along with her, never letting go of her hand. Once she’s standing, she drops the raven-haired woman’s hand and studies her closely. Pleading blue meet curios green, the CEO is looking at her questioningly from the bed, she extends her hand palm up towards her love.

How can you fall asleep when you feel like this?

So, come on, baby, let me hold you instead

“Dance with me” the Kryptonian murmurs, as if she was afraid to burst their small bubble. Or maybe of breaking this little moment, still in time.

Lena looks at her hand warily but takes it with a nod, nonetheless.

The Girl of Steel takes them back to their living room, taking out her cellphone, she shuffles a little and settles for a soft song, placing her phone on the coffee table, “Roll over, baby” by LANY starts filling every corner of their living space. She moves to where Lena is standing and places both her hands on her hips, pulling her tenderly into her body, neither of them are wearing shoes, so she’s a little taller than the CEO, deep blue eyes search for forest green. Automatically the raven genius throws her arms around her shoulders, resting her head in the crook of the reporter’s neck. They are very close to each other, their fronts pressed together in a sweet embrace. Kara starts swaying them softly side to side, pressing her cheek against Lena’s, her thumbs rubbing circles on her lower back, over the worn NCU t-shirt she wears for bed. And it is somehow perfect, the warmth coming from the alien is comforting, protective. Their bare feet padding over the wooden floor, lavender and vanilla filling her nostrils.

After a few moments, Kara leans closer to Lena’s ear.

Meet me halfway from your side of the bed

“I’m sorry for not listening to you, you’re right I throw myself head-first into dangers all the time, it’s easy to forget that I have people guarding my back” she breathes, barely audible. Her hot breath tickles slightly.

“I sometimes get this wild idea that I have to be there for everyone and be the hero every moment, every step of the way, it’s in those moments where the world’s weight seems heavier than ever on my shoulders, and I get caught up in it”

“I should also apologize, sometimes is easy for me to forget that you have a huge sense of duty, that I love, and that you feel responsible for everyone in this city” the CEO answers just as quietly, her breath tickles Kara’s neck.

She pulls back a little to stare into sapphire-blue, the one she never gets tired of, she doesn’t think she ever will “but I want you to know that it is not a burden that you have to carry on your own” it’s tender, breathily. She starts scratching Kara’s nape and playing lightly with the baby hairs there, “that’s what you have us for, darling, to share the weight, knowing that we love you and will always stand by your side in your crusades” She turns her head slightly and places a feather-like kiss on a tanned cheek.

Roll over, baby, oh

Roll over, baby

Kara closes her eyes and tightens her hold around her lover’s waist, placing a kiss on the top of her head when she feels the CEO snuggle closer and bury her face on the crook of her neck again, she knows it makes her feel safe. The only thing they hear ins the melody of the song, still playing on the reporter’s phone, and each other’s heartbeats.

Just let me pour you a glass of wine

I’ll sit right here, you can say what’s on your mind

“I’m always terribly afraid of losing people that are under my protection, I get so blinded that it’s easy for me to lose sight of what’s really important, of those who truly love me for being Kara, not Supergirl” the reporter confesses after a few silent moments. “I won’t put you in that position again, Lee. If it were you the one who throws themselves into danger, I’d probably lose it, and it was selfish of me to think it’s any different from you” she croaks, her voice thick with emotions and unshed tears. Unable to look at the green-eyed woman, she buries her face into dark strands of hair.

I know you know I’m on your team

You tell me I got work to do and I agree

“I know you are this powerful being that most of the times can handle herself properly and independently, you are a miracle by yourself, but that doesn’t mean that you are invincible, and asking for help is okay, darling” she scolds gently, knowing that it’s sometimes hard for the hero to admit vulnerability, she turns her head and places a tender kiss on a strong shoulder. “And you’ll always be my Kara, that clumsy reported that stumbled her way into my life, who gets easily flustered, but also, someone whose heart is so big, filled with love, hope and compassion for all, I admire you, every day I am to be as good as you are, and I’m grateful to have you in my life, I wouldn’t want it any other way”, it is admitted shyly, with a dimpled smile that is specially reserved for Kara. Green eyes shining like perfect emeralds. They continue swaying slowly, the city blocked out, everything else forgotten.

Tomorrow we’ll be just fine

But I want you tonight

Roll over, baby, don’t be upset

How can you fall asleep when you feel like this?

“Sometimes I can be a handful, but I promise I’ll keep working to be better for you, I want you in my life, Lee, now and forever” she says confidently, moving a little so she can stare deeply, intently, into emerald-green eyes. The bluest eyes are staring at her so lovingly that her knees buckle slightly, however, the Kryptonian easily holds her and keeps her upright. Pulling her impossibly closer.

The love she is seeing in blue is stronger than anything the CEO has ever experienced in her life, like drowning into cotton clouds, an open summer sky, knowing that she’ll never let her fall, being loved so freely and fiercely makes her melt every single time, her heart swells with love and she feels like she’ll combust momentarily.

Both women start leaning in slowly, green never leaves blue.

So, come over, baby, let me hold you instead

Meet me halfway from your side of the bed

They meet in the middle. Their lips connect into the sweetest of kisses. It’s heartwarming, floaty, and it never seems to get old, no matter how many kisses they’ve shared over the years. It still make their arms fill with goosebumps, and her fingers tingle, turning into a puddle at the simplest brush of lips. Soft lips move against each other in another entirely different kind of dance, with practiced ease they fall into a well-known rhythm. Kara pulls away first and doesn’t hold back the satisfied sigh that falls from her lips. Warm air caressing plum lips, which curve up into a smile, before Lena can even process it, she’s leaning in again, capturing pink lips into another loving kiss.

Roll over, baby

Roll over, baby

Roll over, baby

When they finally separate, their foreheads are resting together, it no longer matters if one of them was reckless and behaved rashly, what matters is them, now, holding onto each other, choosing one another, in their night clothes, swaying in their living room under the midnight moon. The city and heroism, they hold nothing against them, in this moment.

“I love you” Kara whispers into Lena’s ear.

“I love you, too”

Come on, meet me halfway

From your side of the bed

Come on, meet me halfway

Let me hold you instead

[where-is-my-beheading-ceremony]

More headcannons since I have nothing better to do and I'm hyperfixating on nexo knights this evening

-Post season 4, Jestro tried to escape the kingdom before his sentence was over, wanting to start life anew with the company of Roberto maybe since they're the only one who were still okay with him

-He almost managed. When I mentioned all the electrical charge he still had in him, he used it to cut out the power in the place he was held in and ended up knocking out all the dependent power in the capital. After that he barely had any charge left in him, which is good since it's not supposed to be there in the first place

-Only after the knights caught him was when they were willing to listen to his side of the story

-After that, he stayed with the knights in the fortrex and was able to roam around towns freely if there was someone keeping watch on him. Forests and other places were okay though

-Jestro has some minor sourness towards Merlok because of multiple small reasons and refuses to see him as a hero to all of Knightonia

-He criticizes (in his mind) his lack of thinking when protecting the kingdom, his lack of ability to keep Monstrox as a book away, the fact they never got rid of him, how he hid the fact he's Clay's uncle, how quick he is to give up and how much he found out the Wizard council is corrupt which Merlok is a part of. Also the fact he probably keeps even more secrets, said straight to his face "Can't wait for you to reveal another major secret when it's too late." and to be truthful, Jestro is right for not fully trusting Merlok, they have many secrets that shouldn't be left hidden.

TW: MENTIONS OF SCARS (safe to read after the " - - - - - "line)

.

.

.

.

- Jestro has a large lightning shaped scar that goes down the left side of his back and reach till his calfs

- He also has scars from being zapped in the head, but his hair is puffy and long enough to cover them fully since they're not at the top of his head

-A few burn scars are just scattered around his body from his first possession. Living in a castle of lava was dangerous even though he had a minor immunity to it

-He never dared to let go of the staffs he had and managed to keep excellent guard on them, his grip on them always vicious. It resulted in calloused palms.

-Since it always annoyingly stung, he had bandages wrapped around his palms to let them heal a bit

-During his second possession, Jestro was very detached from most of his senses and emotions. All he knew is that he was alive and served the purpose of bringing chaos and destruction.

-That caused him to be less receptive to things he should avoid, like anything that could lightly harm him, jumping off of high places, falling, bruising himself on accident. His body wasn't in a state that a human could bare so he never even noticed if he was cold or not, it wasn't natural blood that was flowing through his veins after all.

-unfortunately there definitely are lives that were lost to his hands

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

-Looking at him in seasons 3-4 just made me cold. Man barely had any of his outfit left

-He's a runner, he's a trackstar. This young man can run further than any of the knights. He's ran away from dangers and problems his whole life. He's short, but his legs are relatively long and he doesn't find it hard to run since he's trained to be light on his feet.

-His flexibility is frightening. You will see him casually relaxing in an unnatural position for sure. He would often use his flexibility as a sort of intimidation thing in seasons 3-4, looking like some type of spider with his body movement. If he were to start approaching you, his ragdoll body would seem a lot more terrifying than you first may think

-He offers to help the Knights do some flexibility exercises since their lack of ability to even do a decent split pains him

-Since he stays with the knights post season 4, that's when he starts to help them exercise and spends more time with them casually as well as joins them for morning runs

-With a little help, he decided to make himself useful and with enough knowledge, became a sort of aid to the knights, helping them with any injuries after battles or training.

-The best weapon he can work with is a spear or daggers (anything light), though he still refuses to train with any weapon.

-This poor man now avoids any sort of magic like it's a plague, afraid to get involved with it as his body is too receptive to it.

-He still encourages Clay to carefully train his magic though.

-This man surprisingly has some knowledge of programming (inspired by the season 5 episode 1 script)

-Due to that, he sort of found something he could talk about with Robin and Ava. And even if he doesn't know much, he knows enough to keep the conversation going

-He got along with Ava and Robin pretty quickly and enjoys the fact they don't try and expect something from him

-Since he's usually in the fortrex while the Knights are on missions, he ended up spending enough time with these two children to become a sort of big brother, caretaker figure. Not a big one, but he still tries to help them

-He understands Ava and Robin a lot and doesn't enjoy the pressure that is always placed on the two of them since they're still young so if there's any way for him to deny any non priority requests the knights have for the two of them, he doesn't hesitate to do so unless it's something Ava and Robin want to work on

-After a nightmare, Jestro gets very bad, but thankfully temporary paranoia and there's no reasoning with him, best to try and comfort him and wait it out.

-He once tried to visit the lava village since he doesn't remember the negative view the lava monsters have on him

-He considered himself to not be too harsh on them since he sometimes encouraged breaks and would spoil them with tasty treats, just like he later did with the stone monsters, even when he was a lot more detached around that time.

-Turns out, the Lava monsters were n o t glad to see him, but thankfully had no intentions to hurt him

-They did tell him some hurtful words and tried to violently kick him out

-Jestro was in such shock from that, but nevertheless, did his best to quickly apologize and show how genuine it was since the lava monsters were the closest thing he ever had to a family. They were always there and were capable to be genuine and had amazing dreams. Their warmth gave him comfort and that's what he confessed in his apology

-Reluctant, the Lava monsters forgave him, but Jestro still felt a bit detested from what they had said about him earlier. Which left him in shock for quite a bit since nothing hurt him more than words, everyone knows that by now.

-Good thing though, he fixed his relationship with them quickly though! And now is an awaited guest at the village all the time. Often times participating in the activities of each lava monster. Especially Magmar's cookie baking and the bakery's work

-Another thing he avoids like a plague is any student or teacher he sees from the Academy he went to. He could not handle any confrontation with them and is most detested by those people.

-while after season 2, people saw Jestro more as an annoyance and as trouble to still be allowed to do as he please. After the events of season 4, Jestro actually managed to strike fear in many of these people since the kingdom was severely damaged after these two, you could say, monster wars.

-He has a mild liking for animals like reptiles or those most people dislike, like rats or Hyenas so when he was once at the zoo with the other knights, he admired the serpent exhibit and at the same time had to stop Clay from losing his mind since Clay has a fear of snakes.

-After he managed to ease his attachment to his Jester attire, he once exited the bathroom after a shower without his hat and with some random sweater and sweatpants and was almost beaten up because the knights thought he was an intruder.

-Clay was the only one that ever actually saw or touched Jestro's hair

-Jestro's first hat was actually made by his mother and since he didn't want to let go of it when he became a Jester, he altered it to be a Jester had, but kept the same material

-He has vague memories of his mother, the nicknames she gave him, the toys he used to have, but has absolutely zero information about his father.

Lmao I'll make part 3 right after this since I have a lot more ideas, but just don't want to stuff them into one post

[elriell]

i love your meta posts and would really like to see your thoughts on nessian and maybe the next book in detail?? thanks

Thank you, I enjoy doing them. As usual this will be rather long especially with quotes but there is so much Nessian goodness to discuss so bare with me.

[MY FULL THOUGHTS ON NESTA]

We will get in to the good, the bad, and everything in between but let’s start with their future and them being mates. This is not an unpopular belief to my knowledge but let’s talk about it because I feel this will be a part of their arc next book, especially since ACOFAS was kind of setting up the bridge for the spin off.

So take a look at these quotes from ACOFAS,

“Cassian’s face turned uncharacteristically solemn, and he remained quiet for a moment before he said, “I get jealous sometimes. I’d never begrudge you for your happiness, but what you two have, Rhys …” He dragged a hand through his hair, his crimson Siphon glinting in the light streaming through the window. “It’s the legends, the lies, they spin us when we’re children. About the glory and wonder of the mating bond. I thought it was all bullshit. Then you two came along.”

“What about you?” I asked, pulling away after a moment. “Are you … happy?” Shadows darkened his hazel eyes. “I’m getting there.” A halfhearted answer.”

I believe this is just a little teaser for his future with her, there is so much foreshadowing about both of them being mates but also becoming something powerful, especially Nesta.

“What if I tell you what the rock and darkness and sea beyond whispered to me, Lord of Bloodshed? How they shuddered in fear, on that island across the sea. How they trembled when she emerged. She took something—something precious. She ripped it out with her teeth.”

Cassian’s golden-brown face had drained of color, his wings tucking in tight. “What did you wake that day in Hybern, Prince of Bastards?”

He is described as a leader, a prince and a god a few times but the foreshadowing for Nesta becoming a Queen/Leader is unparalleled. I know quite a few people are not fond of the idea but to be honest with all the written breadcrumbs I cannot imagine it going any other way... It is mentioned so often.

“Nesta was waiting at the head of the table, a queen ready to hold court. ”

“But she turned to Cassian, looked him over as if she were a queen on a throne, and then declared to all of us,”

“How lovely she is—new as a fawn and yet ancient as the sea. How she calls to you. A queen, as my sister once was. Terrible and proud; beautiful as a winter sunrise.”

“And proud as any queen, Nesta took Elain’s arm and led her from the guardhouse. Mor trailed behind,”

“A queen without a throne. That was what I’d call the painting that swept into my mind.”

“She kept her chin high, the portrait of queenly arrogance. “I’m not.”

“Talk to me. Nesta. Tell me—” She ripped her hand out of his grip. Stared him down. A mighty, vengeful queen.”

And I feel it will obviously be something to do with the Illyrians, as that is what is being set up. I believe they will become leaders of the Illyrians in a new way not currently present.

Mates

“And what about Cassian? He’s entangled—and enabling this nonsense.” A wry smile. “Cassian is going to have to decide some things, too. In the near future, I think.” “Are he and Nesta …?” “I don’t know. Until the bond snaps into place, it can be hard to detect.”

At this rate I do not even think it is questionable but let’s pretend we have to prove it, here are some key pieces of evidence,

Exhibit A)

Feyre painting the stars for her Mate, and her painting flames for Nesta.

“Nesta,” I said, starting on the other wing, “I painted flames for her. She was always angry, always burning. I think she and Amren would be fast friends. ”

“There was something rough-hewn about his features—like he’d been made of wind and earth and flame and all these civilized trappings were little more than an inconvenience.”

“A matching one lay atop his left hand; and twin red stones adorned Cassian’s gauntlets, their color like the slumbering heart of a flame.”

“So at odds from the male who had gone head to head with my sister, unable to resist matching himself against Nesta’s spirit of steel and flame.”

Exhibit B)

First potential scenting of it/Paralleling Rhys.

“He bowed at the waist, those wings vanishing entirely, and had begun to fade into the nearest shadow when he went rigid. His eyes locked on mine, wide and wild, and his nostrils flared. Shock—pure shock flashed across his features at whatever he saw on my face, and he stumbled back a step. Actually stumbled. “What is—” I began.” [Rhys] “But he did take a step closer, bracing a hand on the mantel, and leaned in close enough to breathe in that scent of hers. It hit him in the gut so hard her could barely focus, and it took five centuries of training to make himself meet her eyes rather than let his own roll back in his head, to keep himself poised there instead of burying his face in the crook between her neck and shoulder, to keep from moving closer, from… touching.”

“Yes, devastating was a good word for how lovely she’d become as High Fae. And in a long-sleeved, dark blue gown that clung to her curves before falling gracefully to the ground in a spill of fabric …

Cassian looked like someone had punched him in the gut.”

Exhibit C)

Feeling each others pain/worry without being there.

“He’d followed. She’d known it in her bones, her blood. He’d kept high in the skies, but he’d followed until she’d entered the building.”

“CASSIAN.” Amren reached for her, but Nesta roared, “CASSIAN!”

“Nesta had known. She gaped up at me, terror and agony on her face, then scanned the sky for Cassian, who flapped in place, as if torn between coming for us and charging back to the scattering Illyrian and Peregryn ranks. She’d known where that blast was about to hit. Cassian had been right in the center of it. Or would have been, if she hadn’t called him away.”

The door opened, and Cassian stalked in, face grave. The sight of the wings, the Illyrian armor in this opulent, pink-filled room planted itself in my mind, the painting already taking form, as he said, “What’s wrong.” [...] But I said, “She senses something is off—says we need to leave right away.” I waited for the dismissal, but Cassian angled his head. “What, precisely, feels wrong?”

“Nesta’s screaming was the only sound. Cassian blindly lurched toward it—toward her, moaning in pain.”

“I whipped my head to Nesta as she went silent. The Cauldron righted itself. Cassian again stirred, slumping on the floor—but his hand twitched. Toward Nesta.”

“You’re hurt.” Rhys snapped to attention at that. [...] Cassian seemed to hesitate, but offered it to her, tapping the Siphon atop his palm. The armor slid back a fraction over his forearm, revealing— “You know better than to walk around with an injury,” Rhys said a bit tensely. “I was busy,” Cassian said, not taking his focus off Nesta as she studied the swollen wrist. How she’d detected it through the armor … She must have read it in his eyes, his stance. I hadn’t realized she’d been observing the Illyrian general enough to notice his tells.”

Underrated Moments?

“Eat or bed?” Cassian had asked Nesta, and I honestly couldn’t tell if he’d meant it as some invitation. I debated telling him he was in no shape.

Nesta only said, “Bed.” And there was certainly no invitation in the exhausted reply.”

I feel like this is such an underrated moment between them, there is so much care and comfort in these moments I love it.

“Is she a witch.”

“She may act like one sometimes,” Cassian clarified, “but no—she is High Fae.” LOL

“Nesta listened to the low-level Illyrian soldiers whispering about how Cassian had thrown that spear, how he’d cut down soldiers like stalks of wheat, how he’d fought like Enalius—their most ancient warrior-god and the first of the Illyrians. [...]

Nesta watched, and listened to it all, while the camp was built around us.”

This part of ACOWAR when she is settling in, helping out and listening to the tales of Cassian I think will come to parallel in ACOTAR 4. I love the idea that she just sat around listening to the legend of warrior gods...

Parallels

“Why do you bother, Cassian?”

His hazel eyes shuttered as we smoothly landed. And I thought he wouldn’t answer, especially not as we heard the others already in the dining room beyond the veranda,[...] But Cassian said quietly as we headed for the dining room, “Because I can’t stay away.”

Nesta gritted her teeth, trying to haul Cassian up once more. A broken sound of pain ripped from him. “Go! ” he barked at her. “I can’t,” she breathed, voice breaking. “I can’t.”

*cries*

“But Nesta was glancing between us all, her back still stiff, mouth a thin line. “Where is he?” “Who?” Rhys crooned. “Cassian.”

I didn’t think I’d ever heard his name from her lips. Cassian had always been him or that one. And Nesta had been … pacing in the foyer. As if she was worried.

“I was almost at the door when Cassian said, “Is …” He swallowed. I spared him the discomfort of trying to mask his interest. “Both sisters will be at the house. Whether they want to or not.” Cassian’s eyes flickered. “How is she?”

Rhysand just stuck in the middle probably thinking these fucking idiots ahaha

“Are you … happy?” Shadows darkened his hazel eyes. “I’m getting there.”A halfhearted answer. I’d have to work on that, too. Perhaps there were threads to be pulled, woven together.”

“Perhaps you should get a place of your own, then.” “I have one in Illyria.” “I meant here.” Cassian lifted a brow. “I don’t need a house here. I need a room.” [...] I chuckled again, but held in my retort. My suggestion that he might want a place of his own. Soon. Not that anything was happening on that front. Not anytime soon. Nesta had made it clear enough she had no interest in Cassian—not even in being in the same room as him. I knew why. I’d seen it happen, had felt that way plenty.”

had felt that way plenty

HAD FELT THAT WAY PLENTY.

HaD FElt tHAt wAY PLenTY

Perhaps this is really why they sent her to Illyria? Is this them weaving? Not sure how I feel about that really, but we shall see.

She only said, “Go home, Cassian.” He could count on one hand the number of times she’d used his name. Called him anything other than you or that one.”

“Cassian.” I didn’t think I’d ever heard his name from her lips. Cassian had always been him or that one.”

Their reactions to each other currently.

“No matter that she could scarcely stand to be around him. No matter that she had once, long ago, in a mortal body and in a house that no longer existed, let him kiss her throat. Being near him made her want to shatter things. As her power sometimes did, unbidden. Secretly.”

“But from the moment he’d met Nesta, the cold fire in her blue-gray eyes had been a temptation of a different sort. And now that she was High Fae, that inherent dominance, the aggression—and that piss-poor attitude … There was a reason he avoided her as much as possible. Even after the war, things were still too volatile, both within the Night Court’s borders and in the world beyond. And the female before him had always made him feel like he was standing in quicksand.”

Training

Quite a few people do not want her to become a epic warrior, and while I understand that especially after her quote in the books about there being other ways to be strong... but after SJM interviews and so forth I definitely think they will go in that direction...

“You’ll what?” Cassian crooned, trailing her at a casual pace as she stopped perhaps five feet from me. He lifted a brow as she whirled on him. “You won’t join me for practice, so you sure as hell aren’t going to hold your own in a fight. You won’t talk about your powers, so you certainly aren’t going to be able to wield them. And you—”

“Something drew Cassian’s attention behind me. And even as his body remained casual, a predatory gleam flickered in his eyes. I didn’t need to turn to know who was standing there. “Care to join?” Cassian purred. Nesta said, “It doesn’t look like you’re exercising anything other than your mouths.”

“Cassian pressed one of his knives into Nesta’s hand. “Ash can kill you now,” he said with lethal quiet as she stared down at the blade. “A scratch can make you queasy enough to be vulnerable. Remember where the exits are in every room, every fence and courtyard—mark them when you go in, and mark how many men are around you. Mark where Rhys and the others are. Don’t forget that you’re stronger and faster. Aim for the soft parts,” he added, folding her fingers around the hilt. “And if someone gets you into a hold …”

Morrigan

Alright let’s move on to Mor, I am sure there are a lot of opinions on her/and her relationship with Cassian. I am going to try not to get in to detail about her personally and keep it too Nessian because I feel like that is a whole other can of worms...

“And then there would be the matter of explaining it to everyone.

To Mor. His blood chilled.”

This is a big reason for why I need both of their own POV’s because there is so much we are limited to being inside of Feyre’s head. But one thing is clear and that is that there is something wrong here, ^^^ that response is not normal for a “friend” to find out you like/whatever someone.

It is not a healthy dynamic at all, I am sorry.

I believe it also alters and changes the way Nesta perceives things, we as readers may know nothing is currently going on between them but as an outside party she would not know that and some of their scenes have got to raise alarms.

“You’re hurt?”

At the sound of Mor’s voice, Cassian snatched his hand back and pivoted toward Mor with a lazy smile. “Nothing for you to cry over, don’t worry.”

Nesta dragged her stare from his face—down to her now-empty hand, her fingers still curled as if his palm lay there. Cassian didn’t look at Nesta as she rose, snatching up the pitcher, and muttered something about getting more water from inside the tent.

Case and point, this was a rather cold and heartless thing to do especially given that she is finally trying to help him and open up. Imagine being Nesta in this situation, it is sure to raise some alarm bells...

“Rhys chuckled. Cassian, however, didn’t smile, every pore of him seemingly fixed on Nesta and Mor.”

I really hope they expand on why he is so afraid of her reaction.

“Just what I always wanted.” He held up a pair of what seemed to be red silk undershorts. The perfect match to her negligee. With Nesta pointedly preoccupied with flipping through her new books,”

“Cassian and Mor fell into their banter, laughing and taunting each other about the battle and the ones ahead. Nesta didn’t come back out again for some time.”

“The general of the High Lord’s armies stuck out his tongue. Mor returned the gesture. Amren scowled at Rhys. “You’d be wise to leave both of them at home for the meeting with the others, Rhysand. They’ll cause nothing but trouble.” His face was indeed controlled, but—a hint of surprise twinkled there. Wariness, too, but … surprise. I risked another glance at Nesta, but she was watching her plate, dutifully ignoring the others.”

I think it is very interesting that SJM put these scenes in here because as readers again we might laugh and enjoy the banter between the circle but she is making it a point to show that Nesta is bothered/has a reaction to these moments. I wouldn’t even call it jealousy per-say but rather wariness over someone she considers a player flirting around, raising red flags.

Especially getting matching underwear with someone, as an outsider how would you perceive that?

“Mor’s lips pressed into a thin line, as if she was trying her best not to say anything. Azriel was trying his best to shoot a warning stare at Mor to remind her to indeed keep her mouth shut. As if they’d already discussed this. Many times.”

I opened my mouth, but Mor beat me to it.

“He’s busy.” I’d never heard her voice so … sharp. Icy.

Mor said flatly, “When he gets back, keep your forked tongue behind your teeth.”

“I tried not to look too obvious as I glanced at Cassian.They had not seen each other since Adriata.But the warrior only gave her a cursory once-over and turned toward Azriel to say something. Mor was watching both carefully—the warning she’d given my sister ringing silently between them. And Nesta, Mother damn it all, seemed to remember. Seemed to rein in whatever words she’d been about to spit and just approached me.”

“So you’re alive.”Cassian bared his teeth in a feral grin, wings flaring slightly. “Were you hoping otherwise?”

Mor was watching—watching so closely, every muscle tense. She again reached for his arm, but Cassian angled out of reach, not tearing his eyes from Nesta’s blazing gaze.

I don’t agree with her at all, especially since she is a hypocrite because if anyone brings up her relationship with Azriel it is unacceptable and not their business. You can be a friend, you can be protective, as I am sure Az also is but you can keep it to yourself, or Cassian.

Her not wanting to loose her buffer is not only selfish but cruel to him.

“Your Solstice present.” “I don’t want one.” Cassian continued past her, tossing the present in his hands. “You’ll want this one.” He prayed she would. It had taken him months to find it. He hadn’t wanted to give it to her in front of the others. Hadn’t even known she’d be there tonight.”

This isn’t directly linked to Mor but it kind of falls under the same theme of him being shy/embarrassed(?) in regards to her, for whatever reason it doesn’t put things in the best light. We can only speculate about what was inside it, and boy do we, so we can’t say if it was personal or private but the idea that he didn’t want to display any... sentiment towards her publicly must rub her the wrong way especially since only Elain got her a present.

Touch

Not much to analyse here I just want to quote and appreciate these moments.

His voice was rough as he said, “Five hundred years ago, I fought on battlefields not far from this house. I fought beside human and faerie alike, bled beside them. I will stand on that battlefield again, Nesta Archeron, to protect this house—your people. I can think of no better way to end my existence than to defend those who need it most.”

I watched a tear slide down Nesta’s cheek. And I watched as Cassian reached up a hand to wipe it away. She did not flinch from his touch.”

“Nesta was standing there, arms around herself, eyes wide. Cassian only stretched out an arm for her. As if in a trance, she walked right to his side. His arms tightened around both of us, Siphons flaring, gilding the darkness with bloodred light.”

“She let out a small, animal sound—like some wounded stag—as she saw him. As he landed so hard his knees popped. He said nothing as Nesta launched herself toward him, her dress filthy and disheveled, her arms stretching for him. He opened his own for her, unable to stop his approach, his reaching—”

“Cassian said to her, “Nothing can harm you here.” He sucked in a breath, groaning softly, and rose to his feet. Azriel tried to stop him, but Cassian brushed him off and strode for my sister’s side. He braced a hand on the desk when he at last stopped. “Nothing can harm you,” he repeated. Nesta was still looking at him when she finally shut her eyes. I shifted, and the angle allowed me to see what I hadn’t detected before. Nesta stood before the map, a fist of bones and stones clenched over it. Cassian remained at her side—his other hand on her lower back. And I marveled at the touch she allowed—marveled at it as much as I did the mud-splattered hand she held out. The concentration that settled over her face.”

“Cassian seemed too weary to speak as well while she wrapped bandages around his wrist, only grunting to confirm if it was too tight or too loose, if it helped at all. But he watched her—didn’t take his eyes off her face, the brows bunched and lips pursed in concentration.

And when she’d tied it neatly, his wrist wrapped in white, when Nesta made to pull back, Cassian gripped her fingers in his good hand. She lifted her gaze to his. “Thank you,” he said hoarsely. Nesta did not yank her hand away. Did not open her mouth for some barbed retort.”

“Cassian brushed a thumb down the back of her hand. “You’re welcome,” Cassian called after her, more than a bite to his voice. His hands clenched and slackened at his sides—as if he were trying to loosen the feel of her from his palms.”

“Her gloved fingers scraped against his calluses, but he held firm. “Talk to me. Nesta. Tell me—” She ripped her hand out of his grip. Stared him down. A mighty, vengeful queen.”

Watching

“He studied every inch of her. As if there were nothing and no one else here, anywhere.”

“When I looked ahead, I found Cassian staring back at Nesta as well. I wondered why no one had yet mentioned what now shone in Cassian’s eyes as he gazed at my sister. The sorrow. And the longing.”

“Cassian watched every bite she took, every bob of her throat as she swallowed.”

“Cassian had named about two dozen poses for Nesta at this point. Ranging from I Will Eat Your Eyes for Breakfast to I Don’t Want Cassian to Know I’m Reading Smut. The latter was his particular favorite. Suppressing his smile, Cassian gestured to the pretty piles”

“But Mor waved him off and moved to pass Cassian his gift; but the warrior didn’t take it. Or take his eyes off Nesta as she undid the brown paper wrapping on the box and revealed a set of five novels in a leather box. She read the titles, then lifted her head to Elain.”

“What are you?” Cassian didn’t seem to dare take his focus off Nesta. But my sister slowly looked at Lucien.”

“Good,” Cassian said, glancing at Nesta. “If I end my life defending those who need it most, then I will consider it a death well spent.” Lord Devlon, for once, nodded his approval. I wondered if Cassian noticed it—if he cared. His face revealed nothing, not as his focus remained wholly on my sister.”

“She looked to Beron and his family as she finished. Only the Lady and Eris seemed to be considering—impressed, even, by the strange, simmering woman before them. I didn’t have the words in me—to convey what was in my heart. Cassian seemed the same.”

“I do not want to be remembered as a coward.” “No one would say that,” I offered quietly. “I would.” Nesta surveyed us all, her gaze jumping past Cassian. Not to slight him, but … avoid answering the look he was giving her. Approval—more. ”

“Nesta’s eyes shot right to his face. She spoke quietly to me, to all of us, even as she held Cassian’s gaze as if he were the only one in the room.”

“Nesta had been beautiful as a human woman. As High Fae, she was devastating. From the utter stillness with which Cassian stood beside me, I wondered if he thought the same thing.”

Nesta blurted, “You didn’t come to—” She stopped herself. The world seemed to go utterly still at that interrupted sentence, nothing and no one more so than Cassian. He scanned her face as if furiously reading some battle report. Mor just watched as Cassian took Nesta’s slim hand in his own, interlacing their fingers. As he folded in his wings and blindly reached his other hand back toward Mor in a silent order to transport them. Cassian’s eyes did not leave Nesta’s; nor did hers leave his. There was no warmth, no tenderness on either of their faces. Only that raging intensity, that blend of contempt and understanding and fire.”

Can someone tell them both there are other people in the room? I don’t think they know...

Protect

“Tamlin snarled at her. Cassian snarled right back, “Watch it.” Tamlin looked between my sister and Cassian—his gaze lingering on Cassian’s wings, tucked in behind him. Snorted. “Seems like other preferences run in the Archeron family, too.”

“Cassian had stationed himself by the doorway, I realized, to be closer to Nesta. To grab her if Amren decided she didn’t particularly care for where this conversation was headed[...] Cassian was staring at Nesta—hard enough that my sister at last twisted toward him. Met his gaze. His head tilted—slightly. A silent order. Nesta, to my shock, obeyed. Drifted over to Cassian’s side as Amren replied to Rhys, “No.”

“Cassian casually slid Nesta behind him, his fingers snagging in the skirts of her black gown. As if to reassure himself that she wasn’t in Amren’s direct path. Nesta only rose onto her toes to peer over his shoulder.”

This is a personal favourite of mine because when it is truly dangerous she trusts and relies on Cassian completely. Also just the imagery of her peering over his shoulder is golden.

“Something …” The word was cut off by a low groan. She sagged, and Mor caught her fully, scanning Nesta’s face. Cassian was instantly there, his hand at her back, teeth bared at the invisible threat.”

“I don’t think even the Carver knows what Nesta is. But I wanted to see—just in case.”

“Why?”

“I want to help.”

“How do I fix it?” she asked. Her hair had been tied in a loose knot atop her head earlier in the day, and in the hours that we’d worked to ready and distribute supplies to the healers, through the heat and humidity, stray tendrils had come free to curl about her temple, her nape. Faint color had stained her cheeks from the sun, and her forearms, bare beneath the sleeves she’d rolled up, were flecked with mud.”

Despite any vicious words or silly mistakes they both care for each other, the second anyone becomes a threat or a problem to their counterpart a deeper more hidden feeling emerges. A protective instinct.

Brooding

“He very rarely allowed himself to think of her, anyway. It usually didn’t end well for whoever was in the sparring ring with him.”

“He was grateful the streets were empty when he hurled that box into the Sidra. Hurled it hard enough that the splash echoed off the buildings flanking the river, ice cracking from the impact. Ice instantly re-formed over the hole he’d blown open. As if it, and the present. had never been.”

“Cassian shut out the words. Shut out the image that chased him from his dreams, night after night: not Nesta holding up the King of Hybern’s head like a trophy; not the way her father’s neck had twisted in Hybern’s hands. But the image of her leaning over him, covering Cassian’s body with her own, ready to take the full brunt of the king’s power for him. To die for him—with him. That slender, beautiful body, arching over him, shaking in terror, willing to face that end. He hadn’t seen a glimpse of that person in months. Had not seen her smile or laugh.”

Understanding/Compassion

He may have his slip ups but thus far he has proven to be rather compassionate when it comes to Nesta and understanding where she comes from.

“Mother’s tits, Rhys,” Cassian cut in, wings flaring wide enough to nearly knock over the ceramic vase on the side table next to him. “You think we can just take over her family’s house, demand that of them?”

From before they even met he showed understanding to their beliefs about the fae.

“I don’t blame her,” Cassian said, shrugging despite his words. “She was—violated. Her body stopped belonging wholly to her.” His jaw clenched. Even Amren didn’t dare say anything. “And I am going to peel the King of Hybern’s skin off his bones the next time I see him.”

I think they both have their positive and negative attributes to face but overall they genuinely try their best for each other.

“Dresses aren’t good for flying, ladies.” Nesta didn’t reply.

He lifted a brow. “No barking and biting today?” But Nesta didn’t rise to meet him, her face still drained and sallow. “I’ve never worn pants,” was all she said. I could have sworn concern flashed across Cassian’s features. But he brushed it aside and drawled, “I have no doubt you’d start a riot if you did.”

No reaction. Had the Cauldron— Cassian stepped in Nesta’s path when she tried to walk past him. Put a tan, callused hand on her forehead. She shook off the touch, but he gripped her wrist, forcing her to meet his stare. “Any one of those human pricks makes a move to hurt you,” he breathed, “and you kill them.”

The beautiful thing I love about Cassian is that he loves her wholly and without concern of her abilities, her walls.

“Would you be frightened of her, if Nesta was—Death? Or if her power came from it?” Cassian was quiet for a long moment.

He said at last, “I’m a warrior. I’ve walked beside Death my entire life. I would be more afraid for her, to have that power. But not afraid of her.” He considered, and added after a heartbeat, “Nothing about Nesta could frighten me.”

I swallowed, and squeezed his hand. “Thank you.”

These idiots are both as stubborn and silly as each other, “oh you didn’t say anythign to me!” “well neither did you” honestly, these donuts will be the death of me but I love them anyways.

“And you didn’t say one gods-damned word to me the entire night.

Not that he’d said a word to her. She’d made it clear enough in those initial days after that last battle that she wanted nothing to do with him. With any of them.

He understood. He really did. It had taken him months—years—after his first battles to readjust. To cope. Hell, he was still reeling from what had happened in that final battle with Hybern, too.”

But again he acknowledges her pain, her inability to cope and return to normal after her trauma. Which I dive in to a lot more in my Nesta post, but in short my frustration lies with him saying he understands but then in moments she is suffering he seems to forget occasionally and snap.

Funny/Little moments

“I’d asked what, exactly, Nesta had said to him to get under his skin so easily. But Cassian had only snarled and told me to mind my own business, and that my family was full of bossy, know-it-all females.”

“What’s wrong?” “Nothing.” He stalked past me to the ring. “Is it Nesta?” “Not everything in my life is about your sister, you know.”

“Why should I be scared of an oversized bat who likes to throw temper tantrums?”

“Neither of us missed Cassian’s barked, filthy curse, though we didn’t deign to comment. Cassian was a general—the general of the Night Court. Surely Nesta wasn’t anything he couldn’t handle.”

“Ready for some flying, Nes?” “Don’t call me that.” The wrong thing to say, from the way Cassian’s eyes lit up.”

“Nesta in a pale gray gown that brought out the steel in her eyes, Elain in dusty pink. Both males went a bit still. But Azriel sketched a bow—while Cassian stalked for the dining table, reached right over Nesta’s shoulder, and grabbed a muffin from its little basket. “Morning, Nesta,” he said around a mouth of blueberry-lemon. “Elain.”

“Cassian took a step away, but looked back at Nesta. Her face was hard as granite. He opened his mouth, but seemed to decide against whatever he was about to say.”

“He knew about the drinking, about the males. He told himself he didn’t care. He told himself he didn’t want to know who the bastard was who had taken her maidenhead. Told himself he didn’t want to know if the males meant anything—if he meant anything.”

Ownership

“His eyes widened, but the scent of his fear remained—not at her, but at who he’d heard at the front door. As he remembered who she was, both in the court, and to Cassian. She chucked his white shirt to him. “You can use the front door now.”

I think this is a big rub for Nesta, this feeling of ownership. I truly belive she knows and has felt the bond for a little while, for sure after ACOWAR. As we saw with her reaction to Lucien “claiming” Elain as his mate she is not here for this sense of entitlement fae males have.

It doesn’t further help when those around her and in Velaris all treat her as if she is his now. And she is most certainly not.

“Starting with the first male she’d taken here, who had no idea that her maidenhead was intact until he’d spied the speckled blood on the sheets. His face had gone white with terror—pure, ghastly white. Not for fear of Feyre and Rhysand’s wrath. But the wrath of that insufferable Illyrian brute.”

Is this Cassian’s fault? NO. But it probably will not help the situation for her.

“Yet as far as anyone was now concerned, the events of that last battle had bound them. Her and Cassian.”

Promises & Mistakes

“Cassian shook his dark hair out of his eyes, slightly longer than the last time I’d seen it. “I don’t think Nesta will ever forgive me for what happened in Hybern. To her—but mostly to Elain.”

“Your wings were shredded. You were barely alive.”

For that was guilt—ravaging and poisonous—in each of Cassian’s words. What the others had been fighting against in the loft. “You were in no position to save anyone.”“I made her a promise.” The wind ruffled Cassian’s hair as he squinted at the sky. “And when it mattered, I didn’t keep it.”

It is so sad that he feels that way when it clearly was far beyond his control, but I am glad that Nesta doesn’t really hold it against him and when it comes to it later on she trusts him yet again to protect her.

“It goes both ways,” Nesta murmured, as if my mate’s words moments before had triggered the idea. “He doesn’t know how much I took. And if … if I make it seem like I’m about to use his power … He’ll come running. Just to kill me.”

“He will kill you,” Cassian snarled. Her hand clenched on his arm. “That’s—that’s where you come in.”

noooow for the scene we probably all equally cringe over...

“Stop following me. Stop trying to haul me into your happy little circle. Stop doing all of it.”

He knew a wounded animal when he saw one. Knew the teeth they could bare, the viciousness they displayed. But it couldn’t keep him from saying, “Your sisters love you. I can’t for the life of me understand why, but they do. If you can’t be bothered to try for my happy little circle’s sake, then at least try for them.”

A void seemed to enter those eyes. An endless, depthless void.

Other than simply being hurt and frustrated I cannot for the life of me understand why he would say that of all things, it is such a hurtful but also random thing to say especially since he seemed to find plenty to like about her prior.

But again they are both akin to make mistakes, saying things they shouldn’t, Nesta certainly cannot complain as she can be very bad for it.

ICONIC.

“Nesta surged to her feet, staggering across the clearing, blood at her mouth from where he’d hit her, and threw herself to her knees before Cassian. “Get up,” she sobbed, hauling at his shoulder. “Get up.” He tried—and failed. “You’re too heavy,” she pleaded, but still tried to raise him, fingers scrabbling in his black, bloodied armor. “I can’t—he’s coming—” “Go,” Cassian groaned. Cassian grunted in pain, but lifted his bloodied hands—to cup her face. “I have no regrets in my life, but this.” His voice shook with every word. “That we did not have time. That I did not have time with you, Nesta.” She didn’t stop him as he leaned up and kissed her—lightly. As much as he could[…]”

“And even the Cauldron seemed to pause in surprise—surprise or some … feeling as Nesta looked at the king with death twining around his hands, then down at Cassian. And covered Cassian’s body with her own. Cassian went still—then his hand slid over her back. Together. They’d go together.”

“Cassian was sizing up Nesta, a gleam in his eyes that I could only interpret as a warrior finding himself faced with a new, interesting opponent.

Then, Mother above, Nesta shifted her attention to Cassian, noticing that gleam—what it meant. She snarled softly, “What are you looking at?”

Cassian’s brows rose—little amusement to be found now. “Someone who let her youngest sister risk her life every day in the woods while she did nothing. Someone who let a fourteen-year-old child go out into that forest, so close to the wall.” My face began heating, and I opened my mouth. To say what, I didn’t know. “Your sister died—died to save my people. She is willing to do so again to protect you from war. So don’t expect me to sit here with my mouth shut while you sneer at her for a choice she did not get to make—and insult my people in the process.”

Nesta didn’t bat an eyelash as she studied the handsome features, the muscled torso. Then turned to me. Dismissing him entirely. Cassian’s face went almost feral. A wolf who had been circling a doe … only to find a mountain cat wearing its hide instead.”

Nesta

“Nesta is different from most people,” I explained. “She comes across as rigid and vicious, but I think it’s a wall. A shield—like the ones Rhys has in his mind.”

“Against what?”

“Feeling. I think Nesta feels everything—sees too much; sees and feels it all. And she burns with it. Keeping that wall up helps from being overwhelmed, from caring too greatly.”

And I think that is what makes one of the last things we hear from her in ACOFAS where she admits she isn’t feeling anything at all, a stark contrast from before the war. She is traumatised. Unfeeling,

“Until she drew her knees to her chest and stared into the dimness. Still the silence raged and echoed around her. Still she felt nothing.”

"Nesta struggles a lot with her mental health, with facing her past, with healing herself and learning to love herself and open herself up to other people." -Sarah J Maas

As for the next book I think it will be about both of them learning to heal, to grow, and face all the unspoken things between them. I personally cannot wait for both of them to do so, I love them both equally.

They are both flawed and complicated characters but that is precisely what I love about them.

As usual I say, I am always open to discussions and opinions, I love to chat but lets keep it calm and respectful. Everyones opinion is valid ♥️

[bytheangell]

Hey!! Can I request a Thomastair angst <3 feel free to ignore this if you want too!! But the fics you write always give me feels 💜💜

Progress Is a Process (Read on AO3)

Alastair hangs back with Thomas while Matthew and James walk ahead down the streets of London. While he’s doing his best to enjoy the time spent with Thomas, even if it is time on patrol, the fact that Matthew and James continue to glance back at them every five seconds with cautious, narrowed eyes, leaves Alastair feeling far from at ease.

“They hate me,” Alastair says quietly so the words don’t reach the other two down the narrow street they just turned into.

“They don’t,” Thomas insists. “They just don’t know you properly.”

It was Thomas’ suggestion that Alastair be put on more patrols with him and the other Merry Thieves, hoping through sheer exposure the others would come around to him. It isn’t going well.

It took long enough for Alastair to smooth things over with Thomas, someone who wanted to forgive him deep down. He isn’t sure the same will be possible with the others. Thomas’ friends don’t even know that the two of them have started dating - so far as they know Thomas just wants to be Alastair’s friend, and even that they barely tolerate. Alastair doesn’t want to cause any waves, he and Thomas only just began dating and if it came down to Thomas having to choose between the Merry Thieves or him, Alastair’s relatively confident he wouldn’t win.

But while Alastair certainly doesn’t want to put Thomas in an uncomfortable situation with his friends, he’d also really like to be holding Thomas’ hand right now, instead of just walking close enough that their arms occasionally brush.

Alastair gives a noncommittal noise and turns the conversation back to a book the two of them were reading through together, ignoring Matthew and James’ looks and focusing entirely on Thomas.

...perhaps too entirely on Thomas. He doesn’t hear the sounds of something following them until the shadow crossing over Thomas alerts him to the demon’s close proximity. Alastair spins, shouting, “Thomas, watch out!” with just enough time to turn and grab Thomas’ shoulders, pulling him to the side.

Alastair winces at the feeling of claws breaking through the clothing and skin down his right side, from just under his ribs down to his hip bone.

Ahead of them Matthew and James hear the shout and turn, only to be faced with four demons of their own, boxing the four Shadowhunters  in.

Thomas’ eyes drift down to where Alastair clutches at his side instinctively, but another demon leaves them no time for an iratze as they draw their weapons and begin to fight. There are eight demons total, Alastair notes after a quick assessment, and though they’re outnumbered two to one they seem to be doing alright… until Alastair hears the clattering noise of a dropped weapon - Thomas’ bolas. He turns in time to see Thomas fall beside it, unmoving. Fighting the panic he feels at the sight Alastair throws his spear from where he stands, piercing the demon that moves to descend on Thomas, dispatching it in a splattering of ichor. He moves as if possessed now, protecting Thomas and killing both of their share of the demons in order to sink down to his knees beside his fallen boyfriend.

Thomas is still breathing, and in fact, doesn’t appear to have any cuts at all. An unlucky blow must’ve knocked him out, perhaps? Before he can say any of this, Matthew is beside him, followed by James, both of whom crowd around Thomas and effectively box Alastair out.

“Let me help,” Alastair insists, stele out.

“Why start being useful now?” Matthew snaps, already moving to the other side of James so each of them can support one side of Thomas to carry him back. “Just go home, Carstairs.”

Alastair is tempted to follow, but he doesn’t want to cause a fight - more importantly, he doesn’t want to delay them leaving with Thomas and getting him help. Without another word he turns and leaves, planning to go home, heal himself up and change, and go back to check up on Thomas afterward.

Now that the rush of the battle is wearing off, however, Alastair can feel something’s wrong. The sudden pain in his stomach and rush of dizziness hit him at once, and it’s all he can do to change his course, spot a shadowy section of a small side street for cover, and fall back against the wall of a building, sliding down to the ground as unconsciousness takes him.

---

It takes him a few disoriented moments to place where he is when Thomas wakes up in the Infirmary at the Institute. Blinking slowly he tries to remember what happened to land him here - the patrol, talking with Alastair, and then-

Alastair. Thomas looks to the beds beside him, but they’re empty.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” Matthew’s voice sounds from the far side of the room.

“Where’s Alastair?” Thomas asks immediately.

“Not here,” Matthew says, sounding pleased about that fact as he makes his way over to Thomas’ bedside.

“He didn’t come back to get his wounds looked at?” Thomas frowns. He’s a little disappointed that Alastair wasn’t there for him, but at the very least he should be here for himself.

“What wounds?” Matthew sounds confused. “I told him we didn’t need three of us to carry you back and sent him home. Honestly, I don’t know why you’re so insistent on trying to befriend him, I-”

Just then Cordelia arrives in the doorway looking panicked. “Where’s Alastair?”

“Why is everyone asking me that tonight,” Matthew mutters. “I told him to sod off. I can promise all of you that if you’re ever looking for Alastair Carstairs you will not find him anywhere in my general vicinity, at least not willingly.”

The words would sting more if Thomas wasn’t distracted by his immediate panic, matching Cordelia’s. “He didn’t come home?” Thomas directs the question to Cordelia.

She shakes her head. “He was due back hours ago. I thought maybe he’d be here…”

“He was injured, during the patrol. He got hurt pushing me out of the way, I-” Thomas pauses to focus beyond the fear the strikes him, attempting to take a calming breath. It doesn’t help. “The demon that attacked us, it had claws, there might’ve been venom. Poison. If he never made it home…”

Alastair could be anywhere.

Alastair could be dead.

“We need to find him. I’ll go back home, get something of his to track, maybe-” Cordelia suggests, but stops as Thomas shakes his head.

“That’ll take too long,” he says. Though Thomas sounds hesitant, he only pauses for a moment before making up his mind.

Thomas reaches a hand down the front of his shirt, pulling up a necklace hidden under his clothes. At the bottom of the silver chain rests a ring with a recognizable C and the Carstairs sigil around the sides. It is, unmistakably, the Carstairs family ring. Alastair’s ring.

“Here,” Thomas says, holding it out. “Use this.”

Thomas catches the flicker of recognition in Matthew’s face before immediately looking away.

“Thomas…” Matthew starts, but Thomas doesn’t even have to stop him because Matthew stops on his own, at a loss for words over the revelation.

“Find him,” Thomas begs, knowing that he’s in no condition to try a tracking rune just then. “Please.”

Matthew nods, taking the ring out of Thomas’ outstretched hand. “I’ll get James. We’ll track better together.”

Thomas closes his eyes in the silence that fills the room once more, but knows he isn’t going to sleep again any time soon.

---

It’s an hour later that Matthew, James, and Cordelia return with an unconscious Alastair in tow. They remove the top layer of his clothing to reveal the blood-soaked fabric beneath and 4 angry cuts running down his side.

“He seemed fine when he left,” Matthew insists. “He didn’t say anything about being hurt, I swear it.”

“That’s because he’s a stubborn ass,” Thomas points out. “Who would want to make sure you take care of me first instead of wasting time fighting with him.”

Thomas rises from his bed, ignoring the way the pain in his head throbs from the sudden movement, and stands besides Alastair. It’s easy to see where Cordelia already marked two iratzes when they found him, and Thomas pulls out his stele to go over them again for good measure. Only then does Thomas drop his hand to the side to rest over Alastair’s cold, unmoving fingers.

“Dad is getting a salve for the wound and a potion to help with the demon toxin,” James says.

None of them make eye contact with Thomas so he can only hope they don’t see the shine of tears that threaten to fall for a moment before he gets control again.

“Thank you,” he says, turning back to them, but in such a way that his hand drifts behind him to remain over Alastair’s. “I know you’d just as soon leave him for dead, so...”

“We would never,” James insists.

“Especially not knowing he’s… uh... important to you,” Matthew says, sounding unsure of what he should be saying here. Thomas hasn’t actually said anything on the matter of him and Alastair yet, not that there’s much left to guess at now, but he doesn’t want to get into it with Matthew and the others just then.

“I’ll stay with him,” Thomas says instead, his tone making it clear that this isn’t a request. “We can talk later?” He adds to James and Matthew, knowing that he owes them some sort of explanation but hoping they’ll be willing to wait.

“Yeah, of course,” James says, and Matthew nods in agreement before they both turn and leave.

Thomas sinks into the chair next to Alastair’s bed, thinking of all the things he plans to say the moment Alastair wakes up. He’s relieved but also filled with regret, his mind full of every moment he and Alastair could’ve greeted one another with quick a kiss, or held hands, wondering if they hadn’t still been a secret if Alastair would’ve come back to the Institute rather than leave himself alone and vulnerable.

Wondering if taking so long to realize just how important Alastair is to him, even if their relationship is still relatively new, could’ve been the thing that lost him forever if Cordelia hadn’t come when she did.

He’s so deep in thought he doesn’t notice that Cordelia moves to take the chair opposite him until she speaks.

“I thought he’s been happier lately,” she says, handing Alastair’s ring and chain back to Thomas. “I was glad to see it, and even more pleased to find out the reason.”

Thomas doesn’t have to ask what she means - he only smiles as he puts the necklace back on, taking what comfort he can from the knowledge.

---

Alastair barely has the chance to blink once before he feels someone’s hand squeeze around his at this first sign of consciousness. His eyelids flutter open slowly to reveal what he already knows by the increasingly familiar touch - that Thomas is with him.

“Thank the Angel,” Thomas sighs next to him, and Alastair notes that he looks tired and wary, all the way down to his bones.

“Are you okay?” Alastair asks him.

Thomas pauses, then laughs incredulously.

“You pass out in an alley on your way home and you’re asking me if I’m okay?”

Alastair cringes at the memory, then at the pain in his side as he shifts to try and sit up in the bed.

“Careful,” Thomas warns, placing one hand on Alastair’s shoulder and the other behind his back to ease him down again. “Cordelia will return any minute and if she thinks I let you re-injure yourself she’ll kill me.”

Thomas gives Alastair a brief summary of what happened, including the fact that their relationship, while never officially declared, isn’t quite secret anymore either.

“I’m sorry they found out,” Alastair says at the end. “I know you didn’t-”

“No, I’m sorry, Alastair. I’m sorry I didn’t tell them sooner. I was a fool for trying to get them to like you more first. I don’t care if they like you. I like you, and that’s all that matters. Forgive me for not realizing that sooner?”

Alastair smiles. “I think I can manage that.”

Thomas smiles back, relief flooding through him as he leans over Alastair for a kiss. They’re both dimly aware of the sound of approaching footsteps and, as neither of them break the kiss, have both decided to embrace showing just how much they care about one another, no matter where they are and who is around to see.

They’re done hiding and they couldn’t care less about who the footsteps belonged to just then.

...that is, until the person clears their throat and speaks in the unmistakable voice of Mr. Herondale.

“I see both my patients are feeling better,” Will says, and Alastair can feel the grimace cross Thomas’ lips while they’re still pressed against his, just before Thomas pulls away with a slight flush on his cheeks.

“Much better,” Alastair confirms.

In fact, injury notwithstanding, this is the best he’s felt in a long time, and he has a pretty good reason to believe that things will only get better from here.

Alastair glances to his side and grins at Thomas, watching as that reason smiles back at him.

[symphonyofthewrite]

If These Walls Could Talk (Ch1)

Fandom: Castlevania Netflix

Summary: Vampires do not have reflections, and castles do not have hearts. But Dracula is no ordinary vampire, and Castlevania is no ordinary castle. If castles can fight, maybe they can think too.

The series, and Adrian’s childhood, told from the perspective of the castle.

Chapter Summary: “My mother’s name was Lisa, and she was mortal…She actually showed up at his front door. She found the castle and banged the door with the pommel of her knife…She was remarkable. She beat on the door until my father let her in, and then demanded he teach her how to be a doctor.”

Notes: 

This is a fic I’ve had up for a while, that people seem to really like!! Not sure why I took this long to post it over here XD I’ll post the next chapters I have over the next few days or so, but if you can’t wait they’re over on my fanfiction blog @antihero-writings, as well as in my fic masterlist over there!! (And technically in my masterlist here, but it's messed up right now XD)

I was writing a different Castlevania fic--(”Such Fragile Things”, if you’re curious)--when I started describing things as if from the castle’s perspective...and I thought that was a very interesting idea, so this happened. The idea was also inspired by Sypha’s “it’s fighting me!" I thought that was really interesting because she was speaking almost as if the castle were a living thing. I was originally planning on posting this as one long thing (and I may still do so after I finish), because the sections are very much connected and meant to flow into each other, and I think it’ll be easy to miss things if they’re separate. But I realized it would be easier, both for me to post, and for people to read, in bite size-pieces. Plus it has very clear-cut sections that are easy to split into chapters. So... here you go!!

If you enjoyed this, I’d really appreciate if you could leave me a comment and/or reblog!!

If you are a fan artist who is interested in making cover art for this fic PLEASE don’t hesitate to message me!! I have a very specific idea for cover art for the chapters but it would cost too much to commission so many pieces...So yeah, if you’re interested, I’d love it if you could reach out!!

Chapter 1: "Lisa"

“Is this how the castle felt to you before my mother first arrived at your door?”

The castle doesn’t like children.

Well, maybe that’s too strong to say. It simply isn’t the place for them. Its existence is a signpost: leave me alone. It is not used to having company—much less a family—inside it, nor is it ready to welcome for a crying, puking, giggling thing into the world. It does not intend to be a cozy place to coddle him into adulthood.

The castle itself pierces the sky, its turrets and towers the dripping stain of the sun’s blood across the moon.

The bare walls hold no colorful tapestries for a child to enjoy, no paintings of its many inhabitants to tell of—for there was only ever one (and maybe that ought not change. It is safe to say the castle doesn’t like change). The royal red and gold carpets are more suited to kings; not designed for spit-up, mud, and scuffing. ‘Don’t play with that’ would be a motto around here; so many contraptions either easy to break, or which could break the child. The fireplaces, while almost always lit, only ever coughed warmth onto the floor before them—they provided no snug space to curl up on a winter’s day. Even the mirrors here are empty, holding nothing but a reflection of the bare walls they sit upon.

There are certain people who were seemingly born as they are; they never owned toys, never crawled on the floor, never walked with clumsy steps—their footfalls were always this calculated count—never burped on their mother’s nice shirts, and surely never had anything so dull as a childhood. They were always just…here, on the world. There was no innocence, and no losing it. So it was with Dracula.

The very thought of Dracula ever owning toys, even in some nice cottage far away from here, with a doting mother and an absent father, with a funny last name like Cronqvist, defied sense to the castle. So no, no toys here, nor any simple charts for learning; the books divulged their secrets to more mature minds. Just blood and books, gold and gears, forgotten magic means, mirrors that reflect nothing, and a pile of prayers to a good God they used to justify their ungood, and ungodly deeds.

All these things—or their absence—do not make for the picture of a baby-proof home.

The castle has grown accustomed to being cold and dark, and listening to one master alone. It’s not a quaint place lovers look on and think we’ll raise our kids here someday.

Its master isn’t the ideal father either—after all, the castle only reflected its king. Its master knows only of blood and nails, fangs and wails, words too big for a child’s mouth, and worlds too dark for a child’s heart.

Can he be soft? Can he be gentle? Can he keep those claws, which have ripped out better men’s hearts, from piercing a child’s—his child’s…how could one who killed so many have a child?—skin? He knows many spells, but is there one that can turn those screams into laughter?

He has been soft before. Once. And that is with this woman.

Many women have walked the castle’s halls: shivering, shrieking damsels at his feet; cold and calculating queens; fragile bodies on the floor, that he broke with the same regard a child does a vase that matters to someone else.

Those ordinary people who do come often have pitchforks in their mouths, and fiery words in their closed fists. Curses stacked on the end of stakes, banging like the castle is the church bell signifying their own funerals.

It is for this reason that the castle does not like outsiders, does not open its doors easily. But it cannot deny anyone entry. Unlike the humans’ doors, which find his master guilty until proven innocent.

They always came at night. At night, when the loudest sound is your own breathing. At night, when their fires echoed loudest, and their shouts burned brightest.

They came when the flowers were closed, when only the most eerie and vicious of animals played with the skins of their prey, and the moon waxed the world in cold, drunk shine. The sun could not watch them, could not show their blood-struck hands in their full glory.

She came at sunset. When the sun still glazed her deeds in sanguine auburn, but was just deciding to turn its gaze and let the kids have their fun. Not quite day, when the sun would kill things like Dracula, but not quite night, when the hours are named after witches, and lust is strongest—be it for the body, or the blood within it. Somewhere in between death and life, violence and peace.

This woman came with a knife in her hand, yes. But a knife, at least, was not a sword. It was not a pitchfork, a spear, a whip, or a stake; all weapons that signify, if the fight wasn’t there, you were bringing it with you. Not a war-starved weapon, pointing with mal-in—and -con—tent towards the castle doors and all the things inside it. Not a thirsty thing. Something that by default faced the other direction. Something that can start a fight if it wants to, but doesn’t crave it.

The golden woman came at sunset, with a knife in her hand, and looked upon this thing, this castle that others called ‘ugly’, and ‘monstrous,’ and ‘grotesque,’ looked upon it with awe, and gasped in wonder.

She knocked. She didn’t bang her fists upon the stone, didn’t ram pitchforks and assorted insults against the innocent doors, like how-dare-they protect their master.

She knocked, and the doors opened before she could raise her fist a second time. Maybe, just this once, not because they didn’t have any other choice.

The doors—foreboding, menacing, and all the other spooky -ings one can think of—opened to a world strewn in light; the demon’s castle looked brighter, more beautiful, more alive, than half the churches she’d been to.

Her footsteps were gentle against the castle’s floors. Not a slow, forced gentleness, but also not a piercing, purposeful march. There was no apprehension to her footsteps; her feet carried her as if anxious to take her to as many rooms as they could.

At first her steps were the only sound, enough to fool some into thinking they’re alone.

And it became clear both that she was not alone, and not a fool.

But when she saw the demon, she put the knife away, and used her words.

She used her words to repeat those she herself had heard: stories. But not the kind that make monstrous men run at the doors with naughts and crosses, the kind pious people buried along with all evidence that the world wasn’t made of black and white.

Not all the stories told that this place was cold and dark and full of death.

Amongst all the stories about death, there were others that said Vlad Tepes brought this castle to life with science, forbidden knowledge, and a little bit of lightning. Stories that say there is life here.

And, in exchange for proof that these life-stories true, Dracula asked for a trade, a trade that would prove the other stories true too. He gave up the killing a while ago—(the castle has been in one place a very long time)—but he was still not used to giving for free, and definitely not used to getting for free. Vampires trade in blood and names, not diamonds and declarations. Vampires trade in things they can swallow. This castle, too, had been a gaping hole set to swallow the world and everything that entered. Never once had it given.

And she dared to say, that this place, its master, should learn to give, when the humans have done nothing but take from them—or try their best to. He ought to be the one to invite her in, to ask what she would like, to dispense pleasant words and kind actions, when the humans forgot they invented hospitality, and showed no invitation for him to even enter their homes.

But she didn’t come with a mouth full of garlic, and hands full of superstition. Her feet did not drill holes in the floor with their sharp toll, they wandered the scenic route.

She was used to being cheated. Dracula and his castle were too. But that was not why she was there. She was not there for cheap tricks, or death. She wanted something real. A little bit of the life the castle has to offer.

Her defiance wasn’t that of a terrified citizen, or angry queen, either; rather the calm resolve of someone who is asking for something they know in their heart is good, and knows they will get it. The kind of person who believes there is good in everyone, and that this good will ultimately always win, and who won’t leave until they convince this good to show its face.

The castle has watched countless men and women cower at foot of count Dracula. Some, do have a measure of god-sanctioned defiance; they come with whips and scourges to defeat him. The castle and the king are bound together in their resolve against them.

Except one. Except this woman. One human whom both master and castle found themselves reluctant to deny, cast away, or kill, maybe even…taken with.

She may be human, but she was not like the rest; she did not light the night on fire with her thirst for blood.

So maybe, just maybe, they could let one ray of sunlight slip through the cracks.

She was also not devoid of life, and maybe that was the key.

‘Devoid of life’ was an accurate portrayal of the castle. Bats flying out of blackness is a good description of a cave, and caves don’t usually come with the brochure ‘teeming with life’, or ‘great place to take your kids!’. The castle had a soul-sucking quality to it; those who entered often found themselves leaving less alive than they arrived. It took after its vampire master. Those who didn’t actually lose their lives within its walls, often remarked upon leaving that the flowers bloomed brighter, the birds sang louder, the grass was greener, and that they missed the sunlight.

Sunlight. Such a base thing; vampires don’t need the light or warmth to be happy.

Sunlight. Such a base way to die; wanting to get out of the cold and the dark.

“Is this how the castle felt to you before my mother first arrived at your door?”

Castlevania was alive once. Once Dracula set the pumps, and its heart began to beat. He turned the gears, and its lungs inhaled. He forged the lightning, and it began to think. Once the books, full of unknown knowledge, jumped off the shelves to get the vampire king’s attention. He filled the bottles and beakers, and they bubbled, as if laughing at a joke only they shared.

They were both alive, once.

That waned, with time. The gears got arthritis, the books caught pneumonia, the experiments atrophied. The castle ached before she came.

And Dracula, alone in the halls, picking up books and putting them down again without so much as a polite glance through them, because he read them all before. Dracula looking into fractured mirrors that could take him anywhere, but deciding there wasn’t anywhere he wanted to go. Dracula, looking into old mirrors that don’t reflect him—like there was never anything to reflect, nothing alive here to begin with, and there isn’t a master for this castle after all. Nothing but a grave. Dracula sitting alone in his study, staring into the fire. No one to talk to. No sound but flipping pages and crackling fires—nothing alive. Alive but dead. This castle. Its master. Undead is the proper term.

The other women who came through here reflected the castle, or else the castle took the life out of them the moment they entered. Queens with malice-stained past, and cracked, icy future in their eyes. Just as cold as the walls. Subjects, humans throwing gruesome insults, silky flattery, or fluttering pleas at his feet. Just as empty as the mirrors.

Only one refused the castle’s bite. Only one walked in looking for life, rather than death. Looking for a thing no one thought existed here. Already presumed dead. Put six feet beneath the ground. But maybe it was here all along; maybe the light hid in the castle’s corners while the dark came out to play, and she just had to coax it out of its hiding places. Maybe the bell was ringing all this time, she was the only one who came close enough to hear it; the only one who came to put flowers on the grave.

Maybe when she felt the machinery pumping she knew the rhythm was a heartbeat. Maybe when she heard the gears clanking she knew it was the sound of inhaling and exhaling. Maybe when she saw the lightning, she wondered what it was thinking. Maybe she looked at these books, these instruments, and saw what the vampire king saw once; something alive. They weren’t dead yet—un- or otherwise. Just sick, and in need of proper treatment. She was a doctor after all. Maybe her first subject was the very books she learned from.

Lisa, who looked at this blotch on the sky, with Death in its towers, and darkness splattered on its walls, and thought that’s where I’ll learn to heal people. Lisa, who gaped in amazement at the beast of a building. Lisa, who didn’t shudder upon entering. Lisa, who didn’t scream when its master touched her, but turned to him with calm resolve, and told him she’d teach him to be more human. Lisa, who’s life eclipsed the undeath in this place.

And there was a trade that occurred that day. For Dracula’s immortal knowledge, Lisa would teach him how to live a mortal life. To travel the world as a man, to walks as a man, to eat and drink, laugh and cry, as a man. Immortality for mortality. They gave each other the world, as so many lovers promise to do. Vlad would make her immortal, and Lisa would make him mortal, with no exchange blood.

(Except to create a thing with both their blood running through it.)

So maybe, after all this talk of life, it is fitting that she wants to create life inside this castle.

Fitting, maybe. Fitting for her. But the castle is not mortal yet, and wishes it could protest that it isn’t the right size, refuse to try on the idea.

Dracula is apprehensive as well, for the castle and he are used to each other, they take after each other, because the cold, and the dark, and the death, and the alone does something to you after a while; you start talking to the walls. After the cold queens and quaking colleens leave, or leave their bloodstains the floor. After the beasts and their silver-stained bullets turn back into righteous men in the sun. After he simply outlives everyone else. When all the living things hate, fear, or else betray you, when all the living things can die, and you, who are undead, cannot, it’s the lifeless things that stand firm by your side. When the day ends and the shadows come out to play, when you’re the only one left, in the end you still have the walls. And then…the walls are all you have. And if you talk to them long enough you make a sort of pact, spoken or silent, with those speechless stones: ‘you’re the only one I can trust.’

Dracula speaks to them one day, says he wonders if he can do this, be a father at all, not to mention a good one. The castle cannot reply. But something deep inside the walls wonders if it might be nice to hear Dracula laugh. It might be nice to put on some different clothes. It might be nice for someone new to listen to from time to time. It might be nice to live again.

The castle is concerned. Used to doing things one way, being one way, and only hearing one voice. But that doesn’t mean it is unwilling, that it intends to kill the child.

It never kills anything—Dracula does that. It cannot do anything on its own, and that includes change.

The castle doesn’t like change.

…But that doesn’t mean it won’t.

And if its going to change, its master must change first. They must change together.

Vampires do not have reflections. But Dracula has a castle, and that castle will be damned if it isn’t his mirror.

Reflections are simple to change; put on some makeup, some war paint, a new change of clothes, get a piercing somewhere. Simple, yes, but not easy, to change completely, because that doesn’t mean anything’s changed inside.

The castle did not come equipped for child-rearing; there are no rooms full of toys and cradles and school supplies.

So if this is to be, they must build their son’s world themselves.

Together they set aside a room for the child’s arrival. Just one, single room. And the castle too knows, from the start, this room will be different from all the rest. They will put paintings on the walls, and banners in the halls; things to interest him, to tell him of his parents, at least, even if there are few other relatives to spend Christmas with. The carpets will be darker, instead of the stringent red, and they will make their words smaller, the books easier to understand. The rest of the castle is warm in color, but cool in atmosphere. This room will be cool in color, but warm in atmosphere. The fire will always be set in its place, and they will try their best to make sure the warmth reaches him; if the fire fails, they will knit blankets; if the blankets fail they will make him tea, or warm milk with honey; and when everything else fails they will hold him. If there are tears here, scornful stares will not greet them, instead, kisses and lullabies will be behind door number three. If this room lives, it will be because of something much softer than pounding metal and lighting.

If a child is to live here, they must change that reflection. Everything Dracula’s castle appears to be, this room will be the reverse. Separate. Something… other than the castle.

This room will bottle all the laughter had in this castle. This room will be made of and for living, not the death the rest of the place is steeped in. So much so that this room will not stand for bloodshed.

Lisa brings in supplies from her town; color and cloth, boards and brushes, needle, and thread, and paper; all the things one needs to build a universe.

It is Dracula who takes the paint, who changes the color to something other than the blacks and reds of the rest of the Vampire’s world, cementing on the walls themselves You will not be dark here, my castle. You will be kind to him, Castlevania. The castle doesn’t know its master to work with his hands like a human, but Vlad is not the same within this room either—this room is part of the trade. He doesn’t use magic, or science, as if he is telling himself with every hammer that they are going to change together, the way one does when talking to the mirror.

Lisa sits in a chair and stiches together cloth and fur to make little creatures, toys for the boy to play with. Soft things, not sharp. They are reflections too, littler, simpler ones, of the creatures howling and prowling outside the castle’s walls, or scurrying within them.

But it is the ceiling that is the crowning jewel of the room. Something they paint together—splashing it onto each other’s clothes and noses.

His parents love the stars. They often walk outside the castle walls, fingers knit into each other’s, to gaze at them. They are scholars at soul, and have charted the constellations. They want their child to be able to do the same, to watch the stars, even if he’s not outside. At the end of every day they want him to be sung to sleep by the symphony of the night.

For them, maybe, but to the castle, one of the most interesting things about this room, is the mirror. This is strange, as, while there are other mirrors in this house, they are nothing more than a silver decoration; they have no purpose here, unless they float in shards and possibility. This is an ordinary mirror. It does hold something now, however, and that’s Lisa—only giving more credence to the idea that she is the only living thing in this castle. The castle wonders if they think it will reflect the child, as if they are hoping he will take after his mother and the room.

The mirror, and the windows. In the rest of the castle, the windows are always closed, curtained, or too small to let any real light in. But here they are big, and inviting to all the wiles of the day. Dracula protested—fearing he would burn. Lisa insisted—hoping he would shine.

The mirror, the room, are empty now. The windows closed. The books and charts dormant as the rest. It is not dead, but it’s not alive either. Not even undead. Just a question. An almost.

The room lays on Frankenstein’s table; just one lightning strike—(or one child’s laugh)—away from breathing.

[thatsparrow]

(read on ao3)

Lapin wakes up in shadow, beaten and broken badly enough that the air is heavy with the sugar-rich smell of his own blood.

In sweetness—, he thinks. But where is my strength now?

His senses return to him slowly, but when they do, the picture they paint is an un-pretty one: a six-by-eight foot cell of hewn stone, matching sets of cinched iron manacles running between his wrists and ankles to bolts in the wall, the feeling of sticky, half-dried chocolate across an aching stretch of his abdomen. His staff is missing, as are his Primogen robes, but there is a small huddle of pink-and-red peppermint near his feet, something with twitching ears and a curlicue tail and sharp button-black eyes.

"So we're alive, then," Lapin says, gingerly lifting himself into a sitting position while the pig—Priscilla? Praline? No, Preston—shuffles forward and nudges at his hand with a soft, damp nose. "Perhaps the Bulb is capable of kindness after all."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that, apostate." Walking up on the other side of the bars is the young Commander Grissini, flanked by two fellow Ceresian guards. He looks battle-weary and bloodstained—though, notably, not with his own; blackberry jam, if Lapin had to guess, judging by the smell of sugared fruit. (Heaven knows he'd never respected them, but Lapin will certainly credit the Tartguard for that particular moment of loyalty.)

"Just a joke, Commander." Lapin's mouth narrows in a tight smile. "I know well that the Bulb has no capacity for kindness or mercy. Has your Pontifex told you that, I wonder? Do you know you serve a hollow god?"

"Silence, heretic," one of the guards hisses. "Keep your false words behind your teeth unless you'd like me to cut them from your tongue."

Lapin lets his smile widen but remains quiet; there's surely pain enough in store for him without inviting more of it himself.

"Easy," Grissini says to the guard. "The Pontifex warned us of the lies he would tell. A rabid dog barks loudest when it feels the chain tightening around its neck."

Lapin exhales—not quite a laugh, but not entirely humorless either. A rabid dog. Well, he's been called worse.

"Something funny, apostate?" A line creases Grissini's brow. "I can't imagine what you might find amusing about your situation."

Notting particularly, but Lapin is hardly about to give them the satisfaction of seeing the knotted weight of his concern instead. He'll two-step so long as he has the illusion of stable footing, however rotted and fragile the foundations might really be.

"Tell me," he says after a moment, "Sir Keradin, in the cathedral—he killed me, did he not?"

"He did."

"And yet given that I am here, alive, I must have been revivified, yes?"

"Obviously," Grissini says with a note of impatience.

Interesting, Lapin thinks. And likely inauspicious. He glances between Grissini and the two guards at his side, then lets his eyes alight on the man at Grissini's left, the one who'd threatened to cut out his tongue. He considers the man, makes a thoughtful noise in the back of his throat. "Would you like to know what I saw in the afterlife?" Lapin says to him. "Would you like to know the true form of your Bulb? How many can say they've been blessed enough to behold it themselves?"

The guard looks between him and Grissini, the sharp, irate lines of his expression bent a little by uncertainty. Then to Lapin, voice notably less assured than before, "I would never be so foolish as to trust your falsehoods."

"Understandable," Lapin muses. "But how can you be sure that I'd lie? Even for a man with such conviction in his faith, aren't you the slightest bit curious of what I have to say?" Lapin raises an eyebrow.

The guard hesitates for a moment. Lapin gestures for him to move closer. Slowly, his face warring between anger and doubt, he crouches down to where Lapin sits.

"Ennio—" Grissini says, warning. Lapin leans towards the bars, lowers his voice for Ennio's ears alone.

"It was luminescent and shining," Lapin whispers. "The most beautiful thing for miles, brighter than any that had come before or would follow. To walk closer demands that you shield your eyes, lest your vision be burned away as punishment for your hubris. But I did approach, and I felt its light and its heat and its power, and then I opened my eyes—just for a moment—and do you know what I saw?"

Ennio tilts his head closer, eyes shut, his forehead pressed against the iron as he listens.

"—Nothing." Ennio recoils as if scalded, mouth twisted in a snarl. Lapin raises his voice as he continues, grinning wide. "All that beauty and all that brightness and nothing beneath it!" He feels fingers at his throat as Ennio's hand shoots through the bars, fisting around his collar and yanking him forward. Sharp, bruising pain blooms across his face as he slams into the metal, splitting his lip and the skin above his eye, snapping something in his nose, reopening a healed-over wound on his temple. Lapin can taste chocolate on his teeth and laughs, loud and reckless. "Congratulations, for your faith is akin to a man praying for salvation at the foot of a fucking boulder—"

"Enough!" Grissini shouts as Ennio starts to move again, shouldering him back from the bars, one hand closing around Ennio's wrist until he gives up his hold on Lapin's collar. Lapin falls back against the wall, still smiling as something begins to swell above his eye, blood pooling along his upper lip and against his gums. Grissini shoves Ennio back against the far wall, forearm up under his chin, and says, "Leave—" he jerks his head at the other guard, "—both of you, until you can learn some composure."

Grissini holds himself in front of Ennio until he relents, then gives a curt nod as he straightens his uniform, adjusts the grip on his spear, and turns to walk back down the hall with his compatriot. Before he goes, he spits on the ground in front of Lapin's cell, muttering something that sounds like filthy fucking heretic.

"Have you always been such a fool?" Grissini asks once they've gone. "Or does being in Comida bring it out in you?"

"I can see very few bright spots from my current vantage, Commander," Lapin says, wiping some of the blood from his nose, his temple, his eyebrow. His smile fades. "Forgive me for having enjoying a moment of levity when the opportunity appeared."

"Your situation can always be made worse." Grissini leans on his spear; it at least seems clean of dried jam or crumbs of shortbread crust. Then again, how much difference does it make that he didn't do any of the killing himself? "I say that not as a threat, but as a reminder. You are only alive because it suits the will of the Pontifex. So long as she believes you are useful, she will take whatever steps necessary to wring out your remaining value."

"If that bloated broccoli bitch thinks I'm helping with anything, then I look forward to enlightening her."

"Bulb above, wake up!" Grissini snaps. "Are you truly so oblivious to the nature of your situation that you need me to spell it out for you? There is no future in which you live to see the outside of this prison. While you are here, the Pontifex will make use of the wide scope of her imagination and the tools at Sir Keradin's disposal until you surrender any and all information you have about House Rocks, your fellow Candians and their political intentions, and the source of your witchcraft." Grissini pauses; Lapin is as weary as he's ever been, his eye nearly swollen closed from the bruising blow of the bars, but he could almost mistake the expression on Grissini's face for something akin to shame. "Undoubtedly the process will be both slow and painful. Once it's done, should you have proved to be compliant and your intelligence reliable, she may be merciful enough to allow you a quick death." He blinks, eyes shifting away from Lapin's stare before meeting it again. "Far likelier, though, that she devises some new punishment to fill your final days, simply for the inconvenience you've caused her thus far."

"You don't seem particularly pleased at that prospect, Commander," Lapin ventures, watching the slight shifts in Grissini's face. "Won't you also be excited to watch the 'false prophet' burn?"

Grissini holds himself carefully still. "I have tremendous respect for the Concorde, for the duties of my station, and for the oaths I have taken to Ceresia and the Emperor," he says after a moment. "That does not mean I take any satisfaction in the outcome awaiting you. From what I witnessed on the Sucrosi Road and in the tournament, as well as in the cathedral, you and your fellow Candians seem a group worth admiring." He exhales, slow. "I am—truly sorry that this is the future we find ourselves in."

"Sorry enough to help me attempt an escape?" Grissini maintains his steady, statue-faced look, and Lapin smiles a little ruefully. "No, I didn't think so. I thank you for your insights, Commander, and for your kind words—however hollow they might be." Grissini winces a little; a cheap barb, but at this particular point, Lapin won't deny himself such pettiness. "Was there anything else? If not, I would ask you to let me enjoy whatever remaining peace and quiet I am permitted."

Grissini works at his jaw, brow still creased. "Save your breath on spellcasting; the cell has been enchanted by the Pontifex herself to prevent any witchcraft. I believe your first—interrogation is scheduled for tomorrow morning, so you should still have some hours to rest." He turns to go, then pauses. "For what it's worth, they haven't been found yet—your king and the princesses, nor Sir Theobald or the Jawbreaker boy. If they've managed to escape Comida, there may still be some hope for them."

And then he's gone.

In the dim light of the cell, Lapin lets out a deep sigh, allowing his face to bear all the weight of the bone-deep exhaustion he's felt since waking; he has no way of seeing his reflection, but he wouldn't be surprised to see new wrinkles dug in around his eyes and bridging his forehead. Heavens, he's so tired. Next to him, Preston makes a soft whuffing noise and clambers half into his lap, circling a few times before settling in a tight peppermint curl, his snout pressed into the crook of Lapin's left elbow.

"Alright, but just this once," Lapin says, petting absently at the soft, peach-fuzz stretch of skin between Preston's ears. "And only because this will stay with us." He scratches under Preston's chin, then notices a clump of something sticky dried into the short bristles of Preston's fur, minty-smelling blood congealed around scarred-over skin, ragged wounds that match the barbed edges of Keradin's mace.

"What a bastard." His hands are gentle around the pale pink stretches of new skin. "Who goes after a pig." He murmurs the incantation for a healing spell—both for poor Preston and himself—but true to Grissini's word, nothing happens. Unfortunate; in addition to Preston's wounds, he can feel at least two cracked ribs in his own chest.

"I should give the Pontifex more credit for her counter-charms," Lapin says after a moment. "That, or you've cut your losses and found a new attendant." He smiles wryly. "Likely one who can serve your interests more effectively than from a cell."

He waits, but there's no answer. Were he a hopeful man, he might attribute the silence to the Pontifex's wards, shielding any divine influence from entering the cell as effectively as they've dampened his own spellcasting ability. Far likelier though that he's been abandoned to his fate.

"I suppose it's just you and I now, Preston." He glances down and takes some small comfort in the continued rise-and-fall of Preston's chest. "For the moment, at least. Admittedly, this isn't how I'd envisioned the end of my particular story, but the dice fall where they may. Heaven knows there are worse companions I might have found myself with."

Preston lets out another contented whuff and resettles himself, eyes gently closed.

"I think you have the right idea there," Lapin says, resting his head on the wall behind him, doing his best to ignore the slight crag of stone jutting into his lower back. "If Commander Grissini is to be trusted—and, in this case, I believe he is—then such moments of peace will be few and far between in the days to come."  

Whuff, whuff.

"Yes, I'm glad to hear they're alright, too, though I'd place little faith in our paths crossing again. My apologies—I know I'm not the companion that young Liam was."

Whuff. Whuff, whuff.

"Very well, I shall endeavor to sleep. Perhaps we'll wake in the morning to find a kinder world."

Whuff.

"No, I don't think so either."

As Lapin closes his eyes and counts the measure of his breathing, he works very hard to rein his wayward thoughts back from dark visions of tomorrow, of windowless rooms and tables with built-in restraints and long trays of metal-mouthed implements. Focuses instead on remembering his study in Castle Candy, flickering firelight against the bound spines of his books, sugar-spun windows opening up to a view of the grounds below, the purple-tipped peaks of the Great Stone Candy Mountains to the north.

Breathe.

A forest of ice cream-frosted evergreens instead of Sir Keradin's blade digging for secrets under his skin. Spring afternoons by the banks of the Cola instead of the sickly yellow light of the Pontifex's magic. Powdered motes of pastel dust in the castle library instead of hands tightening around his throat or firebrands pressed against his feet. Home instead of a cell. Safety instead of this aching pit in his stomach.

Breathe, Lapin. It is all you can do for the moment.

When he finally drifts off, the sleep he finds is a fitful one, punctuated by uneasy, sharp-edged dreams. Slowly, though, his mind drifts towards calmer waters, the soothing rhythm of a lazy current, true rest for his worn-down mind. At one point, Preston shifts in his lap, still half-asleep, nosing the air around them curiously. Almost as if he'd caught the faint smell of sugar plums.

[soheila-1996]

My story- part two

Hi! Thank you all so much for all the lovely comments and support I got on the first part! It made me wanna write a second! 

My little disclaimer: 

I have epilepsy. This details my seizures, I can’t speak for everyone, everyone’s seizures/ experiences are different. This is graphic. Seizures are messy. They aren’t fun and it felt wrong to make it out to be cute when they really aren’t.   Pretty much all the things that happen in the plot have happened to me. Well, I’m not married to a king or live in a palace so…there’s that but everything else is accurate.  There may be some jokes about it here because I do joke about it sometimes. It makes me more comfortable and I find it helps relax everyone around me. I’m also writing about it because there really aren’t that many fics written about it and I think it’s important to shine light on it.

Any feedback would be really appreciated! :)

Tagging people who shared the first part. You don’t have to read it! I just thought you might want to see what happens: @kacie-0156, @texaskitten30, @cordonianroyalty, @kingliam2019, @bebepac, @kingliam-rys, @cordonia-gothqueen, @kimmiedoo5, @bbrandy2002, @loveellamae, @bobasheebaby

This is also part of wacky drabbles hosted by @emceesynonymroll. The prompt this week is: #38: Please don’t leave. 

Paring: Liam and Riley

Warnings:  Blood, hospital setting. 

Word count: 5261 

(Riley’s POV) 

I woke up the next morning sore. Everywhere was achy. My tongue felt like it had been speared, I hadn't really noticed it the night before. I was so tired and still a little ‘seizure drunk’ that I hadn't realised. 

I’m in my bed but I can’t remember coming to bed the night before. The last thing I remember is coming back to the apartment and explaining to everyone about my epilepsy then we decided to put a movie on- I must have fallen asleep and Liam probably had carried me to bed.

I really don’t deserve him.

I turned over to be met with empty cold sheets. His side of the bed was unmade so he had slept here but he was nowhere in sight. He was probably still mad. I don’t blame him. I'd be a little pissed had I just found out he had a serious medical condition that he never told me about. 

I hate talking about it. I don't understand why though. It’s not something I can control or should be ashamed of but in a way I am. I’ve always longed to be normal and before last night everyone thought that I was and I, if i'm being honest, loved it. I revelled in being like everyone else for once. 

I turned back onto my  back, throwing my head back against the pillow as I let out a drawn out sigh. I feel like I’ve messed everything up. It’s like I’m back when I messed everything up with Tom, my ex, he found out about my epilepsy and left. I had a seizure in front of Ben, another ex, my high school crush, and like Tom, he left after saying some pretty disgusting things to me. I know that my seizures aren't pretty, I know they're scary but I have no control over them. If I had it my way I wouldn't have them. 

Jacob- my last boyfriend before Liam, he wasnt as ignorant as the last two. He tried to be there for me like a normal boyfriend but he just couldn't seem to let it go. He was constantly on edge that I'd have a fit. Eventually, it got too much for the both of us and so our relationship came to an end. Now, I’m scared of what’s going to happen with Liam. I don't want to lose him. I love him more than I've ever loved anyone. 

I’m just hoping we can find a way to move forward. Together. 

A few minutes went by before I decided to throw the comforter off of me and get out of the bed. I winced slightly as I stood. I had forgotten how much my muscles always ache after a seizure. It’s horrible. All of it is horrible. 

I opened the bedroom door after taking down my robe off the back then padded toward the kitchen. I lingered outside of the half-closed door when I heard Liam’s voice coming from inside.

“...That’s not the point Drake. The point is what if she had a seizure and no one was there or knew about it? What if she does have one and she’s alone? What if her stubborn nature comes out and she doesn't tell anyone when she’s not feeling well?”

I felt my heart sink down into my stomach. Liam is stressed anyway and I've just added to it.  I feel terrible, physically and mentally. He doesn't need to constantly worry about me. I don’t want him to constantly worry about me, he’s my husband not my carer. 

I needed to face the music so to speak so I pushed the door fully open. The squeaking of the door opening got both men's attention. It wasn’t until I was fully in the room I realised, Hana and Maxwell were also here too. 

Everyone looked at me expectantly, “Liam, all I can do is tell you that I’ll be honest. I’ll tell someone when I'm not feeling well. I know you have no reason to trust me after the stunt I pulled last night but...I’m still the same person I was before last night. Please, please don’t treat me differently,” I’m pleading with him and my friends now although I know I don't really have a right to ask for anything not after all the chaos I’ve caused. 

Liam and I briefly locked eyes. Liam sighed and opened his arms. “Come here.” 

I didn't hesitate to walk into his embrace. I clung tightly to him. I’m scared and he’s the only thing that ever makes me feel safe. Like everything will be okay. 

I felt him wrap his arms around me tighter and place a kiss on the top of my head. “You really scared me last night, Ri,” Liam told me quietly, “I’m just glad you’re okay.” He pecked my head again as he let me go and stepped back.I looked up to him and gave him a reassuring smile. “How are you feeling?” 

“I’m okay,” I nodded, he raised an eyebrow at me. “I’m a bit sore but that’s normal.” Liam nodded. I understood his concerns about me not telling him about how I'm really feeling. I just have always found it difficult to be honest about it. 

A few moments of awkward silence went by. No one knows what to say, I don’t know what to say or how we go from here. There’s no guide on what to do when your wife of two years drops an epilepsy bombshell. 

Drake finally broke the silence, “His Majesty over here was just bragging about how, he, in his own words ‘make the best pancakes.’ We were just about to put that to the test, weren’t we Li? Before Brooks interrupted.” 

I saw Liam’s eyebrows crease as he looked to his oldest friend. Drake shot him a look enough to tell him to just go along with it. 

Liam smiled, it was his fake, forced one. I could always tell, his real one always showed his pearly white teeth and reached his eyes. This one his lips were in a tight line and his eyes didn't twinkle. 

“Yeah,” he nodded. 

I, of course, knew it was a cover but I was thankful for Drake’s distraction. Drake and I sat down on one side of the table and Maxwell and Hana on the other as Liam got started on mixing together the ingredients. 

A little while later, we all had our  own plates full with pancakes. We all dug in silently. It was awkward, not a comfortable silence at all. 

I placed my fork down just as everyone else was just finishing there’s. I hadn’t  finished all of mine, when I chewed the cut on the side of my tongue brushed painfully up against my teeth.

“Guys…,” I started but was promptly cut off by Maxwell. I could tell last night that  he was hurt I didn’t  tell him. 

“Just promise us that you’ll tell us when you’re not feeling well next time, Little Blossom.” 

“That and take your medication,” I heard Drake mumble from beside me. 

“Okay,” I nodded, ignoring Drake’s snarky comment.  “I’ll tell one of you.” 

“Promise?” Maxwell asked me. 

“I promise.” 

Maxwell held out his pinky. I promptly wrapped my own little finger around his from across the table. “You can’t break a pinky promise,” Maxwell reiterated.

“I know, Max,” I sighed as I let go of him and placed both my hands back down into my lap. 

“We’re all just worried about you,” Hana spoke up. I nodded in understanding. Here comes the pity party. “But we can get through anything together.” 

We all stayed there for a little while, each of them reiterating how much they loved and supported me. They were honestly the best group of friends I could ever have asked for. They loved me no matter what and I loved them too. 

Later that day, I discovered the surprise Liam had in store was a trip to go to our honeymoon island in a couple weeks time. Our diaries were both packed and that was the only time we could make the trip.  Leo and Katie also had headed back to the States that evening. 

They had  all checked in now and again but not too annoyingly. It had been a bit overboard over the first couple of days but their overprotectiveness was easing off a bit. Thankfully. 

I still was having trouble sleeping and not getting enough so I started sometimes having a nap during the day when I had the time to do so. Liam had taken on some of my responsibilities, I hadn't been pleased about that but I needed to sort my sleep out and he was aware that a lack of sleep and stress was a massive trigger for me. 

Everything had changed that night but nothing really changed- if that makes sense? For two years my condition had been my dirty little secret and now it was finally out in the open, I was hardly going to go shouting it from any rooftops anytime soon but I felt much closer to everyone. I hadn't realised how much I had been distancing  myself.  

Liam had taken it better than I had expected. He, of course, was worried but he didn't overwhelm me with it. He  asked me questions about it as well as doing research on my type of seizures to try and understand as much as he could. He wasn't like Jacob, he could at times be overbearing with his desire to know everything about my condition. 

If I was honest all of my friends had been phenomenal. It was only our tight knit group that knew about it still. I didn't feel a need to announce it to an entire country and so I didn’t. 

All in all, I felt better than I had for a long, long time. 

I still should have told everyone about it at the beginning but my fear that they’d see me differently, that they’d treat me differently had gotten in the way but they had all proven me wrong time and time again. 

It was the day of The Five Kingdoms festival, It had originally meant to have been a few weeks ago but the weather had been appalling so it was rearranged for a day with much nicer, inviting weather. It's the only day of the year that the palace is open to the Cordonian Public so naturally we wanted as many of our citizens as possible to attend. 

Liam and I  had been gallivanting  around the palace grounds, playing games and talking with our people. It was the normalcy that I had always wanted, with a husband who didn't treat me like I’m made of glass. 

A little while later, I slipped back inside the palace and headed to the nearest toilet which ended up being in my apartment. I’ve lived here for two years and I still don't know where anything is.  I needed to go and couldn't hold it in any more. I had tried to find one of my friends or husband just to let them know in case they needed me but the crowd was massive so it was like trying to find a needle in a haystack so I headed in on my own. It wasn’t a big deal. I didn’t need a babysitter. 

I had  just done what was needed and was standing by the sink, washing my hands when I felt my stomach roll.

Oh no.

I, initially, ignore it. I had been ignoring feeling sick for a little while, I thought it was just because I haven't eaten much today but then my arms started to go numb and I know what’s coming.  I’m all alone and I know I won't be able to make it to Liam or one of my friends in time. 

“Oh no, no, ” I whispered to myself. I reached into my back pocket in my pants and pulled out my cellphone as I carefully lowered myself down onto the cold, bathroom tiles. 

Still sitting up, I unlocked my phone and looked for Drake’s contact. I know Liam doesn't take his phone with him to royal events. 

I fumbled with the device, my arm doesn't want to cooperate properly. I hit a contact, I just hope it’s the correct one. 

Everything is becoming confusing again. I lie down with the phone beside me. I don’t really remember where I am and why I’m here. 

I heard the phone ringing in the distance and Drake’s gruff voice come through on the other end. “Brooks?” 

I don’t know what to say, I’m not sure what to say so I don’t talk. “Brooks, are you okay?” 

I try to speak but it comes out as a whimper. Why is this happening again?! I took my meds, I followed the rules! 

Drake’s tone changed, “Brooks, talk to me. What’s wrong?” 

It takes more effort than it should but I manage to get out a jumbled sentence, “I dun’t feel good,” my voice is slurred, I’m talking like a child. 

I vaguely hear Drake curse. “Okay...Where are you?” He sounds out of breath to me. 

I looked around me. I’m not sure where I am.  

Am I on the ceiling? 

I don’t understand. 

My head fell to the side, no I'm on the floor, I’m sure.  It’s cold under my back. I still can't figure it out though. 

I can’t think. 

I can’t tell Drake where I am!

“I-I don-” I started, my voice is so slurred I don't think Drake can understand me. “S-scared,” I squeaked. That's all I know right now. I’m scared. 

“I know. It’s going to be okay.” I don’t remember Drake’s voice being so echoey. “Riley, listen to me...you need to tell me where you are.” 

Drake’s not here but I can hear him. How? 

I feel myself beginning to gag and I’m sure Drake hears it too because he’s telling me to roll over onto my side.  That’s hard. My limbs don't want to cooperate but I manage it and the vile stuff easily flows out of my mouth. 

My fear mounts. What’s happening to me?! 

I can’t focus on anything, my eyes are darting around the room. It’s making me more dizzy and disoriented but I need to know where I am. 

“Li-” I’m trying to talk again but my voice is still jumbled. 

“It’s Drake,” he told me. Drake? I don’t understand. It sounds familiar but I can't picture him. 

I- Where am I?

I try to move but I can’t. My limbs feel heavy and I don’t have the strength to lift them anymore. 

I just want this all to stop!

(Drake POV) 

I’m weaving  in and out of the crowd around me, my phone still against my ear. Riley’s scared whimpers coming through from the other end. I can hear my heart pounding in my ears. Riley is like my sister and she’s scared, in trouble and I don’t know where she is so I can help her. I need to find Liam and I need to find her but I don’t know where either of them are! 

I know she’s still conscious, she’s mumbling something incoherent. I’m trying my best to reassure her but I don’t think she understands.  

Finally, I found Liam. He’s apple bobbing with someone. I ran over to him, Bastien is standing near him and is the first to notice the panicked look on my face.  I walked past Bas and straight to Liam, I tapped him on the shoulder. He immediately stood back up to his full height turning to face me. 

“What’s wrong?” He asked me, his eyebrow creased with concern. 

“It’s Riley,” I told him. I quickly passed him the phone as we stepped away from the now curious onlookers. “I can’t get her to tell me where she is. I think she's going to have a seizure.” Liam eagerly took the phone out of my hand, putting it immediately to his ear. 

(Liam’s POV) 

Drake had just handed me his phone telling me that my wife was going to have a seizure and nobody knows where she is!

I can hear her scared whimpers coming through  the other end. “Love? Riley, can you hear me?” I asked. Panic is evident  in my tone but I’m really trying to keep myself composed. 

I really am. 

Last time was terrifying but at least that time people were there to help her. I was there to help her. This time nobody is there to help. 

“Riley?” I can feel my heart pounding in my chest. I’m sure it's about to come right out of my ribcage if it carries on. 

Drake, Bastien and I are now walking inside the palace. It was only Riley’s voice coming from the other end  so we made the evaluation that she wasn’t outside in the crowd and must be back in the palace somewhere. 

She’s not talking but I can  hear her crying. “Love? Riley, can you talk to me please?” 

“I don–” I heard her stutter. I can hear in her voice that she’s scared and confused. “What is…? I don’t…” She said, trailing off. 

“Riley, it’s okay,” I told her but it’s not. None of this is okay, “You’re just a little bit confused, sweetheart. That’s all.” 

Through her sobs she said, “Li? I don’t feel good.”

“It’s okay, Riley. It’s all going to be alright,” I told her, trying to soothe her. We’re still walking around the palace- well, actually we're running around like mad men but we need to find her. 

So many things are going through my head, so many worst case scenarios. I can barely hear myself think. I just need to find her, if I find her It’ll all be okay. 

“Li, I dun’t feel glood,” She told me again. Her words have become more jumbled  now. She’s speaking to me like a child who's just learning their first words. That’s okay though, I know she’s still awake and I’ve still got time to find her. 

I froze mid-step as I heard her crying stop and then less than a second later,  heard  the sickening sound of her limbs flailing  and hitting the floor below her. “Shit. Shit. Shit,” I whispered to myself.

My eyes widened as my panic mounted. 

I listened closely, hearing for anything that could suggest where she is..then I heard it,  dogs barking in the background. 

She’s in the apartment!

I started running, not giving Drake or Bastien any indication of where I was going or an explanation.

 I was on the other side of the palace! 

I don’t think I've ever ran this fast in my life. I can hear Drake and Bastien behind me, I assume they’re both  aware of what’s happening by now. I can still hear her limbs hitting the floor and the dogs barking in the background. 

I’m really starting to panic. My legs aren't taking me to our apartment fast enough. I need to get to her! Now! 

Another minute, another minute too long and I finally rounded the last corner, it took me slightly off balance as my left foot skidded but I managed to get back on track. 

My lungs feel like they’re screaming for air but I don’t stop. I  can see the door now! 

Finally, I reached it and threw it open. I was greeted by both of the also panicked looking corgis, scratching at my legs. I looked around, she’s not in the living room, kitchen, bedroom. 

I left the bedroom and headed down another little corridor and saw the bathroom door closed. I don't waste any time opening it. 

I opened it hurriedly but cautiously. I don't know where she is and I don’t want to hurt her. Luckily, she’s in the middle of the floor. She’s not seizing anymore, she’s laying flat on her back. Her eyes are slightly open but I don't think she’s awake. 

I don’t waste any time getting down on my knees beside her. I quickly placed Drake’s phone down away from us, there’s a little bit of blood pooling out from the corner of her mouth and I notice the sick on the other side of her. I don’t know how long she’s been laying here like this. The phone had cut off a little while ago. 

I quickly pull her towards me, over onto her side. A little bit of blood flows from her mouth and onto the bathroom floor tiles. 

Something feels really wrong to me. Her breathing isn't right. I placed my hand on her chin and opened her mouth properly. She gags and coughed as more of the blood tinged spit came out.

“It’s alright, Love,” I whisper quietly to her.

(Riley’s POV)

My eyes fluttered open slightly. Whatever I’m laying on is cold beneath me. I can see a figure in front of me only a few inches away  and that’s when I start to panic . 

My vision is disfigured. 

I can’t hear. 

I can’t move. 

I feel something behind me, jumping up on me. I don't know what it is but I don’t want it touching me! 

What is it?! 

Get it off!

I try to squirm away and whatever I was is pulled away from me. I didn’t get far, I’m so tired and my body doesn't want to cooperate with me.  

Why is it so hard to breathe? 

I look around again, there’s something by my face which I soon discover is my own hand. 

What’s happening to me? 

I can feel somebody touching me- that figure in front of me placed a hand on my arm. I try to get away but I’m unable to. 

….Why can’t I breathe properly? 

It feels like I’ve drank some water and it’s gone down the wrong way. I’m coughing and gagging, trying to get rid of this feeling but it’s not going away. Why isn't it going away?!

My mouth hurts, stung by what tastes like vomit. 

My hearing starts to return to me and my vision begins to sharpen. The figure in front of me moves so their face is in my eye line. It’s Liam. 

I still don’t understand what’s happening. All I know is that it’s hard to breathe. Why? 

My ability to think hasn't quite returned to me yet. I don’t remember how I ended up here. 

I’m staring at Liam now as I splutter about, trying to get air to my agitated feeling chest. I think he’s figured out that i can see and hear him now. He slightly titles his head at me, giving me a soft, comforting smile. 

“Hi, love. It’s okay. I’m here now.” 

I gripped at my chest. Good, my arms are working again. “ C’breathe,”  I tried to say. My sentence was rudely interrupted by a choking sensation that i tried to swallow down but that just made me cough more  

I’m still really confused. The last thing I remember is just a sense of dread, pure fear.  

“What’s hap-” My sentence is cut off by another coughing fit. I felt him as he started running his fingers soothingly through my hair. 

“You had a seizure,” he explained to me calmly,” But you’re okay now.” I nodded, it all slowly but surely starting to come back to me.

(Liam’s POV)

It really is breaking my heart to see Riley struggling and I can’t do anything to help her. I wish I could take all of her pain away from her. She’s the most amazing person I've ever met and doesn't deserve this.

She seems drowsier to me than she did last time. While Riley was waking up Bastien had told me he had called an ambulance as a precaution while we were looking for her and now it’s looking like it’s actually needed. She really is struggling to breathe properly. 

A few minutes go by and she’s still not fully alert. Her eyes looked  up to meet mine, her eyes fluttering as another coughing fit. I smiled reassuringly down at her, “It’s okay. Paramedics are coming and they’re going to help you breathe better, okay?” She nodded sleepily. 

She coughed again and foamy, blood tinged spit came out. I could see her trying  to turn further onto her side but she was struggling. Too weak to do the task on her own. I help her gently back over.

“Liam,” She gasped as she finished emptying out what she could. 

“It’s okay, I’m here.” I gently rubbed her shoulder as I tried to soothe her the best I could. I feel powerless. 

I heard some voices outside of the bathroom- one I recognize and two I didn’t. Drake had taken the dogs away, so they weren't being a nuisance and Bastien had been waiting for the paramedics to arrive, which was who I presumed who he was showing in now.

Riley flinched when the sound of boots and the rustling of bags could be heard, as the medics made their way into the bathroom. I had moved out of the way and sat  down by her feet. I kept a comforting hand on her calf so she knew I was there and wasn’t going to go anywhere.

It was like I was trapped inside of my own head again, like I had been the first time I had witnessed it. It’s the worst feeling in the world when someone you love more than anything is struggling and there’s nothing you can do to help them.

I hate this. 

I had seemed to have zoned out, getting trapped back inside my head, where so many scenarios were racing. The paramedics were treating my wife with a level of urgency that scared me. They had mentioned being concerned about how she was breathing and made quick work of getting out of the palace and into the awaiting ambulance. 

I should have been there! If I had been there then this wouldn’t be happening right now. I should have been there to protect her! 

After a quick ride in the ambulance, we arrived at the hospital, where doctors and nurses immediately got to treating my wife. 

Like I had guessed, she had aspirated on her blood and spit. After I found out about her epilepsy I had done a lot of research and looked into possible complications. I knew that having that much fluid in your lungs is dangerous. The doctors had kept her on oxygen and given her some medication. She could breathe easier now, thankfully. 

Riley was stable now and had been admitted. I was just relieved that she was going to be okay. I was so, so scared when Drake initially told me and then  when I found her that fear only tripled.  

The entire experience had been traumatising for both me and her.

 I never wanted to let her out of my sight again if I’m being honest. I don’t ever want her to be scared, alone and in danger like that ever again. I don't ever want to fail in helping her again. It feels like I’ve failed to protect the one person that means the absolute world to me. The only person that I’m sure I wouldn’t ever be able to live without. I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself for that. 

I headed down the hospital corridor to her room. She was fast asleep in the bed. She looked so tiny and vulnerable. I hate seeing her like this. 

Drake had kindly dropped off a bag for us both, I placed it down by the chair beside her bed as I sunk down into it. It was now the early evening. I’m not entirely sure what had happened with the festival after I left. All I had been told was that  Madeleine had ‘handled it’ whatever that meant. 

I keep thinking over what happened today. This all could have gone very, very differently. 

I try hard to keep back the tears pricking at my eyes but I ultimately fail. I can’t keep them in. I’m so scared of something happening to Riley, like what happened today, or something so much worse. I’m scared of losing her. She means everything to me. 

I quietly get to my feet. I’m planning on just going for a little walk to clear my head. She’s asleep and I know she’s safe here. As I’m about to walk away her hand gripped onto my wrist. I stopped and looked down at her. 

Her eyes sleepily opened fully, “Please don’t leave.” 

“Okay,” I said, sitting back down in the chair and looking over at her.

 Riley rubbed at her tired eyes then scooted over in the bed. She patted the space next to her, “Get in with me,” she ordered me so of course I complied after slipping my shoes off. I wrapped my arms around her as she rested her head against my chest. 

We lay like that for a few minutes.  The silence was broken when I couldn't hold in a sob anymore. Riley sat up slightly, looking up at me. She took one of her hands and wiped away the tear that was falling down my cheek. 

I don’t understand how she’s doing this. I’m supposed to be comforting her, not the other way around. 

“I love you,” I blurted out. My voice cracked and my bottom lip quivered. 

“I love you too,” She said, as she snuggled up closer against me. 

I sniffled then wiped at my now irritated, red, puffy eyes. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I’m sorry.” 

(Riley’s POV) 

I’m so overwhelmed with guilt right now. I knew this would happen if Liam were to ever find out. I knew he’d blame himself for everything, he always does. It breaks my heart to know my husband is devastated because my brain can't just behave itself.  

This is what I was more scared of. 

I’ve always been treated differently because of my condition- the sad thing is I’m used to it. It’s been a part of my life since I was a little kid. It’s all I really know. I could deal with Liam being overprotective- well, more than he already is to begin with over him being heartbroken over something, neither him or myself, can control. 

I snuggled closer against him. I just want to be close to him right now. 

A short while later, Liam’s sniffling stops  and I look up at him again. Tears are pricking at my eyes as I figure out how to word my next sentence of the offer I had been thinking over and over for the last few minutes. “I don’t want to hurt you…” Damn, the tears are already starting to flow. “If you love someone then you let them go...I’m giving  you an out because I don’t want to hurt you.  I-I don't want this stupid condition  to ruin your life too.”

Liam didn't say anything to start with. My heart sinks as I think he’s considering my offer.  Unexpectedly, he pulled me tighter against him and pecked the top of my head. “I’m never going to leave you. I love you too much to let you go.”

I let out a loud half laugh, half-cry of relief. I don’t want to lose him either. Saying that sentence obliterated my heart. 

I sniffled, “I love you too much to let you go too.”

[supercalvin]

Hi! Hope ur still taking ficlet prompts cause I’ve got one that I’d love to see your take on since I’ve never read anything like it and also 💕💓🌸Mithian💘✨💞. Alright so Lancelot lives therefore Gwen and Arthur never marries for obvious reasons but Arthur instead marries princess Mithian. Both of them are pretty gay but Camelot needs an heir and a queen and Nemeth needs a king. Anyway it’d be interesting with Merthur based off of this headcanon, maybe from Mithian’s pov ☺️☺️

This is going to be hard for me because I’m the captain of the tiny canoe-ship Merlin/Mithian. But I will never pass up wlw characters, so here we gooooo.

A few of the first lines pulled directly from The Hunter’s Heart.

Prompts + Ficlets

***

“You're not a fan of hunting?”

Merlin turned, hesitating like he always did around her, “What sport is it when one side has dogs and spears and crossbows and the other nothing?”

“Not much of a fan of me, either, are you?” She sighed, “Come on, Merlin, I'd have to be a fool not to notice.”

Mithian had arrived in Camelot at the request of her father, the King of Nemeth, hoping for a love match between her and King Arthur. Camelot was in a fragile state with a young king who had recently overturned the ban on magic only a year after his father’s death. King Arthur needed a Queen to help with all the royal duties and he was surely looking for someone.

“I'm sorry if I caused offence,” Merlin said with a slight bow, although he was far less formal than most of Camelot’s nobles, it was obvious that he had been a servant for several years before being appointed Court Sorcerer.

“I'm sure you have good reasons. One thing I've learned since being here is that Arthur values your opinion above almost all others. Even if he'd be the last person to admit it.”

Merlin huffed out a laugh, “You can say that again.”

It had become abundantly clear to Mithian within a week of living in Camelot that if Merlin didn’t like her, then she didn’t have even the slightest chance with the King. She also suspected the reason for that was quite similar to why she had been reluctant to come to Camelot in the first place, despite her father’s orders.

“I like him, Merlin. I really do. I didn't expect to, but...well, he's a loveable person, isn't he? Underneath it all.” She caught Merlin’s eye, and saw exactly what she had been hoping for, a spark of jealousy.

Their conversation was soon cut short by the King himself.

“Merlin!” The King bellowed, as if the poor Court Sorcerer was still his servant.

Merlin rolled his eyes, “Sure. Full of love, that one.”

Merlin turned to leave and Mithian didn’t have a chance to reassure Merlin that she wasn’t there to come between him and his King.

After the hunt, the Mithian dined with the King and few of his closest knights and ladies. In such a small group, it was easier for Mithian to see the relationships in Camelot’s tight-knit group. The married pair, Lancelot and Lady Guinevere appeared to be particularly close to Merlin, although she didn’t get to see much of them as they had left early to tend to their infant son.  The knights were a rowdy bunch, but they all seemed doggedly loyal. Mithian was also keenly aware that everyone seemed fond of Merlin, and she could see why. He seemed clever and kind, from little she had heard of him and half the knights seemed to care for him just as much as they did their King.

Soon the party trickled down to only a few. When Gwaine made his exit, that only left Merlin, Mithian, and Arthur.

Merlin cleared his throat and pushed back his chair, “I should follow him. I have an early start tomorrow.”

Mithian had hoped to speak to both of them, but it appeared that Merlin wanted to disband the party as soon as possible. She had to act quickly.

“I’m sorry that you did not have the chance to meet my dear friend, Lady Iorwen. She could not attend me during this visit. But she hates hunts as much as you do.”

Merlin paused, looking at her skeptically. He shared a look with Arthur.

“Oh? Perhaps we could have joined each other at the back of the hunting party then.”

Arthur snorted into his cup, “You aren’t complaining when I catch the rabbits for your stew.”

Mithian smiled, “She would have liked that. Although she prefers fishing. Far more relaxing.”

“I agree, although Arthur always says it’s boring.”

“That’s because it is,” Arthur said, looking at Merlin with so much fondness, despite the derision in his voice that Mithian knew that Merlin’s feelings weren’t unrequited.

“Lady Iorwen is my lover.”

The King snorted mead and it took a few coughs to right himself. Merlin was looking at her in an entirely different way, a brightness in his eyes. It was like a target had immediately been taken off her back.

“Well…” The King said, looking at Merlin and back at her.

“How did you know?” Merlin asked, already a step ahead of her.

“I know what its like to conceal a relationship. To watch knights court and woo your beloved while you glower in the background. I’m sure it’s why you could not stop glaring at me ever since I arrived in Camelot.”

Merlin covered his face with his hands, although he looked more bashful than truly embarrassed.

Arthur laughed, “You do make the ladies of court quite uncomfortable.”

“They flirt with you so openly!” Merlin said, trying and failing to sound reasonable.

Arthur rolled his eyes and turned to Mithian, “So you are not in Camelot for an arranged marriage?”

“Well that depends. You need a Queen to run your household and attend to the royal duties. Who does it now?”

Arthur looked to Merlin, who winced.

Merlin sighed, “Gwen and I split the duties, but we have duties of our own. Not to mention there are some things only a royal is permitted to do. I can’t hold court or open festivals.”

“I see,” Mithian nodded.

Arthur tilted his head to the side, “I had no intention of marrying. But are you proposing an arrangement between us, one where we both keep our lovers?”

“I did not come to Camelot with it in mind, but I didn’t think I would find someone who was in the same position as me. If you would allow Lady Iorwen to live with me as my lady in waiting, I could fulfill the position as Queen, which I’ve been training to do since birth.”

Arthur nodded, looking like he understood exactly what she meant. It was an arrangement that suited the four of them surprisingly well.

“We will have to consider it,” Arthur said, eyes on Merlin’s. They seemed to have a long conversation in a span of a few moments.

“I will have to speak with my Lady as well,” Mithian said, thinking of the way they had left things in Nemeth. Poor Iorwen had barely been able to speak, overcome with too many emotions at the thought of Mithian marrying another. “But for now, I would like to get to know you both and enjoy all that Camelot has to offer. May I stay for the duration of my visit?”

Arthur smiled, “Of course, Princess.”

Mithian bowed her head and pushed herself to her feet. “Then I will leave you both to your evening.”

She left the hall already drafting a letter in her mind to Iorwen.

***

Prompts + Ficlets

[skymoonandstardust]

Love and Light in Hell

Prologue, Chapter 1, Chapter 2 , chapter 3, chapter 4 , chapter 5, Chapter 6

Chapter 7

An: Sorry it took a bit to get this out, but i hope you lovelies enjoy <3

Hugin cawed and Muninn ruffled his feathers uneasily.

"It sounds fair and easy enough. . ."   thunder grumbled, punctuating the Allfather's uncertainty, "but can we trust a child of Loki? Can we be certain she will hold the bargain and not try to trick us as her father would?"

Frigg sighed and adjusted her wrap as she looked at the storm outside. 

"I'm afraid we can't." 

She turned to her husband, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder. "But we have to give her the benefit of the doubt. We must remember that she is not Loki, though she is of his blood. The gain is worth the risk if it means our son will be returned to us again."

Odin grumbled, turning a bit away from her to stroke Muninn's dark plumage.

"You're right. I don't like it, but she's our only option to get our son back."

Another sigh passed his lips as he turned, scratching his snowy white beard

"I will have the messengers sent out in the morning. With all luck, we should have the testimonies we need by the end of the week.”

"I hope for all our sakes that is true."

Odin listened to her long skirts brushing the floor as she walked away.

Sleep just wasn't coming. You'd done everything you could think of, counting crows, thinking peaceful thoughts of a universe devoid of gods and humans except for yourself, and even singing the old gruesome lullaby your mom used to sing to you, in the few days she had you before your banishments by the gods. 

Nothing made the voice stop.

"Thank you, your majesty. You are as good and magnanimous as your father."

The snide tone replayed on a loop in your mind and you swore if you had to hear it one more time you'd snap and go down to your bone dungeon to do some torturing.

That would certainly calm your nerves and blow off some steam. . .

You're not Loki, you know you're not anything like him.  . .he was trying to get under your skin.

Yeah, and he succeeded.

The second voice whispered softly in the background of your thoughts. You sighed and sat up, throwing the covers off to slip out of bed.

Alright, enough of this.

A few minutes later you stepped out, now fully dressed, and padded down the hall. 

Thankfully there were no guards stationed outside your door to question you.  No matter how your advisors protested you insisted on this. After all, what use were guards when you were a weapon yourself? 

The dark hallways ahead were empty, only the usual night shadows in attendance as you wandered through the corridors.  After leaving your hall you occasionally ran into a sentry on the night duty, but they let you pass with a nod of respect, not stopping you to ask any questions. 

Sooner than you thought you would, you reached the door. 

Pushing it open you slipped In quietly and pulled it closed with as little noise as possible before turning to look around the infirmary.

While most of the beds were empty a couple were occupied. . . Just looking around you could see bandages that needed changing and beds sheets that need cleaning. Probably some doses you could prepare as well.

 Rolling up your sleeves with a satisfied smile you got to work. This is just what I need right now-- and thank the Allfather I stocked everything myself. Knew it would pay off to know where things are in here.

You tied your hair up with a black ribbon and picked up a patient's chart. Now, let's get to it.

Time seems to have no meaning sometimes. And for you, this was one of the times where it felt like it did not. 

It could very well have been seconds, minutes or hours as you saw to the needs of the patients and did things in general around the infirmary, prepping, cleaning and tidying..  

You tied off the soft white gauze then cut it with famine before sheathing it again.

"There you go Eric,  now--"

The creaking of the big wooden doors opening for the second time that night interrupted you. Your fingers flew back to famine's hilt as both you and Eric turned to look at the doorway.

The blinding brightness told you who it was immediately. 

"Harrison."

"Yeah." He looked around with sheepish curiosity, his cheeks starting to tint pink from embarrassment.  "Sorry, I didn't know you were in here."

"Couldn't sleep." You shrugged

"Neither could I. I was just trying to find the kitchen to get a midnight snack when I heard something in here and thought I'd investigate. Seems pretty stupid now that I say it out loud." 

Harrison chuckled and glanced down, missing the smile that tugged your lips up for a second.

Okay I admit it, he's pretty cute, and sweet. . . everything I'm not.

The last thought had the same effect as sea spray on a winter day. It froze you to your bones in seconds.

You are Loki's daughter and queen of hell. You may be polite to each other but you'll never be friends.

Still there wasn't any use not trying so you mustered up a slightly rigid smile and nodded at him. "Would you like to join me? You can help if you like, or we can just keep each other company."

Harrison glanced around for a moment and licked his lips, his hesitance easy to read on his face and see in his eyes as he shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot.

He's going to say no, I know he is.

"Yes."

His response obviously surprised both of you and you listened with wide eyes as he continued to ramble on.

"I-I mean, yeah I'd really like that. If I'm going to be stuck here for the rest of eternity we should learn to get used to each other.”

A half alive half dead smile appeared on your face. 

"I know that's something people have trouble with, with me." You gestured vaguely at your face. 

Harrison couldn't help smiling "I'm a blazing halo of light down here, and it was the same way on Asgard. I'm hardly any easier to look at."

You laughed and held out your hand to him. 

"Well, I think I'm willing to make the effort if you are."

Harrison gazed at the withered blackened skin of your hand for a moment, then took it with a smile that rivaled the glow around him in brilliance. It nearly made you drop the handshake.

"I think I can do that."  

He let go of your hand as his smile disappeared and he suddenly looked down and cleared his throat.

"I-I also wanted to say I'm sorry. For what the emissary said-- what my father did to you-- for what happened with your brothers.”

It felt like someone had speared your heart on a hook and used it for ice fishing bait, stabbing it and suddenly plundering it into below freezing water.  You could almost start to feel its beats begin to falter and slow.  

"Thank you. It's good to have one of the gods acknowledge their mistake. To hear one of them admit they did me and my family wrong. . .no one else ever gave me so much courtesy."

You wrapped your arms around yourself from the chill in the room and looked at Harrison. “It's not your fault, though. But, when you return to Asgard and take your rightful place on the throne you can do something about it. Reinstate me and my siblings to our proper place, that's what you can do for me.”

"Yeah." Harrison nodded. "Once I return and become king of Asgard."

He didn't sound convinced, and honestly neither were you.

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