#and he only fell after weeks of traveling as the ring whispered to him threats of destruction

[ardate]

Every Boromir hater makes my enormous love for him grow stronger. Sorry you couldn't understand him, I get him tho and we're holding hands and the whole of Gondor is laughing at you

[dailytatsu]

Hello! I saw request were open so i was wondering if i could request some headcanons of the Archons and/or the Adepti meeting a God reader who is the God of Chaos and destruction. The reader is not a Archon tho and travels all over Teyvat cuz small bits of destruction were ever they go. They're pretty mischievous and somewhat smug but despite how they act they're actually a good person. They dont mean to cause problems(most of the time anyways) chaos follows them were ever they go. Idk if you have a character limit but if you do please tell me so i wont make a mistake again. And if there is you can just do Zhongli and Xiao. Optionally could you make them a dendro user, there not a lot of dendro content and if not thats fine. I understand. Could you make the reader Gn or Non-binary they/them pronouns please? If not male reader is totally fine. Im so sorry for the long post and I hope you have a good day/night!

Ohmy, it’s my first time just writing headcanons! I’m use to write a lot, so let’s hope I did it right (^ ^' )7

Thanks for the request! ✨

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[HC] God of Chaos! Reader and the Archons + Xiao

Characters: Zhongli, Xiao, Venti, Shogun Raiden (Ei).

Gn! Reader

I tried doing it with everyone but I’m no still that confident to try writing with some characters ＿|￣|○

Sorry for any mistakes!

Request are open!

Genshin Masterlist

Second part ->

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VENTI

To be honest, he didn't notice your presence at first. He had other concerns on his mind that day to perceive the chaotic (and slightly threatening) aura that Mondstadt was infected with that day.

Barbatos is a person of habit, so he couldn't help but be curious when the crowd in front of him began to look a little agitated instead of seeming to enjoy his lyre and his songs.

But then a series of domino events appeared in front of his very eyes.

The purity of the chaos was such that he felt overwhelmed, even without the white-haired boy around, if it wasn’t Bennett fault, then how was it possible for everything to be ruined in such a short time?

His patience ended when, out of nowhere, the strings of his lyre jumped close to his face as they snapped. Making that awful noise that couldn’t mean nothing good.

Okay, enough, who is messing around in here? No more joking in his nation!

He concentrated a little, a faint but unique presence kept his nerves on edge, as if he was being watched from afar. He moved away from the busy areas and then chased that ephemeral energy to the highest point of the church, where the bells were ringing in an irregular and stressful way.

Then he found you. Snoozing against one of the columns, somewhat tired because the trip you made to reach Mondstadt.

Surprisingly, Barbatos understood you since the first exchange of words. A god of chaos who was also a free spirit, you followed no rules ever written in Teyvat, and you had no plans to apologize for the mess you made.

Both of you were Zhongli’s worst nightmare, but that’s another story.

He managed to through your arrogance and your teasing nature that you, in fact, were a lonely spirit that liked to witness the life from above of everyone.

The difference between teasing someone accidentally and committing a crime was really visible, but he still couldn't help but feel like he should scold you after your mere presence messed up with the guild's baskets full of fish.

But hey! He also enjoy the company! Venti tried to teach you how to enjoy the calm and the whisper of wind, music can also contain chaos, feelings, old stories waiting to be told again, expressions and desire united, in a wonderful piece of-

As you yawned his lyre broke up again. Making clear the message.

Okay, not even God of Freedom and Wind can control chaos. Anyways, what a tragedy, but there’s nothing a simple bard can do, smh.

“Do you like kids, don’t you?” He said once, after a nice day of hearing him sing before your chaos reached his little concert. Again watching everyone from above on the hands of the statue, with your attention caught by some kids playing tag.

“… I don’t know what do you mean.” Once discovered you had no choice but to remain defensive, pretending to be disinterested.

“Heh, you aren’t a good liar.” It may not be the wisest thing to make fun of someone who could destroy the place where you were resting, but Venti was confident that he knew you well enough to know that you were not so explosive. “You know!, I just have some pieces, but I think it’s because they are little walking concentrations of pure and innocent chaos, am I wrong?”

He wasn’t, no at all. But you would never confess something that embarrassing.

This guy wrote a ballad about the days when Mondstadt got immerse with that strike of bad luck. Kind of an apology of not being able to handle the situation.

Now there’s the rumor that says that, every time somebody sings that song, something unlucky will happen in front of you.

The song is cursed.

One night when the moon was shining on the Cider Lake his well tuned ears distinguished a melody that was broken from time to time by the accidents of his performer, distracting him of his way to look for you.

It could be painful to listen to, but Venti could certainly feel the dedication of the one who was playing the imperfect song.

The ballad of the god of chaos, hummed like a lullaby that instead of making you sleep makes you question the events of the day. Wishing for the slightest thing to be different after an exhaustive week of peace and tranquility.

A lonely spirits cursing their existence, sitting in the highest point of a stranger’s palace, where you can reach the sky by only rising your hand.

The next day, Barbatos invited you to drink some wine, this time near Windrise to avoid accidents in the city.

As he almost dropped the bottle when a lot of slimes were attracted by your presence, he confirmed the theory about that the way to spend time with you would not be his personal definition of hanging out.

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ZHONGLI

Okay, there’s only two scenarios that could happened when you set a foot in Liyue.

Old man has a soft spot for you for being a relative young deity.

Or he’s always lecturing you for not having control of your aura and powers.

How u dare bringing chaos to the nation of order? It’s that a death wish?

Jokes aside, you’re not really a threat. And he could sense that after he saw how you tried to avoid having direct contact with the city. Rex Lapis found your silhouette jumping and crossing through the mountains until reaching the fairest point that allowed you to enjoy the view of the streets that were filled with life and light as the sunsets.

He even noticed how you sighed in frustration when a storm started out of nowhere. A rain dedicated just for the arriving of the God of Chaos. Not even bothering of getting shield, you stayed in your place to look at all the people who were getting back to their places.

The rain seemed to stop over your head, for a second was enough to stop you from being cruelly swamped by the very weather you had created. An elegant umbrella covered you, the long awaited surprise you expected from someone as outdated as Morax.

You looked up, and found his expression calm and attentive, watching you. As if he had made a great discovery that he could not believe

“May I have a moment of your time to keep you company? Letting out your sorrows in the middle of a torrential storm is not what I would recommend as way to spend a good day.”

“… What are you talking about? Get in your own business, old man.”

“Well, you should know that a sorrow shared is a sorrow halved.”

Next time you knew was that he was helping you to dry your hair with a towel once you let him guide you to his place.

Zhongli picked you up like a abandoned cat that day. Even if having you near meant to deal with new the roof leaks.

Also kept you away from Hu Tao, if you two ever get along for being partners in crime he would seal himself underground-

For all the time you spend exploring Liyue, there he was. Like a little kid showing his treasures. But also like a worried father looking after his child for them not to stumble making their first steps.

Look at you! Almost crushing those Treasure Hoarders when a bunch of rocks fell down after you jumped at the edge of the cliff.

Wait, no- come back here! You should verify the surroundings and be aware of the weight of your power if you’re going to explore in that bold way. You, chaotic brat.

Another one who believed fervently that your mood was to blame for the constant chaos you caused. He also tried to show you the wonders of peace and calm, teaching you how to prepare tea while listening to the storyteller (also both being a little far away from the rest of them, just in case).

He couldn’t help but sigh when the teapot arm broke as soon as you tried to serve the tea. What a waste, he thought.

You apologized to him, kind of stressed with yourself after you took all the pieces with your bare hands to run away with them. Leaving a confused Zhongli behind.

Next day you were back, with the teapot repaired and just like new.

He let out a lot of thankful words, some flattering and a lot more cheesy things that you never had received before.

With that unexpected affection you couldn’t help but react flustered; then a cat that was chasing a bird jumped through a lot of decorations and merchandise, almost starting a fire as the chained events kept going.

Yeah,, uh, Zhongli got some useful mental notes about you and your chaos that day.

Hey, before you go, want to make a contract? You won’t regret it!

But as the wandering spirit you were you had no problems in reject his offer, but also promising that you would visit Liyue if he wanted you to.

Of course he wanted! But.. maybe next time you should stay in Huaguang Stone Forest instead of roaming near the city,,

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XIAO

Tried to kill you.

I mean, your aura is threatening and full of a destructive energy, how is possible that you weren’t a demon to eradicate??

Sorry, but he had a point.

Your first met was on your way to reach Huaguang Stone Forest along with Zhongli for introduce you with the Adeptus.

Xiao, in the other side, thought that you were about to attack Morax from behind, so he just struck against you. With his polearm near to go through your chest, just stopped because you felt him before.

Lifting your hand at his direction, summoning chaos, this time, on purpose. The wind gained a wrathful nature and the biggest roots that were hiding under his feet rose to caught him.

And when you were about to hit each other Zhongli’s shield appeared just in time to separate both of you. Preventing a real catastrophic event.

Now stop fighting and introduce to each other.

Nice(n’t) to meet u.

What if you tried to awake Azhdaha to bring chaos and destruction to Liyue? What if you wanted to summoned Osial? What if… ?

Zhongli had to confirm and promise to him that those cruel possibilities won’t be a near future for respecting the real reason of your travel.

No matter if he wasn’t comfortable with your presence, it wasn’t his decision to allow you to roam freely, so he had to get use to it.

He immediately knew after hearing about your nature that was your fault that lately there were a lot more demons and monsters. Even his karma was getting more painful than usual.

(If you ever meet Hu Tao, please think twice before doing Xiao a prank)

You both didn’t interact a lot, and being honest, it was better that way.

He hadn’t a single intention of talking with you again until the day you were practicing the song that your Anemo friend taught you. By the other hand, Xiao noticed that the melody had the same nature as the one he once heard before being consumed by the karma.

It wasn’t a flute, but a worn lyre that was still in one piece after weeks of being repaired again and again.

“That song… ”

“Do you know it?” Xiao just nodded, staying in silence, being your very first audience even if you still have a lot to learn about playing a lyre.

It wasn’t as effective as the original, but was still… nice, kind of nostalgic.

Next morning, the Yaksha called for you. Made you stay still in the middle of a plain and then he disappeared of your sight.

He abandoned y- wait, what’s that? Why those monsters has that weird dark aura?

You were about to defend yourself until Xiao appeared back just in time to defeat them.

That day you became his personal bait for demons and monsters. Naturally you attracted chaos, so anyway you were, there will be also something to fight.

I guess this is your way to pay for all the troubles you made for him and his duty, so no complaining about it.

If you ask for a unexpected experience to Ganyu she would said that once she found both of you fighting along against the catastrophe, looking after each other’s back and almost having a perfect synchrony.

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SHOGUN RAIDEN; EI

Also tried to kill you.

Well, the puppet tried to.

And then Ei tried when you had the opportunity of facing her.

But since killing a god just mean the releasing of a lot, pure, energy she couldn’t afford that risk, much less considering your “speciality”.

Who knows what would happen to Inazuma if your vital energy burst across the nation. Just like that old story about Sal Terrae and their goddess.

She just defeated you. Letting you rest and recovering in the midst of the plane of her reality within her mind. Your inert body in the middle of the battlefield as she kept meditating.

When you woke up she ignored your presence, but also denying your complaints about letting you go out back.

In her words, you were a burden, another enemy of eternity. Something as unpredictable as you and your “accidents” couldn’t get along with her utopia.

Ei could banish you from Inazuma, but she knows your type. Stubborn and not accepting the most simple orders to obey.

She knew that you would found a way to be back.

It’s better like this.

And in the hypothetical case of you being freed when she trapped the traveler (kicking you out) and then having a chance to see her again after the end of the war, then things would be somewhat different.

There’s not that much of civilization on some islands, so she allowed you to explore as much as your heart wanted. But if something serious happen, she promised that would end her work in the middle of the sea so your remains never be found.

Okay, message clear. Just do chaos near monsters and bandits, got it,,

Even if she wanted to spend some time with you and telling you some stories about Inazuma and other gods she couldn’t found the right time to call you at her presence.

As the current ruler of Inazuma she was busier than the rest of Archons you have meet. Maybe just some letters now and then like a way to keep a logbook, but not really a face to face talk.

Until she got the opportunity of a day off, just to found you messing around near some ruins. Trying to solve a puzzle before your speciality strikes in. The structure fell down after your fingertips reached the stone.

When the dust dissipated, you discovered her figure judging you from the other side of the remain ruins.

Give her a good reason for not errase you from the map, I dare u.

You felt the worst was about to come when Ei ordered you to follow her after a long sigh. Crossing her arms and starting to walk away from the bunch of old and worn rock.

Plot Twist, she actually invited you to rest under a tree, asking in her serene voice the reason for your journey and your origin. In such a direct way that it seemed more like a sentence than a talk to get to know each other better.

You answered what you could remember and then the silence stayed like the only way of interaction between you two.

Ohno, you know this pattern. Something’s about to happen-

“There is some strange beauty in the chaos, it may be the calm after the storm, but the catastrophe itself is seen as a necessary evil to appreciate the stillness. How much it would last until the lighting hit the valley?”

“So I arrived to keep order between the humans?”

Well yes, but actually no.

“… You see, if there is nothing but order and a lack of problems, mortals are likely to create them on their own. Their minds feels the need to be tested, to prove their worth, so I guess some of your chaos may be part of the history.”

“… then shall we take a walk in Inazuma?” You did not know if you were right, but you thought you saw a faint smile through his lips in the same way that lightning can be seen in the sky.

“I’ll allow it.” She said.

Her only condition was for you not to approach the huge boxes of fireworks down the street.

[hotwings0203]

Hello!!! Soooo I came up with a few headcanons for Muslim Bakugou, JajkjGhoA I can't wait to read your response! 😫🤲💖

Okay! So he is definitely the good husband who does house chores! He actually helps around the house, knows how to do all the chores, and all the other girls are so jealous of you lolll

He will make you the best food! He knows all your favourite dishes, and will spoil you with his cooking! Also he will make your favourite desserts as a form of apology for when he pisses you off or makes you upset

Will feed you when he's trying out new dishes, and when you're getting married during the mehndi, when you feed him laddu or gulab jamun, he will blush so hard but also holds your wrist to "guide" you, as everyone giggles and teases you two for being so flustered and blushy around each other

If you make his favorite dishes?? Like okay imagine you make his fav dish (after asking the bakusquad cuz he's hard to approach lol) and subtly give it to him or maybe get Kirishima to give it to him as you leave the mosque or arrive at some community party or something, homeboi will blush so hard and will not let anyone have even the tiniest bite of your cooking

As a thanks he will buy you churiyan! He will see you admiring them and will come up and awkwardly but gruffly ask you if you like that certain churiyan set (that is like a pretty red and gold) and when you say yes, he will proceed to buy it for you, and omg if the bakusquad see this, Denki and Sero will definitely tease him and be like you should put them on her! While you're like omg! Wait, the adults will see! And he just surprises everyone as he gently grabs your hand and puts them on you and just admires how soft your hands are, and how they fit in his hand, and thinks about how pretty they would look with a wedding ring on them, and you are just standing there blushing so hard, and when he sees you wearing those churiyan at other events he feels so proud and possessive and happy

Weak for your smile and laugh, and very protective of you, will blow someone's head off for making you upset or for disrespecting you. Your parents love him so much, will immediately say yes to the rishta! Also, his parents love you so much, you and Masaru are the calm to Bakugou and Mitsuki raging tempers lmfaoo

You're the only one who gets to see his soft side and soft while without being threatened with death loll lucky youuu~ Also! Everyone will tease him sooooo much for being soft for you, the girls and aunties always giggle when they see how soft he is with you when you guys are out in public and he won't deny it either loll

In public he's kinda reserved with pda, but likes it when you hold his hand or loosely hook your arm around his muscled arms. He will however, put an arm on your lower back to steer you away from an uncomfortable situation or will step in front of you to protect you

In private he will be cuddly, loves wrapping his arms around you, forhead kisses too! You will be a blushing, flustered mess as he leans down by your ear and teases you about it in his low gruff voice. Also just loves the feel of your soft body against his

Also! Omg say its eid or something, and you're getting your mehndi done, the bakusquad will push him to sit with you and help you since you're mehndi is still wet. He will gruffly compliment your mehndi design, will get you food and feed it to you, will softly but hesitantly brush your hair away from your face when he sees that its bugging you, and this will make your both blush, and omg he will have the softest look in this eyes at that moment, and his hand will linger by your pretty earnings, and will just gaze at your lips with a lustful gaze as you softly whisper thank you

When the mehndi dries, and Denki makes a comment about how dark and rich the color is and is like damn Bakugou you really have it bad for y/n huh? Both of you will be so flustered and while Bakugou chases Denki while yelling that hes gonna blow his head off, you just stand there will Mina and Ochako and giggle at his antics, and the girls will tease you about you have gotten Bakugou wrapped around your fingers and that you shouldn't be surprised when his parents approach your parents with a rishta

AunwQniwa anyways Muslim Bakugou will love you so much and cherish you and just RIP to your heart 😫😭💖

YO YES MY GAWD LETS ASSESS THIS MFKIN FOOD YOU JUST GAVE US

okay so 100% YES!! Y’all seen mitsuki? She ain’t havin none of that “I’m the only son so treat me like a king” bs. No no, our girlboss femdom Mistski Auntie has her two boys cookin and cleanin every weekend and massaging her feet, as she SHOULD!

These habits carry on to when he gets married also. His wife could be doing the dishes one day right after their wedding and he would walk by, peeking over her shoulder at her hand-to-sponge technique.

“You’re doing it wrong dumbass. Use the hard side to scrub the crumbs off and then the soft side to polish it.” He snatches the plate from your hands and starts vigorously rubbing it the way you couldn’t. You stare at him, flabbergasted that a mom in the desi community has actually succeeded in raising her son right.

“‘The fuck are you looking at?”

“Nothing,” you quickly say, stepping aside to let him work his magic. He merely grunts and picks up the next bowl.

In a moment of bravado, you lean over to kiss his cheeks. He stops scrubbing and just stares at the sponge in his hands, his face slowly going red as a beet.

When you two fight, you already know he’s gonna be yelling at the top of his lungs and stomping around the house, the explosions from his hands searing the furniture around you.

It’s enough to set you off and storm out of the house too. You need a fucking break, he can be so much to handle sometimes.

It’s around late evening that you come back in the garage from wherever you decide to cool off from. The house is silent and dark from the outside so you assume he fell asleep with the usual scowl on his face.

You sigh and drop your keys and purse on the counter, exhausted from the day’s drama. Form the corner of your eye you see a small candle on the kitchen table alight, and you walk over to put it out.

Except right in front of the candle, there’s a small plate of mithai(sweets) that has a note attached to it.

“Sorry for being an ass” is written in his chicken scratch writing. You smile and shake your head, taking a bite from the surprisingly well-made gulaab jamun.

It’s a good thing Katsuki hid Sato’s recipe in one of the cabinets before you came home.

And just like you said, the man is WHIPPED for your cooking. He’s always pulling you to the kitchen and lightly shoving you around the stove, gruffly telling you to add more spices that he knows you can recreate to a T.

Whenever the Bakusquad comes over to hang out, you try to cook the same way you know Katsuki likes (extra spicy), but for some reason on those exact days you can’t seem to find any of your special ingredients…

At other times maybe before your marriage, when he first began falling in love with you he would see you admiring a vendor’s churiyaan and earrings.

He would quietly walk up behind you maybe a foot or two away, observing how you fit the bangles on your wrist.

“I like the red ones on you,” he says lowly, making sure to dwindle down his usual aggressive tone.

You turn and gently smile at him. “Oh yeah? And why’s that?”

“Because red is what brides wear.”

Your heart beats fast as he takes your wrist, oh so delicate compared to his callous large hands.

“And the silver makes me think of the ring I’ll have on you in no time soon.”

Bakugo closes his eyes in front of you and inhales, letting you know that everything about you draws him closer.

When you guys walk around a college campus or even in town, he’s always looking left and right shiftily, convinced that every man within a mile of you is trying to steal you away. He’ll stand in front of you when a guy asks you where a certain building is, he’ll glare at his friends when they get too rowdy and rough with you, but he still gets nervous for PDA. He knows how fast word travels around in desi communities so he doesn’t want to do anything in public, but fuck when he gets home he’s pinning you on the bed and resting his entire weight on you.

At eid as stated above^^ he’ll see you in your lengha or kurti and get INSANELY nervous and flustered at your beauty. The way you sit poised and laughing with Mina and ochako while your mehndi is being done makes his palms sweat and his armpits prickly. He has to wipe them on his kameez almost three times before taking one last look at you and walking away.

Well, at least he tries to walk away. He’s promptly sought out and grabbed by his three cronies, who drag him by nail and tooth towards you. No amount of swearing and growling threats to ‘blow their ass up so bad people will piecing them back together for weeks” stops them from bringing him closer to you.

“Yeah yeah, you said that already,” Denki smirks and playfully zaps his ass so that he helps and lurches forwards towards you.

The commotion makes the girls look up and wave excitedly when they spot the rowdy men.

You bite your lip and give Bakugo a meek little grin, which makes steam curl from his ears.

“Heyyy ladiesss, got room for one more?” Sero drawls and throws an arm over the simmering grenade of a man.

“Hmm,” Mina mockingly contemplates for a minute before she slowly starts to get up, uraraka following pursuit. “Not at the moment, but maybe we could make some room…” she tackles Bakugo and Kirishima also kicks the back of his knees so that he folds cleanly into the chair next to you.

You look bewildered at everybody while they snicker at Bakugo’s vermillion face.

He glared at them and after an oblivious moment or two they get the hint and wink before backing off.

“So, uh, how long have you been getting your hand done for?”

You grin at his inexperience with these kinds of things, but still indulge him.

“About 25 minutes or so.”

“25 min-“ his eyes grow wide and the whole hall turns to him as he screams at your poor designer for making you ‘sit on her cute ass for such a goddamn long time. And why the hell doesn’t she have food yet??’

At least he thought you were cute

💓��

[emilia3546]

You And Me - Casteel and Kieran

When Casteel escapes from the Ascended, he loses everything, his brother, his fiancee, but all he knows is that he has to make it home, to the brother racing across the world to find him before its too late.

*****

It could have been days, could have been weeks since he'd stumbled out onto that beach, but none of the voices around him were familiar. He only caught a few words here and there, but each time he tried to respond, to move, his voice died in his throat, his limbs wouldn't respond. He couldn't even blink his eyes open, not when someone spoke, saying something familiar, then again. He concentrated on that voice, trying to make out the word,

"Casteel," that was it, he'd heard that before, but he couldn't remember what it meant, if it meant anything any more. "It must be," that same voice, "Open your eyes," the voice, the man, was talking to him, he had to open his eyes, but he couldn't, he tried, but he couldn't. 

"He needs to regain his strength,"

"How? None of us are Atlantian," Atlantian, he knew that word too, that was what he was, an Atlantian, and that other word, Casteel, that, that was who he was, his name.

"My Atlantian ancestry will have to be enough for now," the first voice again, he tried to move, to open his eyes again, perhaps this was another trick, another cruel game, to make him think he was somewhere else, somewhere that seemed safe. He was still trying to move when someone tipped his head back, and something pressed into his mouth, he tried to pull away, but he had no strength, "Come on, Prince, bite," this was familiar too, his body knew what to do, even if his mind wouldn't remember, but when the thing in his mouth jabbed up, into his teeth, his fangs, something started flowing. He drank hungrily, his mind clearing with each mouthful, strength returning to his limbs, he grabbed hold, and bit harder, "Good," was that a note of relief? He wasn't sure he could comprehend anything so complex, but it was, whoever it was, they were relieved. But all too soon they tried to pull away, he held on, he needed this, needed their blood, he wasn't ready, he couldn't let go. Someone else pulled his head backwards forcing him to draw in a sudden breath, the cold air making his eyes fly open. There were three men, in just one small room, one of them wrapping up his wrist in some sort of bandage,

"Welcome back," he blinked, this wasn't the place he'd been in before, this was different, he slammed backwards, hitting a wall, wooden, not stone, this was real, he was out. "Whoa, steady, you're safe here, you're safe." Safe? He didn't know the meaning of the word any more. "Casteel, you're safe." That was his name, these men knew his name.

"Safe?" he whispered, his own voice alien in his ears,

"We want to get you home." Home. He hadn't been home in ages, since he'd failed, failed at something, he couldn't remember what. "Steady," one of them gripped his arm as he tried to stand, helping him to his feet, "Steady," he repeated, "It will take time, my Prince." He was a prince? He was a prince, a prince of a fallen kingdom, he'd been trying to save his people, he'd failed. And he, he wanted to go home, to Momma, to Papa, to his brother. But Malik wouldn't be there, because he'd failed. The door opened, and he stepped outside, guided by two of the men, the third standing silent behind them, the one who'd fed him,

"Thank you," he hated it, his voice, it was so raw, raspy, but he lost all thoughts of anything else when the castle loomed into the sky, that was where Malik was. Tears started to form, slipping down his face, but there was something else, someone else. She'd left him, she'd tried to give him up, she was the reason Malik was there, he hated her, he was glad she was dead, and she was dead, he remembered that much, she was dead by his hand. Casteel was still staring at the castle when the third man started explaining that they needed to leave.

*****

Days later, he still wasn't strong enough to ride on his own, hardly managing to keep his eyes open long enough to hold a conversation, but the men had now been joined by a few others, including another that had offered his blood. It was twice a day that one of them offered to feed him, and he was so tired, so hungry that he never refused, even when they started to seem paler, more tired. Casteel knew he should refuse, but he couldn't, he could barely hold himself back from lunging at one of them and draining them completely, the few mouthfuls here and there were barely enough.

"We're almost there, almost there, then you can drink as much as you need, there's more of us there." Casteel didn't know where, he just knew that he wanted to get there, if he could feed properly, if he could finally escape this monster that the Ascended had made him into.

He hadn't realized that they'd arrived at wherever it was until someone roused him from sleep, helping him down from the horse and half-carrying him to a seat. He leaned back against the stone wall, so different from the last one he'd leaned against, here he was outside, free. Casteel drew in a deep breath, the scent of outside helping, he was out, he was free, he was safe. There were others here, others whose scent drew him in, he lost track of exactly what happened that evening, but he knew there were several scents int he room they'd given him to sleep in, those words ringing in his ears, from blood and ash, we will rise. Casteel. my Prince. Your Highness. He didn't deserve those words, but as he started to drift off to sleep, his mind cleared, more than it had for the gods only knew how long.

This place, a temporary settlement that he'd learned wasn't safe permanently, was filled with people, his people. They all said he had to go, but no-one could be spared to accompany him. He'd fed his fill last night, but he fed again that morning, and ate a full breakfast, bacon, sausages. He spoke to these people, so much that his voice didn't sound so hollow, so foreign, he spoke until it became normal again to do so. He remembered their names, there was the woman called Jess who'd helped him find clothes, and spare one to pack with him, the man who'd first fed him, Edward, who promised to watch the road, to keep him safe, even when Casteel had insisted that he'd done enough. There was the woman called Isabelle who'd given him a map, reminded him of the way home. He had hugged her, unsure of how to do anything else, just needing to show his gratitude somehow.

The horse they'd given him was the fastest, and strongest, not that he had much to carry with him, just the spare clothes that Jess had found him, a bedroll, and a few weapons that they could spare, even having fed, craven were still a threat, especially alone, he would hope to all the gods that they left him alone. Some part of him was sad to leave, these people had helped him when they had no obligation to do so, when anyone who was smart would have left him, and he had no way to repay them. He marked the settlement on the map, if he could, one day he'd bring them home.

*****

Avoiding towns was difficult at times, but no less necessary than it had been at the start, not with word having gotten out about his escape, with anyone and everyone desperate for a few extra coins. If he were found, the Ascended would try to take him back, he wouldn't allow it, he would die first. Still, avoiding towns kept him in the forest, vulnerable, especially when he slept. He'd taken to only sleeping a few hours, then moving on, but it was taking its toll, he'd only been free for a couple of months, he wasn't yet strong enough to truly travel hard, so when he fell asleep that evening, he stayed asleep, his body taking the rest it needed, at least until an unearthly scream rended the air.

The horse reared up onto its hind legs, showing the whites of its eyes as it tugged at the rope tying it to the tree beside where Casteel was stumbling to his feet. He reached for the frightened animal,

"Shhhhh," he muttered, patting its neck to try to calm it. It only took a few moments to pack up the bedroll and to arm himself, but it was a few moments too long, and before he could swing up into the saddle to make a run for it, something launched through the air towards him. He ducked sideways, relying on his instincts to avoid the craven screaming at it lunged for him again. He stumbled on a tree foot, rolling to minimize the impact, but still stumbled to regain his footing, losing precious seconds, and yelped when something slammed into his shoulder, sending him sprawling onto the floor. He stabbed blindly in its direction, wishing he'd been able to get his hands on a proper sword, but the dagger was the only thing he had that would kill a craven, the only bloodstone weapon there'd been in the whole temporary settlement, and they'd given it to him. Now it had saved his life, and he swore that if he made it home, he would make sure that everyone there was brought home, to Atlantia. If he even made it there himself.

The craven screamed as the dagger plunged into its shoulder, still struggling forwards, fangs bared, desperate to sink them deep into his flesh. Casteel didn't think, he just reacted, rolling backwards to his feet, he pivoted, burying the dagger into another craven's heart before ducking and rolling forwards to end the injured one still coming at him. He was too weak for this, already he was panting, tiring, but there were more coming. He would never survive, in his last thought before turning to face his death, he sliced through the rope holding the horse in place, wishing it at least to save itself. He slowly backed away from the craven, forcing them to chase him taking one at a time with the horse's hoofbeats still ringing in his ears.

Craven after craven lunged for him, but one at a time was manageable, at least at first. Gradually, his movements began to slow, and when a second craven lunged for him while he was still drawing the dagger out of another's chest, it crashed into him, sending them both tumbling to the ground. Casteel cursed as he fell, the craven's teeth clashing by his ear as he twisted out of its grip, the dagger flying away and disappearing in the trees. He reached for it, but the craven landed on his shoulder, pinning him to the ground as it twisted to lunge for him again. He squeezed his eyes shut, this was it, he was never going home, and he braced himself for the sharpness of its fangs, a blow that never came.

Moments after falling, the weight of the craven was ripped off him, and he saw it fly into a tree, its head torn from its shoulders. He stumbled back to his feet, ready to fight whatever had come, but froze when his gaze met a familiar icy blue gaze. He had hardly a moment before the wolven turned to tackle another craven, scattering the last ones, leaving Casteel staring in disbelief, until he turned back, he wasn't dreaming, he couldn't be, the pain when the craven had hit him was real, the scent was real,

"Kieran?" He wasn't sure when he'd started crying, but the tears were flooding down his face now, and he sobbed out Kieran's name again as he sank to his knees on the floor. Within seconds, the wolven was by his side, wrapping a paw around his shoulders, resting his head on the other. Casteel gripped his fur tight, he was real, real. He sobbed again, burying his face in Kieran's fur, holding on as tight as he could, he was never letting go again, ever, he was safe now, truly safe.

Casteel was still sobbing when fur melted away, becoming smooth, brown skin, still sobbing when Kieran lifted his head, meeting Casteel's gaze, eyes filled with tears as he murmured,

"I've got you, Cas, you're safe now," he couldn't respond, could only squeeze his brother tighter, clinging on to him as he sobbed.

Kieran was here, he was safe, and Casteel held on to him as they walked through the forest, in the direction the horse had gone in, finding it grazing not too far away,

"I knew you were out, I just knew, and I knew I had to get to you," Casteel nodded, letting Kieran help him back onto the horse, walking beside them, "It's you and me, Cas. It's always been you and me."

[the-navistar-carol]

Intervention

Good God help me I’m back on my Garmari again. AGAIN. Class salt, but not Alya, Alix is neutral (so minor Alix salt?). Chloé redemption, but it’s not mentioned. Also, members of the new team at the end are PV Félix and his Gucci Gang

~~~

Marinette never thought she’d thank Chloé Bourgeois, of all people, for her boyfriend.

Backtrack.

A year and a half ago, their end-of-year class trip was the best one they had had or ever would. Funding, from Chloé’s father, went to a weeklong trip to San Francisco. They toured Alcatraz, the different neighborhoods, the Ghirardelli factory, and walked the Golden Gate Bridge.

None of those events even came close to the Teen Titans’ tower in San Francisco Bay. They didn’t go inside, obviously, but almost every day, in their allotted free time, she found herself at a harborside café, sketching the tower and designs that came to her from it and its team.

It was those quiet times that, incidentally, got her into contact with the team shapeshifter, Beast Boy.

Marinette had been sitting on a dock for a change, doodling idly as her legs swung from a bench — she was still too short for her feet to touch the ground at fifteen. Tikki dozed in her purse, stuffed full of chocolate.

As the sun began to make its way toward the horizon, she got up and placed the sketchbook in her backpack. Then, like the sun, she began to head home.

That journey would quickly be delayed. A man, hood up and all in dark clothes, snatched her purse and took off like a shot.

Tikki!

The Parisian girl sprinted after him, shouting for help. If she had been transformed, perhaps she would have taken him down faster.

But perhaps it was for the better. A green blur shot out of an alley and knocked into the would-be thief with a forceful missile kick, quickly apprehending the man. Marinette skidded to a halt to avoid running him over, and was caught in a pair of dark brown eyes.

Oh, hello there.

He grinned toothily, and held up her clutch purse. “Does this happen to be yours?”

“Oui!” Marinette’s hands flew to her mouth, and she couldn’t help but flush in embarrassment. “Oh! I am sorry, yes, it is.” Despite years of learning English, she couldn’t help but stammer with her accent.

The green boy fished out a pair of cuffs and locked them around the thief’s wrists, and kept a hold on them with his left hand as he held out his right. “I’m Beast Boy. Nice to meet you, though it would’ve been better under different circumstances.”

She shook his hand, and couldn’t help a sheepish smile. “Well, um, if you would like to try again,” Marinette suggested, already flushing, “I will be close to Hyde Street Pier, on the waterfront, close to three o’clock tomorrow.”

His grin only widened. “Can’t wait!” Beast Boy hauled the man to his feet, and glanced back at her. “Oh, hey, by the way — what’s your name?”

“I’m Marinette!”

“See you tomorrow, Marinette!”

That fateful encounter sparked a close friendship, which blossomed into an even closer relationship.

Marinette was grateful that the stars had aligned that day. She wouldn’t be where she was in life without him, if she was being completely honest.

She and Gar were open about their identities to each other, and when he came over on his bimonthly visit via Zeta tubes, they spent their days inside cuddling, watching movies, and playing video games.

The only thing that irked both of them was the fact that their relationship was one-hundred-percent secret from the press, as neither wanted that publicity.

Ergo, they couldn’t be seen in public together.

Therefore, they couldn’t go on dates, no matter how much they wanted to.

At least they had reached a compromise. Until Hawkmoth was defeated, on her own terms, they couldn’t be seen together. Even if her own terms, which would take more time, involved no outside help.

When Lila Rossi entered Françoise Dupont for the first time, Marinette didn’t have to be Ladybug to see through her lies. She claimed extravagant tales of meeting American superheroes on her mother’s travels — of the Teen Titans in New York City, of the Batfamily in Gotham, and of some group she had completely made up — the Gems of Justice, of all names.

Yeah, no. She didn’t have to be a superheroine to spot the bullcrap a mile away.

She tried to keep the whole situation quiet, though, she really did. Marinette didn’t want to burden Gar with class drama. After all, she was well aware that they only had so much time together.

But just like how she had tried to keep being Ladybug from him, that plan fell through in a matter of hours.

He held her when she sniffled over Lila’s threat, and let her slump back into him as she described how her classmates (sans Alya, bless her heart) were riveted by this Italian liar nobody who somehow held their attention.

She held onto the hope that they would all see reason, sometime.

That hope shattered when Alya moved away. Her parents wanted out from the living nightmare of Akumatown, as all four of their daughters had been akumatized at least once apiece.

Marinette sobbed, for the first time alone in the city of love.

It was midnight when she called him on her first night without her bestie, bawling into the phone line.

It was twenty minutes past when he showed up on her balcony, and she almost tackled them both over the railing. She let her emotions pour out onto his shoulder and he held her tight; and when she ran out of tears to cry, he held her until she fell asleep in her bed.

In the morning, he let her sleep in a little bit, and made her pancakes (with green food coloring, of course, because how else would he?). She cried again upon seeing the food, but there were thankful tears mixed among the sad ones.

Marinette left her house with her head held high.

Without her rock Alya at her side, Lila’s digs and jibes became worse. She took the mental hits, took the comments. Snide words turned into sneering faces turned into trips in the hallways, turned into destroyed work.

She resigned from the class presidency, choking down tears.

How could she have let it get this bad?

She should have stood up to it, so it could have stopped before it all began!

Oh, Alya…

Trips in the hallways turned to shoving at the steps, turned into stolen things.

Garfield, in the Titan Tower, had had a slow week. He’d only gone to visit Marinette a few days ago, but when Raven flicked his shoulder and told him he was moping, he headed off to the tubes to pay his girlfriend a surprise visit.

He emerged in Paris and immediately morphed into a bird, flying high above the city. He didn’t want the attention that came with his ability, not today.

As her school wasn’t out yet, Gar soared around Paris, taking in the sights. No matter how many times he came to the city, the views still left him amazed.

And Marinette with him, when they could go to those places, would leave him breathless.

As the hour wound closer, he headed over to Collège François Dupont, and took a perch on one of the flagpoles, content to wait for the time being.

The bell rang to let the classes out, and he shifted on his seat, eager to catch a glimpse of his girlfriend.

There!

She was one of the first out, and he readied his wings to swoop down to her and sweep Marinette off her feet. He was almost in flight when he stopped dead, dread washing over him like a tidal wave.

A tall Asian boy with an undercut and bleached hair hurried after her, his sneakered feet hitting the cement with a self-righteous purpose.

And a pack was following him.

Her classmates — a pale girl with long black hair, a dark-skinned boy with close-cropped hair, a short blonde girl, a tall blonde boy, and more — were in close pursuit.

And behind them strode a brunette, her wedged heels clicking with her own purpose. Green eyes watched all as her lips curled into a deadly, sickly smirk.

All attention was on Marinette, who hurried to go home, shoulders hunched.

He had left her alone like this.

“Hey!” the Asian boy called, and a robot whizzed in front of his girlfriend, bringing her up short.

She froze, and slowly turned to face him. Marinette was dwarfed by his massive frame, and she was terrified of what might happen next.

His hands came to rest on his hips, and he cocked his head in a leer. “Don’t think you’ve gotten away with what you’ve done.”

“Huh?” Her tone was shrill, it was panicked. “Kim, I didn’t do anything!”

An ugly frown twisted his face. “Then maybe you’ll remember!”

Faster than she could react, his hand raised and descended.

But Garfield reacted faster.

In a blink, he took off like a shot and dove down at the Asian boy, then shifted back to human form midair to launch himself at the boy feet-first like a missile. His boots hit the boy in the back of the neck, and man, was he satisfied to see him fall.

“G- Beast Boy?!” Marinette’s panicked whisper told him she was only a hair away from a complete breakdown.

The classmates hurriedly backpedaled, clearing a ring for him in the crowd that was quickly forming.

Gar hauled the boy — Kim — up by his hoodie collar. Despite his scrawny figure, he was lean, and packed a punch.

“I don’t like bullies,” he hissed as his eyes narrowed to slits. Kim quaked in his grasp, catching a good look at his fangs. “And if I catch you even looking at her wrong, you’ll wish you had never met her.”

Someone in the crowd was foolish enough to step forward and speak up. It was the dark-skinned boy with glasses, and his robot had flown back to be at his side. “My calculations prove that there is a ninety-percent chance that Marinette is the one at fault.”

He felt his girlfriend shrink beside him. It was tempting to shift into a tiger and intimidate the lot of them.

But instead his lips twitched into a smile, instead he grinned. The hook in his mouth had never been so cold.

“Then I suggest you check your calculations, buddy boy.” The class flinched back from his tone alone — it flashed knives, razor-sharp and ready to cut.

“All of you better watch your backs, ‘cause I’ll be waiting for an opening.” His voice spilled from his throat in an angry growl. If he had been a tiger, his tail would have lashed.

“I’m giving you one warning. Scram.”

The class took off and scattered, one of them even darting into the street.

Gar didn’t spare them a second glance before turning back to Marinette and hugging her tight. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured, closing his eyes and inhaling the scent of her perfume. “I should be there for you, not an ocean away.”

Her arms snaked around his sides and clutched him tight. Her entire body was shaking like a leaf, so he gently rubbed her back.

“Hey, hey. Marinette, let’s get back to your room, okay?” Any trace of the snarl he had bared at her classmates was gone; his voice was gentle now, it was soothing.

She sniffled, and hiccuped once as she tried to get her breathing under control. “Okay.” Her voice was quiet, subdued. There was no trace of the sassy girl he had met who loved life fiercely with all her heart.

Anger built inside him but he dispelled it, thanking Raven for forcing him to learn meditation.

After he picked up her bag, Gar wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her close. “It’s not that far. You can make it.”

Another subdued “okay” was all the response he got.

He led her across the street, ignoring the looks passers-by threw him and even the phone cameras.

Once she was inside the bakery, a shocked gasp let him know Sabine Cheng had seen them. She rushed out from behind the counter to hug her daughter tight, then led the two of them to their living room upstairs.

After he had set down her bag and the three of them were seated on the couch, Sabine with her arm around Marinette and Garfield holding her hand, his girlfriend finally broke down, sobbing into her mother’s shoulder.

“Do you want me to make tea?” he offered, knowing Sabine didn’t want to leave her daughter’s side.

The older woman nodded. “Please. Peony.”

He gave Marinette’s hand a squeeze and got up, finding the kettle and mugs easily. While he waited for the water to heat up, he sat back down next to her.

Sabine looked to him, gray eyes piercing. “What happened, Garfield?”

He told her everything. How he had watched her come out of the school and saw Kim go straight for Marinette on an offense she hadn’t committed.

“It’s Lila,” his girlfriend muttered, her voice muffled by her mother’s shirt. “She’s influenced them all except Alix.”

That didn’t help matters.

“But Alix didn’t defend you,” Gar told her gently. “They all, one way or another, abandoned you.”

Marinette hiccuped, finally looking up at him. A bolt of pain shot through his heart at the face looking him in the eyes — red-rimmed eyes, tear-stained cheeks, and a running nose.

“They abandoned me,” she repeated, her voice hollow. “I have nobody.”

“You’ve got me,” Garfield reminded her, taking her hands and squeezing them tight. “You’ve got two parents who love you more than anything in the world. And, if I called them now, you have the Teen Titans. All of them would stand for you. Every last one of them.”

The kettle whistled, and he got up to steep the tea. He heard Sabine murmur to her daughter in Cantonese, things he didn’t understand but knew the intent. He returned to the couch with three mugs balanced carefully on a tray, and set it down on the table.

“Mrs. Cheng, I don’t know if you’ve considered it, but have you thought of moving schools?”

She nodded, and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “I have. And I think that it would be best.”

Marinette didn’t even flinch, just numbly nodded. His heart broke to see her so lifeless, and he pulled her into a tight hug. He almost had to blink back tears of his own, and rested his chin on the top of her head.

“Let me help with this, Mrs. Cheng. Please.”

Sabine nodded. “I will. How long are you going to stay in Paris?”

“As long as I’m needed.”

And he did. He stayed.

Garfield was the one to march into Françoise Dupont to deliver the paperwork to Damocles, his chin up and shoulders back. Even if he was at average height — and shorter than a good half of the school — they cleared a path for him, the school yard silent enough to drop a pin.

He didn’t spare them a parting glance.

Gar was the one to walk her to her new school, where she was mobbed by Kagami, Luka, and Chloé. They thanked him, each thank-you heartfelt, and he grinned, knowing his girlfriend was in good hands.

He was there for her first week, and went back to the Tower knowing she had friends to support her there.

And when Hawkmoth was finally defeated months later, with a new team and a new Chat Noir, he pulled Marinette into a searing kiss as the rain began to wash Paris clean.

[catflorist]

The Time Being (ao3 / ffn) catflorist Summary: Time-slipping is a side effect of wielding the Rinnegan. When Sasuke slips through time, he always goes to Sakura, whether he wants to or not. 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8

pt 7: seasons

SUMMER

Flowers and garlands decorated the village square, packed with bodies wearing their finest clothes. The guests milled about endless rows of chairs, gathered under the shadow of trees, and stood on benches for the best view. Heads were turning to the podium, and chatter was beginning to die—Sakura made it just in time. Her geta tapped out her quick steps as she weaved her way to the front row.

"You're late," Sasuke muttered, removing his haori from the seat next to him. How he succeeded in saving a place, she didn't know. The square appeared to contain every chair in the village, and still the crowd spilled into the streets.

Sakura smoothed the skirt of her pink dress. "It was your fault," she said, settling in her chair.

Halfway through shrugging the haori over his shoulders, Sasuke halted, peering at her face with new scrutiny. Sakura peered back, comparing this Sasuke, in his formal wear, breeze rustling the hair he asked her to trim a few days ago, with the Sasuke she just met—bleeding and weary-eyed, wearing a purple obi and a permanent scowl.

"How is your head?" she asked.

A smile grew on Sasuke's lips.

Sakura wanted to enjoy Sasuke's smile for longer, but she felt eyes boring into the back of her neck. Across the crowd, Tsumiki Kido turned his head, too late to disguise his staring.

Sasuke frowned, following her gaze. "Who is that man?"

"Someone who isn't happy you're back in the village," Sakura said. A chill traveled down her spine, though it did not matter now if Tsumiki or other members of the council saw them together. As a war hero, owner of two legendary doujutsu, and friend to herself, Naruto, and the Rokudaime Hokage, Sasuke was untouchable.

"Are you happy?" Sasuke asked, eyes stern.

"Of course I am," Sakura said.

"Then I have no other concerns," he dismissed. For the second time that day, pink tinged Sakura's cheeks, and she found herself at a loss for words.

A bright, cloudless blue sky shimmered above, promising to give way to a clear and starry night. When the wedding ceremony was over, they offered Hinata and Naruto their congratulations together.

.

.

FALL

In the warm climate of Fire country, the changing of seasons was gentle, but distinct. A chill grew in the air each day until it was difficult to remember anything different.

The moon hung in the sky when Sakura left the hospital one night. She worked late, reinvigorating her proposal to create a pediatric center at the hospital. Besides on-call staff, the only person working later than her was Karin. After sharing one of Orochimaru's radical techniques to preserve chakra network samples, the scientists of the research lab had claimed her of one of their own.

Walking through the quiet and peaceful streets on the way home, Sakura was confident she would not face rejection this time. The village was changing.

Sakura approached her building. A carving of a blooming tree decorated the door. Jugo's artisanry had quickly gained Konoha's attention. His work was everywhere around the village––hand-painted signs, wooden figurines and statues, delicate carvings around door frames. After Suigetsu asked Jugo to create wooden shuriken for his three Academy students, it seemed every young student passing by held one in hand. Reaching for her keys, Sakura pictured wooden carvings on the walls of her pediatric center.

She was not alone.

"Sasuke-kun," she murmured. He was bonier than she remembered him being. His jaw was only beginning to sharpen. "I see. You're leaving now, aren't you?"

She already knew the answer. It was obvious in the way his hands trembled, in the way shadows were collecting in his eyes. He was clutching the left strap of his backpack. Against the warm hues of her street, he was a patch of deep blue and darkness, a shard fallen from the night sky. This was Sasuke on the night he left the village.

A street lamp buzzed and flickered on. When the light caught his face, his cheeks glistened. He took a small step towards her and exhaled a ragged breath.

This was too much for Sakura. She knew what it was like to be left behind. To face his back and beg him to stay, trying to glean from the still line of his shoulders if her words were working. She did not know, all the while, this was what leaving was like for him.

"Wait," she pleaded, but even before the word formed on her tongue, he was gone.

Sakura's feet led her to Sasuke's apartment. He opened the door after the first knock.

"Sakura," he said, opening the door wider.

One step forward was all Sakura needed to take. Sasuke's arms surrounded her without hesitation, as if waiting all this time for the sign to hold her close.

"I just saw you," she murmured, lips brushing his throat. "You were leaving…"

"I'm not leaving anymore," he promised.

"I missed you," she said, though they had eaten together yesterday, and he had walked her home the day before that. There was hardly a day since he returned to the village that they had not seen each other.

Sasuke's chest rose and fell with a soft sigh. "We are tied together." He said it in the same way someone might say the sun is up or north is this way.

Was it always like this? Sakura wondered.

Sasuke reached for her hand. "I want to always be near you," he confessed.

Sakura brushed the hair out of his eyes, traced his cheek, his brow bone. He blinked, and his eyelashes kissed her fingers. The rings of his left eye were like the ripples a stone made as it fell through the surface of water.

"I never stopped loving you," she said. "I love you as much as I did then."

Sasuke's forehead fell against hers, waiting for her kiss. Sakura did not leave him waiting.

.

.

WINTER

Sasuke appeared in Sakura's apartment in the middle of the night, wearing the Akatsuki robes, carrying the weight of a decision. He fell asleep on her couch. It was a long time before he slipped away.

When she was alone, Sakura removed her robe, which she had worn to conceal the Uchiha crest on the back of her borrowed shirt. She returned to her room and settled back next to Sasuke, asleep and unworried, in her bed.

.

.

SPRING

Before Sasuke climbed in through the window of her third-story office, Sakura was basking in the glow of good news.

She read the message on her desk for the third time. Out of the blue, the council greenlighted her pediatric center, offering her a budget larger than she had dreamed. It was enough to build a facility solely dedicated to children's health. No child in the village would ever be left behind again, the way Naruto and Sasuke were.

A soft footfall interrupted Sakura's thoughts of all the work ahead. Sasuke dropped inside the room, the scent of pollen and oncoming rain drifting in behind him.

Sakura leapt up from her desk and locked the door. "What's wrong?"

"I just received this from the council," he said, passing her a scroll before blinking away his Sharingan.

With trembling fingers, Sakura read over Sasuke's new mission assignment.

The scroll described a mission of indefinite length. A haphazard journey across the shinobi world, doing nothing in particular. Escort this noble. Deliver this message. Check on the status of this favor. Refusing the mission, or failing the mission's terms, meant abstaining Konoha citizenship and willfully accepting exile. The text outlined required checkpoints every five days, the first in Suna.

Sakura threw the scroll to the ground, cracking the wooden spindle within. Suna was a two-week journey from Konoha for the fastest of travelers. There was nothing subtle about the council's true intentions.

"Tsumiki Kido delivered the message," Sasuke said, his face even. "He said it would prove my loyalty to Konoha."

"They can't do this," Sakura spat. "You don't have to leave if you don't want to!"

Sasuke gripped her wrist. "He said leaving would be in my best interest, if I cared about the wellbeing of the village."

A buzz filled Sakura's ears. The threat was a familiar one. It reused works she had spoken herself, in a council meeting before the war, as she pulled dangerous strings to keep Sasuke safe.

They will be upset, Shizune had warned.

"We don't have to accept this. We can change things," Sakura said. "Right now. We've already done impossible things..."

A just, peaceful, village was not too much to ask for. Sakura's surroundings faded away, a plan organizing in her mind. She and Sasuke comprised two-thirds of the new generation of Sannin. With Naruto's influence, they could sway their old classmates, and other skilled shinobi, to their cause. They could reach out to Gaara, who had already implemented structural change in the Sand. Tsunade and Kakashi could leverage their political power and Hinata could reach the Hyuuga clan. Sakura herself carried a well-loved reputation among civilians and in the broader world. If anything, they could use brute force to overthrow Konoha's government. They were not powerless, especially not with the help of their teammates, friends, and allies. They could shape their own world and the future they wanted.

Sasuke shook his head. "They wanted my clan dead, so they killed them. Now they want me to go. I can't risk anyone else being hurt." His hand on her wrist tightened, like holding a lifeline. "I can't lose you."

Sakura's mind stopped spinning. "All right," she whispered. "Then I'll come with you."

"You have matters here." Sasuke placed a second scroll back on her desk. While she was plotting, he was reading the news she received this morning.

The timing suddenly made sense––why Sakura's proposal was approved now, of all times, after months of silence. Of course she could not go with him, if building the facility meant protecting and caring for the lives of Konoha's children.

"We haven't had much time," Sakura started, but her throat closed. He was supposed to stay. Why did he have to go again?

"Finish your work," he said. "Then I'll find you."

"Where will I be?" Sakura asked, because a glint was growing in Sasuke's eyes. This happened sometimes, whenever he knew something she didn't. It happened last week when Sakura had brought home an abandoned black kitten, naming her Hime after the dignified way she perched upon Sasuke's shoulder. It happened when she had pulled away from their first kiss.

Sasuke passed something into her hand. A pebble the shape of old dreams, of crashing waves and salt.

He asked, "Have you ever thought about going to the ocean?"

.

.

SUMMER AGAIN

Sasuke was gone, yet he was here again, in the dark of Sakura's bedroom.

"I'll be with you soon," he promised, after kissing her.

Before he left, Sasuke had recounted every detail he could remember about what Sakura should expect at the ocean––every rejected cup of tea, every question. But he hadn't told her about this.

Sakura understood why. When living out of order, some knowledge could not be disclosed. It was too precious, or too painful. Some things were best left for discovery. .

.

.

.

Up next: Everything comes together. 

Notes: where the daylight begins by ohwhatsherface inspired the sentence about lifelines.

thank you for reading :)

[iggy-of-fans]

Of being a Ladybug

So this one will Hopefully be a little less angst and a little less salt buy still a good read. Hope you enjoy!

Cons of being a Ladybug

There are a lot of things about being Ladybug that made Marinette's life difficult. The fact she always got sleepy in winter, the fact that the cold affected her more strongly than before. The way she never got enough sleep because she had to patrol. Having to deal with Chat Noir and his tantrums and flirting. The way she sometimes had to ditch her other responsibilities in favour of fighting Akumas. Hawkmoth. But right now, the thing that got to Marinette the most was that she couldn't call Lila out. Being Ladybug, a hero, meant she couldn't use being Ladybug for selfish reasons. She'd learned her lesson the last time, and in the end it hadn't even been worth it. But as Marinette, she could at the very least gather some evidence, just in case she made good on her threat. Adrien may think taking the high road was best, but Marinette could see the damage she was subtly dealing to Alya, and also to the others, a toxic kind of take and never give mentality growing in the class in the week since her return. Little things, like Kim asking to copy Max's homework instead of simply getting help with his dyslexia, Alix getting annoyed at Nathaniel for paying more attention to the art than to her when they'd hung out last, Mylene getting frustrated and feeling neglected when Ivan took her to practices instead of dates. Things that had never bothered any of her classmates before were starting to cause rifts and fights. Lila wasn't the best liar, anyone could figure her out with half a brain cell and a smartphone. Her power really came in manipulating situations in her favour, her ability to cry on command and have people feel sorry for her. But her ability to read people was her only real genius. She always knew just which buttons to push to make people feel guilty, insecure or "righteous" fury. So it was subtle, but the classroom was becoming toxic to be in. Marinette, being so giving and kind, was the most taken advantage of.

But as it turned out, Marinette didn't really have to do anything at all. Alya did the work of outing Lila by posting an interview on "The Amazing Lila Rossi, the New Every Day Ladybug and Ladybug's best friend!"

Marinette felt bad for Alya, but also a bit vindicated, since maybe this might finally teach her to fact check. Marinette crossed her fingers in hope of Alya getting off with a slapped wrist and sent the video to Penny Rolling and the Italian embassy general e-mail. It was Sunday night, at least she wouldn't have to wait long to see the results.

Monday morning burned bright with hope, as Marinette saw a special interview announced from Jagged Stone, Clara Nightingale, Prince Ali and several other names Marinette didn't recognize. Nadja Chamak was not going to be hosting though, as several people being interviewed had complained about "unprofessionalism" of the Parisian News anchor. Marinette shrugged, at least she wouldn't have to babysit. She went to school, hearing whispers of LadyBlog being shut down by Officials due to inaccurate information. Marinette sagged slightly, 'that sucks', she thought. She'd hoped Alya wouldn't be too badly affected. Suddenly a shadow fell over her and she looked up to the frowning face of Adrien Agreste.

"Adrien! Morning good! Good Morning! Hi!" Marinette stuttered.

"Did you have anything to do with the LadyBlog being shut down?" Adrien asked, his eyes spelling disappointment.

"What? It's being shut down? Why? And what do you mean me? What power do I have over anyone, let alone Alya to shut that down?" Marinette asked, a negative feeling travelling down her spine. What the hell was Adrien on about?

He smiled reassuringly suddenly," You're right. What was I thinking. You may be our everyday Ladybug, but it's not like you have the influence to get a free blog shut down."

Adrien smiled, patted her shoulder, and walked past her towards the classroom. Marinette stood frozen. Did… Did Adrien think… Did he think she was… Worth less? Because she wasn't rich? She stood there past the final ring of the bell, until Tikki popped her head out.

"Marinette, are you okay?" she asked quietly. She was highly dissatisfied with Adrien at the moment, but needed to focus on her own charge.

"Am I… Did Adrien… I thought he was better than that…. But… He actually thinks because… That because I'm not rich, that I have no power…?" sheshe frazed it like a question, but Tikki and Marinette both knew the truth.

"You should get to class, Marinette" Tikki said instead. Shaking herself, Marinette started walking, only for the alarms to start.

"Tikki, spots on!" Marinette shouted, and took off towards the sounds of crashes.

Alya woke up Monday morning excited to see the result of her post the night before. She'd worked with Lila all weekend to get it perfect and now the fruits of her labour would be sewn. She opened the blog and stopped. Yesterday, before posting the video, she'd had 675 followers. This morning, only 231 people were left. She scrolled to the comments.

"Oh yes, I saved Jagged's non-existent cat, from his non-existent private jet, on a tarmac which civilians aren't allowed onto. And I came to Paris months after Ladybug started saving Paris, but I was supposed to be the original and I just recommended my friend instead!... Yeah right! Who the hell believes this crap? "

" my favorite line in this video is where she claims to have grown up as jagged stones favorite person, but doesn't even get his home city right!"

" oh ladybug totally loves chat, she just wants to keep it on the dl. {attachment} this video taken a couple weeks ago while chat threw a tantrum cause she refused to go on a date with him"

"Clara Nightingale and I were ACTUALLY in the same dance class, and I don't remember a sausage with a mouth being in that class"

"if ladybug can heal her supposed tinnitus, why isn't she curing cancer?"

The comments continued along that line when suddenly a loading error came up. Alya scowled and reloaded the page, only for a [401: error. The page you are trying to load no longer exists]. Alya paled.

"No! No no no no no no no no!" she chanted as she tried to reload it, and then tried to go in to check the coding. Everything was shut down. Alya started to tear up. This couldn't be happening! She was sure Lila wasn't a liar. Marinette just didn't like not being the center of attention, just as Lila said. Marinette just, just this once, couldn't find the good in a person, but Laya could. Alya opened Google and looked up 'Jagged Stone pets', 'Jagged Stone cat', 'Clara Nightingale dance school', 'Prince Ali charity foundation', and finally 'Lila Rossi'. The only thing that came from the search was that Alya felt like a total idiot for not believing Marinette. And an Italian school site. She clicked it and had Google translate the page.

"STUDENT COMMITS SUICIDE AFTER SEVERE CASE OF BULLYING"

The name of the victim was never released, but schools in Italy were all warned about Lila Rossi. According to the article, this should be in her school files… Why did Mlle. Bustier not warn them? A knocking on the front door distracted Alya from her screen.

"EXCUSE ME?!" Alya's mother screamed, and Alya bolted to the door. Her mother rounded on her the second she opened the door.

"Alya! What is the meaning of this? You're being sued for misinformation and defamation and slander!" her mother continued, holding papers in the air and waving them about. Even still in her housecoat with messy hair, her mother struck a terrifying picture. Alya shrunk in on herself. There would be no sneaking out of this one.

Rose looked at her phone again, her eyes dim and her head bowed. Phrases like "I have never heard of this girl before", and "if this is the type of persons you surround yourself with", "Perhaps I was mistaken in trusting you", and most hurtful of all "This is the last time you will hear from me" jumped out of the email at her from Prince Ali. She had been so excited in her last message to him, telling him how Lila had told her of their adventure together, and Lila was giving her such good advice on her singing, dancing, songwriting and more. Her email had burst with praise from and for Lila, and wanting to hear Ali's version of events as well. Usually he emailed back within a few hours, but this time it had taken over a week to hear back from him. In the email he had sent, was an attachment to Alya's interview of Lila and a short message, saying only that he had never met Lila Rossi, and he'd thought Rose was smarter than to believe everything she heard, and if she kept that kind of company and believed such outrageous lies then perhaps he shouldn't have contact with her anymore, since she was seemingly too gullible and too naïve to take his friendship seriously. Tears dripped down her cheeks onto her phone. Why was Marinette always right about these things.

Jagged Stone watched the video that Marinette had sent to Penny on his big screen in his suite in Paris. He was not at all impressed with her obvious name dropping, made up stories of her greatness, and claiming he'd written a song about her. Marinette's short message of "HI Penny, I understand you and Jagged are crazy busy, but this interview ended up on my friend's website, and I just couldn't ever remember Jagged mentioning a pet other than Fang. I've even looked at some older interviews where he said he'd hatched and raised Fang when Jagged was only 15! I have no idea where this girl is getting her information, but I didn't want you to think that all of Paris had completely lost their minds and thought this heads up might put you in a better space to deal with weird questions if they ever come up. - Love, Marinette"

Jagged listened to the little chit on the screen claiming shevd received tinnitus from saving his cat. Geez! Did this girl have any idea the kind of implications this could have on his musical career?! The hell is wrong with kids today? And the girl interviewing her never even checked her sources? Poor Marinette, stuck with such complete idiots and liars. He really should try to talk Sabine into letting him take Marinette on tour with him again. This was getting ridiculous. He frowned even harder when Clara Nightingale was accused of "being jealous and stealing" sausage girls dance moves. He started feeling his blood boil slightly as he distantly heard Penny shouting into a phone for lawyers and interviews and "gosh darn it, anyone but some idiotic French Anchor". He honestly wasn't sure which of them was more pissed. Himself or his fiancée.

Clara Nightingale broke her phone on the far wall of her apartment. Two decades of dance and singing lessons, of poetry and practice and some little chit half her age thinks she can tell people that she stole it? Tears at the corners of her eyes, she was grateful Jagged had sent it to her with the assurance that Penny was already setting up interviews and lawyers. Thank Ladybug and all that is good for Marinette Dupain-Cheng. If she hadn't had the foresight to send this video to them, then there would have been absolute hell at their next public appearance. She glared at her broken phone on the floor. Steal her moves, did she?

At 4am in Metropolis city, Lois rolled over and sleepily answered her phone.

"Yes?"

"I know it's early, Lois, but I have a job for you in Paris…" came from the other end. Louis bolted up in bed.

"I'm listening"...

To be Continued

[whump-mania]

The Escape

TW: abuse, death threats, gun use, flashbacks, panic attacks, non consensual touching, implied noncon (please don't read if under 18. thank you.)

Ben and Chloe were alone. It was that one time in the day where they could be alone with their thoughts and alone with each other. It could have been the middle of the night, or the beginning of the day: time was a concept neither of them truly had a grasp on after being trapped in a dark room for so long. 

It had been two weeks since Chloe came to Ben’s rescue, which inevitably failed. At first, Aaron kept the two apart, chained to opposite sides of the room, but he decided there wasn’t really any harm in letting them interact at least a little bit.

They were lying in the back corner of the room, hugging each other to keep themselves warm and trying their best to fall asleep. No matter how hard they tried, however, they would most likely end up being wide awake for their brief moment of peace.

Both of them jumped when the door was opened and light flooded into the room. They sat up instantly, Ben getting some help from Chloe to sit upright due to his broken hand. 

“Leave us alone,” barked Chloe, defiance still burning in her eyes. Ben only stared at the floor, too afraid to do anything else. 

Aaron laughed. “Good morning to you too, Chloe.” He smiled and crouched down to meet the gaze of both of them. He reached over to Ben to caress his face, but Chloe pulled her brother away, protecting him the best she could. 

“Leave. Us. Alone.” Chloe had always been good at hiding her fear. She was terrified on the inside, but to an outsider, she looked brave as ever. Aaron’s smile fell.

“I’ll give you one more chance, Chloe. Stop fighting and I’ll only make him hurt a little bit. Unless you wanna see what happens when his arm bends the wrong way?” Aaron brushed the hair out of Chloe’s face, earning a flinch from her as she tightened her grip on Ben. Aaron’s smile returned.

“Which one will it be, sweetheart?” Aaron asked, almost sweetly. It made Chloe sick. She hesitated before averting her eyes and letting go of her brother. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered to Ben before he was dragged away by their captor. Thankfully, Aaron avoided his broken hand and wasn’t too rough with him. He pulled Ben to his feet and left to the other side of the room to retrieve a chair, setting it next to where Chloe sat on the ground. Ben thought that he would be strapped into it, but he was proven wrong when Aaron sat down.

“We’re gonna do something a little different today. I’m in the mood for a concert,” Aaron explained, reaching into his pocket. “And I’m gonna get one.” Both twins froze when he pulled out the item in his pocket. 

A gun, held at Chloe’s head.

“Sing for me, Benny.”

Ben felt sick. He looked between his sister, who was frozen with fear at the threat of the gun at her head, and to Aaron, grinning with glee as he leaned back in his chair.

He promised himself he'd never sing again. It made him feel disgusting after what happened in high school. He could still vividly remember the lust in Aaron’s eyes as he watched through the doorway of his room, his safe space. Tainting one of the only things that made Ben happy forever. And now he had to do it again.

“Wh...What do you want me to-”

“You remember our song, don't you?” Aaron cut him off. Ben wished he hadn’t remembered that song. But how could he forget?

Shifting uncomfortably where he stood, Ben cleared his throat and wiped his eyes of the tears he hadn’t even noticed forming. He began to sing, staring at the ground. His voice shook, and he was off key, but he had to keep going to keep Chloe safe.

Aaron chuckled and pushed the gun closer to Chloe’s head. “Come on, baby, you can do better than that. What happened to the little songbird from three years ago?” Ben took a shaky breath and closed his eyes.

He continued as if he was alone. He tried to forget the situation he was in, and tried to travel back in time to where he could sing to calm himself down. For a moment it was working, and Ben sang like he used to, but...

“You’re so hot when you sing like that, Benny...” Aaron’s breathy voice broke him out of his trance, and his eyes shot open as he was brought back to his own personal hell. Aaron was no longer sitting down, he was right in front of him, touching Ben’s face and pulling him against his body by the waist. Ben sobbed when he felt Aaron’s erection pressing against him.

Aaron was still holding the gun, which kept Ben frozen in place. He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, it was going to happen again, and he was so, so afraid.

“You sound just like you did back then. Can you imagine how hard I had to try to keep myself from you back then? And look at you now, you’re so-AGH!”

Aaron was suddenly torn away from the other man and Ben stumbled back, watching in horror at what was happening in front of him.

Chloe had ripped Aaron away, trying to hold him back and as far away from Ben as possible. Aaron growled and attempted to throw her off of himself. In the struggle, he dropped his gun. He didn't notice, though, he was too busy fighting Chloe.

“You fucking BITCH! I’ll KILL YOU!” Aaron was finally able to force Chloe onto the ground, punching her in the face repeatedly. He grunted angrily with every punch, ignoring Chloe’s screams and the blood splattering on his fists and his face. He was blinded by rage, and he was out for blood.

Ben was shaking and frozen in place with shock. His eyes darted from Aaron to the gun, and back to Aaron. He came back to his senses as he realized what he had to do. 

He scrambled forward and grabbed the gun, his hands shaking as he lined up his shot. Aaron wasn’t paying attention, as he was unfortunately preoccupied with Chloe, but Ben needed to take any chance he could get.

With a loud bang, and a louder scream from Aaron, Ben shot his captor in the leg. Aaron rolled off of Chloe and clutched his wound as Ben dropped the gun, jumped up, and grabbed Chloe’s hand. 

They ran out the door and into the twisted hallways of the small house. Ben only ran faster as he heard Aaron yell his name with rage. The twins ran and ran, stopping for nothing, rushing out the door and into the world. 

It was pitch black outside and freezing, most likely the middle of the night, but they didn’t care. “We need to find a phone,” panted Ben. “We need to call the police.”

Chloe shook her head. “Marcus is a cop, remember? He blackmailed me, he would make it impossible to get any help. We need to call Joy,” she explained as she tried to keep her breathing at a steady pace. “She’s rich, she can get us a jet and get us the fuck out of here!”

After running for what felt like hours, the two of them finally found a phone booth. Chloe quickly dialed her girlfriend’s number and begged silently for her to pick up. When she finally did, she frantically explained everything and a car was there to take them away in a matter of minutes.

Ben was amazed at how close they were to the city the entire time. Aaron had drilled it into his brain that they were far, far away from civilization. He sat in the back seat as Joy and Chloe talked away. His ears were still ringing from the volume of the gunshot, and he was still so afraid. He began to get dizzy.

Chloe looked behind her and placed her hand on Ben’s leg. He looked up at her, tears in his eyes. “We’re going to be okay,” she whispered, smiling at him. “We’re going far, far away from here, okay? He’ll never find us again.” 

Ben could only try to believe her as he passed out from exhaustion.

[sxveme-2]

blueberry pancakes // bucky barnes

MASTERLIST

Description: A single mother. Juggling being a mom, a full time pediatrician, and a difficult ex who believed now would be the best time to finally be a father. A soldier ripped out of time. Ex-assassin turned superhero. Learning how to balance a new domestic life with handling demons of his past, while facing the trials of the future. a love story began over something as simple as chocolate chip pancakes with hidden blueberries.

Disclaimer: I do not own any original Marvel characters! All canon plots and canon characters belong to Marvel Comics and Marvel Studios. This is an original work. You may not publish it anywhere else

Status: Edited

Note: Takes place after endgame. I have elected to ignore Tony's death and Steve's leaving. Did not happen. Quick Reminder! My works are only published here, AO3 and on Wattpad, thank you.

Chapter Eighteen: The One With the His Job

Warnings: N/A

Word Count: 3054

He told her there was a danger with him. That there was always going to be a threat. He warned her what could possibly come if they went further. But neither cared. Neither wanted to stop. There were such strong feelings between the two that if they stopped, Lily would be left with something missing in her life. She didn't want to let him go, despite being hesitant to let him in. He created this new feeling of safety for Lily, yet here they sat. She knew what her parents were doing. It was recorded in studies that the Winter Soldier was unlocked through a series of Russian words, triggers that would set off the chemicals in his brain.

And for the first time, Lily felt scared around Bucky Barnes. But it didn't last long.

With his eyes squeezed tight, Bucky made his way towards Lily and Hunter. Fluttering those steel-blue eyes, Bucky looked at Lily, and she knew he was still there. He turned his back to the two, blocking the view of Lily's family. And he spoke, cool, calm, and collected.

"For two of the smartest scientists, you don't do a lot of research," Bucky began, "I don't work like that anymore. Now in about two minutes Captain America and the Falcon are going to walk through those doors. Do us all a favour, and just sit. And wait."

The clicking of a gun made Lily's heart stutter. It came from one of the three Osbornes. She whispered a quiet prayer, despite her lack of religious beliefs, and tugged the young boy closer to her. Her breathing was rapid and tears brimmed at the mossy iris of her eyes, creating a glass-like effect. It made her look like a real doll, just as Bucky called her. A small shuttering breath escaped her lips as she pressed a kiss to the soft tufts of blonde on Hunter’s head. If anything, she just wanted to shield Hunter from all of this. With what he had been through at such a young age already, Lily felt her heartbreak at the idea of him having to witness the events that would follow.

"Lily go to the car," Bucky whispered, glancing over his shoulder, "Please."

She didn't hesitate. Most people she was sure would try and stay and help, but Lily would be damned if she had Hunter stay in this cafe for a second longer. Without skipping a beat, the blonde tugged her son away from the booth and darted with him towards the car they had brought here that morning, rushing him into the back. The moment the doors closed, both Lily and Hunter let out a breath of relief. Leaning her head forward, Lily placed it on the top of her steering wheel, blinking away the tears that threatened to fall as everything began to settle in.

The sound of her phone ringing made every hair on her body stand on edge.

Glancing up, Lily sniffled while answering through her car. It was Rose. And dear God was the elder sister glad to hear from her. But nervous at the same time. She wasn't sure if Rose knew about what was happening, she could only assume so, seeing as the younger sister had been in the cafe not too long ago with Lily's best friend.

"Lily! Thank god you answered are you okay?" Rose's panicked voice quivered as it rang through her speakers, "Do you have Hunter? Please tell me you have Hunter?"

"Yeah, yeah Rose I've got Hunter. We're okay. We're in the car." Lily responded, her own voice barely above a whisper, "Are you and Gen okay?"

"Yeah...yeah, we're at Gen's apartment. I tried to take Hunter, I tried. But they...they ju- "

"Rose stop. It's okay...listen I'm with Hunter right now I'll call you back. Make sure Gen's okay, and just stay there." Lily finished, "I love you." and with that, the blonde ended the call, turning her attention to the clear shell-shocked boy that was sitting in the back seat.

"Mom is Bucky gonna hurt grandma, grandpa, and uncle Cedar?" his voice whispered, shaking and cracking halfway through.

Lily felt a ton of bricks smash against her chest. She herself didn't even know the answer to that. She trusted Bucky, yes. But this was also his job. To take down the people who do these sorts of things. Bring them to justice, by whatever means needed. And a part of her knew that there was a possibility she could lose her parents and brother within the next few minutes, but the other half of her knew that Bucky wouldn't. She felt deep inside that if it came down to it, he would let them live and be brought to legal task instead of violence. But Lily didn't know...but she couldn't leave Hunter hanging. If she did that, then he'd know her own thoughts on the matter. And it wouldn't help either case.

"No." she stated, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear, "No I don't think Bucky will."

And she was right.

Not too long later, the doors to the cafe swung open after the police screamed down the street. Lily watched with pain in her eyes as her parents, unscathed with a mere bruise or two were walked from the building, Bucky, Steve, and Sam following close behind. No one looked injured or hurt, and a sigh of relief escaped from Lily. Bucky glanced over at the car and excused himself from the trio, jogging towards the car. Lily watched as he opened the passenger side door, sliding in.

"Hey, Hunt buddy," Bucky whispered, shifting to turn.

"Hi, Bucky." Hunter returned, a sense of relaxation in his tone after seeing that no one had been injured, "Is everything okay now?"

Bucky's eyes met Lily's, and the two shared a moment of silence before he began to speak once again, "Yeah. Everything's okay now buddy."

-----

"How're you feeling, hun?" Lily whispered as she took a seat on Hunter's bed after tucking him in for the night, "Lots happened today. Is there anything you wanna talk about?"

"Why'd they do it?" the boy whispered, looking up at his mother, "Why did they do it, mom, I don't get it."

Lily let out a soft sigh, running a hand across the boy’s forehead, "I don't know bud. I don't. I wish I had an answer for you. Bucky's taking care of it. anything you need to know I'll tell you, okay? I promise." the blonde hummed, reaching her pointer finger out.

Hunter nodded and wrapped his smaller finger around hers. Pressing a kiss to the boy’s forehead, Lily stood from the bed. Flicking off the lights, she smiled gently at Hunter curling under his blankets before she shut the door to his bedroom. Digging the heels of her hands into her eyes, Lily walked down the stairs where Bucky, Sam and Rose were sitting in her living room. She smiled gently when they looked up at her before she took a seat next to Bucky on the couch.

"So this is a daily thing with you guys, hm?" Rose asked, sipping her water, "Like what do you guys do when people aren't trying to blow up the city or take over the world?"

The room fell silent except for the late-night news playing in the background. Bucky and Sam looked at each other with frazzled expressions as though they didn't even know what they did when there wasn't an imminent threat to the city or the world. Lily couldn't help but laugh at that fact. Out of the four of them, she lived the most basic and mundane life. Rose was a world-famous stylist and designer, Bucky and Sam were superheroes. Lily was just a children's doctor living in suburban Manhattan with a family and a dog. The other three had travelled all over the world, and Lily hadn't. So learning what these fantastic people did in their free time did seriously intrigue the girl.

"Yeah I mean there aren't always people trying to take over the world," Lily continued, sipping her glass of wine, "Do you like...go bowling?"

Bucky let out a laugh, his head rolling backwards, "Bowling? I guess so, I mean there is an alley in the compound. But we mostly just hang out at our own places really. Wait for the next mission. I help at the retirement home, Sam hosts a veteran support group. Steve never stops working." the man hummed, his arm draping across Lily's shoulders.

"Speaking of bowling," Lily sighed, readjusting herself, "Hunter's birthday is next week and I still have no idea what to do. He's getting older and it's harder to come up with ideas."

"How do we go from talking about Bucky and Sam being literal superheroes to Hunter's birthday," Rose chuckled, "But I'm not sure Lil. Maybe take them bowling I guess."

"Or bring him and a few of the kid’s friends by the compound," Sam suggested, "If the kid’s friends are anything like Hunter, I'm sure they'd love it. Run a watered-down version of a training thing to be an Avenger."

"I'd love that Sam thank you. I just want to give him something to take his mind off of everything going on." Lily shrugged, leaning further into Bucky.

-----

November seventh. The faithful day that Lily welcome her baby boy into the world around her. Into her arms, into the life of New York. Despite her not wanting kids for quite some time, she wouldn't take back having Hunter. She just wished he was the son of someone better. For his father was the person Lily wouldn't even wish upon her worst enemy. Every year since Hunter was born, Lily wanted to make his birthday special. She'd pull out all of the stops if it meant seeing her boy smile brighter than she ever had before. And in the times they were experiencing now, she knew he needed it, as did she, more than ever.

"So how do you know the avengers?" One of the kid’s parents, Jill, asked as everyone unloaded from the cars when they arrived at the compound, "Because Hunter's story seems a bit far-fetched, hun."

Lily sighed and rested her hand on her son’s shoulder and looked over at the woman, "What did he tell you, Jill?"

"That his mommy's seeing the Winter Soldier." the woman hummed, placing her own hand on her son’s shoulder, "Sounds like a fantasy."

"Fantasies can come true." A deep voice hummed. Lily couldn't help but grin at the feeling of a metal arm wrapping around her waist. Bucky. The small group of parents went silent as the man pressed a kiss to Lily's temple, "And only seeing? Here I was hoping we could refer to it as something a little bit more, doll." he teased, earning an elbow from Lily.

Lily felt her face heat up and her breathing catch in her throat. As much as she wanted to rub all of this in Jill's face, she still had that massive bundle of nerves inside of her that held her back. All of the parents here weren't exactly Lily's friends. She knew them from the PTA at Hunter's school and a few from her neighbourhood, and they were all very much those cliche suburban moms that would be seen in movies. Stuck up, believed themselves to be perfect with the perfect children. And Lily quite liked their children, but the mothers? Ugh, Lily couldn't stand them. However, they were insistent on joining the kids for the tour.

"Nice to see you finally have a man in your life," One of the other moms, Gina, hummed as the group began to walk towards the compound, "And a strong father figure for Hunter."

Lily glanced to the side, scoffing at her remarks, "I'm both Hunter's mother and father. And I don't need a man, Gina, I've raised Hunter alone his whole life essentially." she muttered, resting a hand on Bucky's arm to relax the tension.

Ever since the night Cedar attempted to break into Scott's apartment, something inside of Lily grew. A new side of her, she supposed. Growth, almost. A part of her knew that if she were able to stand up to Scott, the man who had destroyed any ounce of confidence she had throughout their relationship, who were Gina and Jill to hold her back. Of course, there was only a certain extent she would go to, for she was still nervous to even speak to people most of the time.

"Welcome to the Avengers compound!" Tony boomed as the doors opened for everyone to walk in, "If you'd like to join the little kiddos on the tour Just keep to the left here with Mr. Sam Wilson, aka the Falcon. and if parents would like a few drinks, follow me, towards the lounge."

A few of the parents joined the group of kids as they wandered down the hall. Hunter waved goodbye to Lily as she and the other parents made their way towards where Tony Stark was leading them. The small group of mothers and fathers whispered as Bucky tightened his grip on Lily's waist. The last thing Lily actually wanted to do was spend time with these parents, however, she was willing to sacrifice her sanity for a few hours if it meant giving Hunter the best day ever.

"Alright, Cyborg go help Nat bring out the refreshments while I get these people situated, hm?" Tony teased, patting Bucky's flesh arm, "Lily come, help me entertain your friends."

When Bucky's arm left Lily's waist, Tony took over by looping his arm with hers. Lily raised her eyebrow at the man as he took her over towards the rest of the group, sitting next to her on one of the couches. Lily gave the billionaire a quizzical look but he just nodded, as if telling her to simply go along with it. Lily and Tony had only spoken a handful of times, but he seemed fairly persistent about letting Bucky go get the things from the kitchen.

"So Lily," one of the fathers, Thomas, started, "it's really nice to see you get back out into the field. Not even just romantically, socially too. Maybe you'll actually come to the PTA group date nights, with someone other than Genevive." he chuckled, leaning backwards on his seat.

"She wouldn't attend anyway, Tommy. Lily isn't one for fun." Jill chuckled, crossing her legs, "What is it you do, Lily? Stay at home with your dog and kid. Come on, no one wants to see their kid that often. The only time I see you out is with Joey!" the woman continued, shaking her head.

Despite it being somewhat truthful, the woman's words stung a bit. Lily knew she didn't go out often and never really tried to connect with everyone around her. The only time she really did was when she was essentially forced, and she figured that's why Jill figured to go for a sensitive part in Lily's life. But then again, Jill was also a two-faced gossip who could never stay out of other people's business. Lily seemed to be her favourite topic of discussion, and her favourite to pick on. The blonde felt as though she were back in high school, or hell, even middle school. Jill was always going after Lily's insecurities, as though she could see right through her. It terrified the young mother, but Lily knew how much Hunter loved Jill's son. So she went through with it and sucked it up so her son could enjoy himself.

"Interesting comment...uh what was your name?" Tony commented, leaning forward slightly.

"Jill. Jill Reinhart." the redhead hummed, tilting her head to the side.

"Right. Jen, so like I was saying. Interesting comment. Lily here is actually quite in tune with fun. She attended a party I threw not too long ago and was an absolute hoot." Tony chuckled, squeezing the blonde’s shoulder, "And just because she actually enjoys spending time with her kid, who is a saint, doesn't mean she's any less fun. So."

The room fell silent. Lily looked over at the man with wide eyes as she took in what he had said. Jill always managed to find that soft spot, but Tony was quick to the jump. She figured this was why he had sent Bucky off, so he could deal with the clear teenage drama that was taking place inside of a group of adults. It probably didn't help Lily was the youngest of the entire group and was clearly the most vulnerable.

"W-well I was just- "

"No, jenny I really don't wanna hear it. Ah! here come Nat and Bucky with refreshments." Tony hummed, wiggling his eyebrows at the blonde before taking a seat next to nat as she sat down.

"you alright doll?" Bucky hummed as he walked over, reaching his hand out, "Mind joining me in the kitchen for a quick second?" he continued.

Lily nodded and took the man’s hand, standing from the couch. She glanced over her shoulder to see Jill sitting there with an absolutely shocked face. Lily smiled gently to herself as Bucky tugged her out of the lounge and into the hallway. A giggle escaped both of their lips as he spun her into his arms, leaning her up against one of the walls just outside of the kitchen. shaking her head, Lily wrapped her other hand into the man’s hair, enjoying the soft feeling of the dark tresses. He hummed softly, before bending down and pecking her lips.

"I was about ready to absolutely rip a new one off of that woman." Bucky chuckled as he pulled away, resting his forehead against the shorter girls.

"Mmm, that's Jill. Just a PTA woman. A real handful." Lily cooed, letting out a deep breath, "Now what can I help you with?"

"Well..." Bucky hummed, leaning back gently, "I was just wondering...seeing as we may as well be. And I absolutely adore spending time with you and Hunter is the sweetest boy...Do we want to I don't know...make it official? Basically, what I'm asking, Lily Osborne, will you be my girlfriend?" he finished.

A new sense of fear settled deep within Lily's stomach.

[reidingandwriting]

Love, Mom

Word Count: ~1700 words

Ship: Natasha Romanoff x Reader (Mother!Natasha) Peter Parker x Reader (if you pay attention) Tony Stark x Reader (Dad!Tony) brief IronFam, Clint x Reader (parental/platonic)

Warnings: Language, mention of guns and gunshots, sort of Endgame compliant, quite a bit of angst in this one!

You may not have been a Romanoff by blood, but you damn sure were one by love. You were sixteen when Natasha took a chance on you and rescued you from the Hydra base you had been living in since you were a toddler. When you turned three, your birth parents found out you had the power to control fire. Your parents were terrified of you and the powers you had, and they dropped you off at a children’s home for “extraordinary youth”. This turned out to be a Hydra child trafficking ring, and for the next thirteen years, you went under intense training to become Hydra’s youngest but most valuable asset. It’s been two years since the day you met Natasha and the other Avengers, but you remembered it like it was yesterday.

~~~

You rounded the hallway, holding your gun as your eyes scanned the hall. You walked silently, stepping over the fallen bodies and flinched as you heard another faint gunshot. You’ve heard gunshots regularly since your arrival, but they never got easier to hear. You turned left down another hallway and stumbled when you ran into a woman with red hair. Neither of you moved. Your training told you to kill her and move on, but for some reason, you couldn’t. She didn’t feel like a threat, she felt safe. Your gun shook in your hands and you kept eye contact as you slowly bent down, setting the gun on the floor. ‘I’m safe!’ You wanted to yell, but you hoped your action spoke louder than words ever could.

“What’s your name, kid?” She took the opportunity to speak and your voice wavered as you answered.

“Y/N.” You watched as she nodded.

“How long have you been here, Y/N?”

“Thirteen years.”

She opened her mouth to speak and then paused, as if she heard something. She moved her hand to her ear and spoke.

“I’m on the top floor. I found...” She glanced at you and she saw a younger version of herself in you. You didn’t show it, but you were scared. You couldn’t afford to be scared, fear made you a target. You didn’t want to be here, to be their puppet. You wouldn’t have put your gun down if you did.

“Natasha?” The voice in her earpiece snapped her out of her trance. “Do you need backup?”

“No backup. I found a hostage. Unarmed.” She gave you a pointed look and you nodded. “She’s young.”

“Bring her with you.” Tony’s voice cut in. “At the very least, we’ll have Dr. Cho check her out.”

The redhead looked at you and you trembled slightly, eyes on the floor.

“Y/N? I need you to trust me, okay?” You nodded slightly and a ghost of a smile played on Natasha’s lips. “I’m going to get you out of here, you’ll be safe. I just need your help getting out of here. Do you think we can do that?” You nodded again, wordlessly leading the way out of the warehouse.

~~~

You had boarded the jet that day and been flown to your new home at the Avengers Compound. You didn’t talk much in the beginning, only one or two word responses reserved for Natasha. You then met with the best counselor Tony Stark could find, and after a few weeks, you started to break out of your shell. Within three months, you had completely opened up, and you didn’t think it was possible to be this happy. You fit in perfectly with the Avengers and you considered them to be your family- and they definitely felt the same. You were all broken individuals trying to figure out how to be whole again, and you happened to form a family at the same time.

The last two years you spent with the Avengers had been the best years of your life. You learned how to drive, celebrated your seventeenth and eighteenth birthday, and had your first crush on a boy who swung from webs and loved Star Wars and stupid (funny) science puns. Tony discovered you loved his robots, especially DUM-E, and helped you built a miniature one. You learned that you loved running, and when Steve found out, he invited you to go on morning runs with him. Sam discovered you were a genius when it came to pranks, and the pair of you could often be found scheming. Peter introduced you to his friends, and you quickly joined the group. It took time, but you began to feel less like a living weapon, and more like a human. Life was going great. And then the battle with Thanos happened.

———

“Natasha? I feel funny.” Natasha fell to her knees in front of you, and moved your head to rest in her lap.

“You’re okay, Y/N. I’ve got you, you’re safe with me.” Natasha whispered. Your hand started to dust away and you whimpered.

“I-I’m scared, Nat. I don’t, I can’t leave you.” Tears stung your eyes as you desperately tried not to cry.

“Shhh, shhh.” Natasha couldn’t hide the shake in her voice. “I love you, kid.”

“I-I love you, Nat.” And you were gone, nothing but ash.

———

Five years had passed, and Natasha still thought of you every day. She had finally accepted you wouldn’t be able to come back, until Scott Lang showed up and discussed a plan he called a time heist. Natasha and Steve only knew one person who could make this work- Tony. After an unsuccessful meeting and mostly unsuccessful attempts at time travel with Scott, Tony was on board. Once the team had figured out time travel, then came the mission that changed everything- collecting the Infinity Stones. It was supposed to work.

“See you in a minute.” Natasha smirked as her and Clint traveled to Vormir to retrieve the soul stone. The team all collected their stones and returned. When Natasha didn’t return with Clint, they all dreaded how they were going to tell you. In the end, the Avengers had won and Thanos was defeated.

You stood up after speaking to Tony, who was still recovering from wielding all six Infinity Stones to snap away Thanos’s army. His arm was ruined and the side of his face was pretty burned, but he was alive, and that’s what mattered. Your eyes scanned the battlefield, looking for Natasha. Your eyes met Clint’s and you walked over to him.

“Clint? Where’s Nat?” An emotion you didn’t recognize flashed through his eyes.

“Y/N...” He trailed off. You looked at him expectantly. “She’s dead.” You burst into laughter.

“That’s funny, Clint. Really. Okay, Nat, you can come out now.” You called and when she never came, your heart ached. “She’s... she’s really gone.” Clint took a step towards you and you backed away. “She was supposed to be here! She didn’t get dusted, she was supposed to be here for me when I came back.” You broke into sobs, grieving the loss of Natasha, the woman you considered to be your mother.

��——

You stood with Peter during Nat’s funeral, your hand holding his. All of you were suffering a great loss, and you were trying to hold it together for everyone around you. You gave his hand a gentle squeeze as the funeral ended and you let him go, excusing yourself. Your feet carried you to the pier and you sat on the edge, removing your shoes, and let your feet dangle in the water. You didn’t know how long you had been sitting there, but when you saw the sun begin to set, you knew it had been a few hours. You started to stand up, knowing you should go inside, as you heard footsteps behind you. You looked over as Tony sat beside you, closing your eyes as you faced the lake again.

“I know she’d want me to be happy. She sacrificed herself so that everyone could have their families back. So that the world could return to how it should be. But I’m not.” You took a shaky breath, and Tony rested a metal hand on your shoulder. Tony had lost all function of his right arm, and T’Challa brought him a prosthetic from Wakanda, created by Shuri. It was an adjustment, but Tony was grateful to have only lost his arm. He soon began to call himself the Iron Soldier, pulling a typical Tony Stark move and using humor to cope.

“It’s okay to not be happy. You can be mad, or sad, or any other emotion, Y/N.” Tony looked at the sunset as he spoke. You wiped at a stray tear on your cheek.

“I’m so grateful I have all of you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” You whispered. Tony’s arm wrapped around your shoulders, comfortingly rubbing your shoulder. “I hope she knows how much I love her. She took a chance on me when no one else did. She gave me a reason to live, and now I’ve lost her.”

“Trust me, kid. She knows.” You rested your head on Tony’s shoulder, watching as the sun set. You both looked back as you heard the sound of footsteps, Morgan walking over to you two.

“Daddy gives me juice pops when I’m sad, so I brought you a juice pop, Y/N.” You patted your lap for Morgan, your arm wrapping around her protectively as she sat in your lap.

“How can I be sad when I have a juice pop?” You offered a smile to Morgan, taking one of the three juice pops she was holding. If someone would’ve told you three years ago, you’d be sitting with Tony Stark and his daughter eating juice pops at their lake house, you’d think they were crazy. Now? You couldn’t be happier to have your family, as weird as it may be.

———

You walked into your bedroom in the compound a few days later. Clint had offered to come with you, as did the rest of the team, but you wanted to do it alone. The room hadn’t changed at all in the last five years. You could tell the room had been cleaned often, as there wasn’t any dust on your things.

You walked around the room, stopping when you saw an envelope on your dresser. You immediately recognized Natasha’s handwriting and carefully opened the envelope. You pulled out the piece of paper, unfolding it as you read the letter.

“Y/N...

I hope when you’re reading this letter, I’m right by your side. I’ve got a feeling I won’t be, which is why I wrote this for you. Seven years ago, I took a chance on you, much like Clint took a chance on me. The moment I saw you, I felt this pull inside of me. It told me to take care of you, to keep you safe, and to give you the life you never had a chance to live. During the two years we shared before I lost you, I began to consider you my daughter. I felt maternal when it came to you, a feeling that died inside of me many years ago.

These last five years without you have been the longest years of my life. I’m sorry for all the times I didn’t appreciate your stupid jokes, your weird sense of humor, and how optimistic you are. You really don’t know how much you love something until it’s gone, huh? But we’ve got a plan. I don’t like to be too hopeful, but I really think it’ll work out. I don’t know if that’s you rubbing off on me, or if that’s the desperation speaking. Losing you has been one of the worst things, Y/N. I hope whenever this battle is done, I can give you the biggest hug and catch up on all those missed years.

In case it doesn’t work out to plan, I need you to remember something for me. I’ve always been proud of you, and I know I’ll continue to be proud wherever I am now. You can accomplish whatever you put your mind to, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. I know you’ll be sad, maybe mad, that this is the way things turned out. I hope one day I can see you again to make up for everything. I love you so much, Y/N Romanoff.

P.S. I know it’s not official, but you’ve always been like a daughter to me. Maybe we can make it official?

Love, Natasha Romanoff. Or Mom. Whatever you like.

Taglist: @daughter-of-stark @agent-barnes40 @spideygirl2003 @ditttiii ❤️ Taglist is open! Let me know if you’d like to join :) This was so much fun to write, I think I might write more mom Natasha soon :’)

[ugly-crying-over-bucky-barnes]

Blue Eyes Part 10

Summary: After the Garrison is shot up, the youngest Shelby daughter finds a new home in London. She strips herself of her last name and tries to live a peaceful life far away from her brothers’ chaos in Birmingham. But fate leads her right back into it after she runs into Alfie Solomons.

Part 10: Tommy visits Alfie, Charlie is taken.

           Alfie’s fingers drummed impatiently on his desk. He was itching to just get the meeting with Tommy over with. He’d suffered enough as far as he was concerned. Seeing Ella cry, being the reason for her tears. Unbearable. But his hands were tied, what else could he reasonably do?

           Still, Tommy was prolonging the visit. Taking his time walking to Alfie’s office, sitting down, adjusting his tie pin (pretentious ass), and painstakingly lighting a cigarette.

           Alfie stifled a groan in the back of his throat and rolled his eyes. “For fuck’s safe, what?” His patience was wearing unbelievably thin. Another five seconds and he was sure he would start doling out well-deserved threats.

           “You made my sister cry,” Tommy informed him as if he didn’t already know.

           The man narrowed his eyes. “I did? Me? I’m the one who made her cry? You sure ‘bout that, mate?” He hissed.

           It was infuriating that nothing he could ever do would disturb the Brummie. He simply raised an eyebrow and watched the end of his cigarette slowly burn away. “What can I do to make you change your mind about my proposition?”

           “Proposition.” Alfie laughed bitterly and toyed with a pen to keep his hands busy. “Tommy, you’ve been ‘round the block before. Surely you must know that a woman doesn’t want to be offered up as a token for loyalty. So what you can do, right, is take back your words and leave me be on the matter. Sound good?” When he didn’t get an immediate answer, he switched subjects. “You’re here to talk business, meeting the Russians tonight. I must urge you to inquire about Faberge eggs. You can toss ‘bout diamonds and sapphires or whatever, yeah, but that’s the real prize, innit? With a couple of fine pieces and an egg, you’ll easily get your fill of forty grand.” What came across as helpful was simply Alfie setting up the opening stages of his own plan.

           Tommy nodded and looked interested in the possibility. “I can do that. They’re tricky but perhaps you’ll be able to persuade them a little further.”

           He crossed his arms over his chest and grunted in agreement. “Whatever I can do, mate.”

           But apparently, the Blinder wasn’t done with the previous issue. “So you have no intention of marrying my sister.”

           Alfie nearly blew a gasket. “You fucking Birmingham folk don’t ever let go of things, do ya?” He snapped.

           Calmly, Tommy tapped a bit of ash off his cigarette and cleared his throat. “It’s a simple question, Mr. Solomons.”

           “Don’t think it’s any of your business, mate. Never has and frankly, it never will.” He growled. “That’s my decision, innit?”

           “I’ll take that as a no then.”

           “Fuck off.”

           Tommy took one last drag before standing up. “Just trying to clarify, Alfie.” He buttoned his coat and flicked the cigarette into the ashtray on the desk that was really only used by him whenever he visited. “I’ve got other alliances I can make. You think our kin should stay with our kin. Since Ella isn’t Jewish and you’re so adamant about that, I s’pose it’s only fair to uphold our own roots. I’ve got inquiries from a family of Travelers.”

           Alfie’s hand slowly went to his waistband where his pistol was tucked away. Anger in his blood started to rise to a boiling point. His fingers curled around the pistol, ready to pull it out on the Blinder for what seemed like the hundredth time. It was a miracle Tommy wasn’t already riddled with bullets so late in their business relationship.

           “They’re worse than we are. You’d think we were the poshest folk you’ve ever seen if you met them.” Tommy continued to bait Alfie, taunt him and get him to the point of no return. Get him to realize that Ella wasn’t to be toyed with and her brother wouldn’t tolerate this game Alfie was playing with her. “Savages, really. But they’re effective, aye? An alliance with them would give me enough power to start taking more areas. Maybe areas a little closer to Camden.”

           “Tommy, I swear to whatever fucking pagan being you believe in, I’m going to blow your brains all over this fucking office.” Alfie’s face was starting to go red with rage and he was ready to pull out his pistol. Of course, he knew the man was just trying to rile him up. Manipulate him into doing his bidding. Ride or die, that’s how they both operated. But Alfie also knew that Tommy was ruthless enough to go through with what he was threatening. He’d made an alliance with the Lees by marrying John off. He very well could do the same to Ella. And Alfie would lose her for good. It made his heart compress painfully at the thought.

           Tommy put a hand in his pocket and retrieved something. He approached Alfie’s desk and dropped the small item. “That was the ring my father gave my mother.” He explained in a steady voice, fully aware that Alfie was armed and angry enough to do exactly what he threatened. “I’ll leave it with you for a week. After that week, if you haven’t made your decision, I’ll return and I’ll take it back. Rest assured, Mr. Solomons, after that, the ring will go to someone else who won’t wait.”

           Alfie’s jaw clenched. “I can’t fucking wait to spit on your grave.” He snarled viciously.

           “Neither can I, Alfie,” Tommy responded without skipping a beat and took his leave.

           Alfie loosened his grip on his gun and heaved out an exasperated sigh. He eyed the ring sitting on the desk near the ashtray where Tommy’s still smoking cigarette sat. For a moment, he didn’t even want to touch the thing, convinced it had some gypsy curse on it. But curiosity got the better of him and he picked up the piece of jewelry. It was a simple gold ring that needed a good polishing. Mounted was a round cut topaz stone that was small enough for him to scoff at. No wife of his would wear something so modest.

           But that wasn’t why Tommy gave it to him. It was the sentiment behind the gem that would mean more to Ella.

           Alfie turned the ring around in his fingers for a little bit, his mind racing. What would he do if he learned Ella had been pawned off to some gypsy clan? God was truly testing him. The only woman he ever loved just happened to be the sister of the most infuriating man to ever grace the planet. Just his luck.

           He grumbled a few obscenities under his breath and tucked the ring into his pocket.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

           It was always a strange phenomenon seeing the Shelby Company at work. Socialites mixing with folk who grew up in the slums. Some could say it was possible to move up in the world. To step into another social class and fit right in. Some disagreed. Just because you put on a nice outfit and some gold didn’t make you anything different. You were still the person you were born as just dressed to the nines.

           But Ella thought her brother looked like he fit right in. As he stood in front of the group gathered for the opening of Grace’s foundation, he didn’t look out of place. Even with a Brummie accent, he spoke with the esteem of a businessman. Because that’s what he was. It didn’t matter what he did to make his company rise from the dirt, he conducted business. They all did, to a certain extent. And if Tommy’s predictions were sound, they’d be a legitimate company. Still, the suspicion and fear would linger, there was no denying that. Whispers would continue to float around about how the Shelbys grasped the reins of power.

           After he spoke in front of the gathered crowd, Tommy slipped out of the room. Ella stood and excused herself to Ada who was sitting beside her. She followed her brother out into the hall.

           He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, and eyes fixed on the photograph of his wife. Grace’s serene expression surrounded by wreaths and garlands of flowers. Some of her favorites when she was still alive.

           Ella went to stand beside her brother, touching his shoulder to alert him of her presence. “Doing alright?” She could imagine it was an emotional day for him. He would see the production of his wife’s dream without her there beside him. On top of the added stress of everything else going on.

           He nodded solemnly, his eyes never moving from Grace.

           “Mum’s ring is missing.” There wasn’t concern or anxiety. Ella had a sneaking suspicion of where it had gone. Only her siblings and Polly knew that she kept the family heirloom in her jewelry box. “I couldn’t find it when I was putting on my earrings this morning.”

           “I know,” Tommy answered. “I took it.”

           She glanced over at him, hoping for more of an explanation than he offered. But she wouldn’t get the chance to ask any follow-up questions.

           “The absence of my invitation for this event was obviously an oversight on your part, Mr. Shelby.” The thick Irish accent was unfamiliar to Ella, but Tommy appeared to be well acquainted with it. His jaw immediately clenched as he turned around.

           Ella did the same and saw the priest standing in the hallway. Something about the man gave her a sinking feeling in her gut. Based on Tommy’s reaction, she could assume this was the man that they planned to kill. A man of the cloth.

           “Ah, Miss Shelby, I don’t believe we’ve met.” Father Hughes smiled with malice in his eyes.

           Tommy subtly placed himself in front of his sister, taking a step forward to place her behind his shoulder.

           “The woman who fell in love with the Jew.”

           Ella was unsure how this man had managed to stay alive so long. He’d pissed off the wrong people too many times. People like him didn’t last long when it came to the Peaky Blinders. But she had a feeling there was a reason Tommy was waiting. All it took was the right moment. And certainly in the middle of a social event opening an orphanage in broad daylight was not the right moment.

           But what really sent a chill down her spine was how he seemed to know everything. Things that the average passerby didn’t. He knew about Alfie.

           “Go to the reception, El,” Tommy said quietly.

           “Tom…” She was uneasy about leaving him alone with the priest.

           “I’ll be right there, go.” Her brother replied firmly.

           Reluctantly, Ella nodded and made her way down the hall to find her family. As she passed, Hughes gave her a sickeningly smug smile.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

           Ella couldn’t shake the bad feeling she got from Father Hughes. She stayed close to her family to feel safe, bouncing back and forth when the conversation bored her.

           Ada sighed and tried to soothe Charlie who was fussing loudly. She rocked him back and forth. “He doesn’t want to play with Karl after he took his train.” She shook her head.          

           Ella smiled. “So much like Tommy. Never satisfied when things don’t go his way.” She agreed and tried to hush her nephew to no avail.

           “I know, love, you want dad? Here we go, let’s find him.” Ada decided and headed over to her brother to pass Charlie off.

           Ella lingered by the table with pastries and finger sandwiches but she didn’t have much of an appetite. Her mind was like a switch, flipping from one worry to another. Why did Tommy take their mother’s ring from her jewelry box? What had he talked to the priest about?

           When Ada returned, the sister’s chatted about nonsense. Ella tried to get her mind off her anxiety and hoped she was simply overreacting. But the bad feeling turned into something all too real.

           Tommy walked over to them. “Where’s Charles?” He asked with a confused look.

           Ada frowned. “I gave him to you.”

           “Where is he?” Tommy demanded again.

           “He was just here.” Ella felt immediate panic spark in her chest, rising to her throat. “Where could he have gone?”

           Tommy rushed over from family member to family member asking the same question. And within seconds, madness ensued. The Blinders were scattered about, searching the building and running outside to find the missing boy. Ella felt dizzy as she ran through the halls of the new building, trying every door, which was firmly locked.

           “Charlie?!” She shouted, her voice following her through the vast hallways.

           “El!” Ada’s heels clicked across the smooth floor. “They’ve taken him, they took him into a car.”

           “No, they…he was right there!” Ella was shaking with fear. The threat was so close, maybe none of them even realized. The entire time, they had enemies breathing down the back of their neck. If they could simply snatch a toddler in a crowded room with his father right there, then there was no telling what else they could or would do.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

           The rain sounded like pebbles against the window. It was mildly soothing but the night was heightened by anticipation and fear. Polly gently stroked Ella’s hair as they waited in the betting shop.

           Tommy entered like a storm. Dripping from the rain and with a silent fury that filled the room. “Where’s Linda?” He demanded.

           “With Esme.”

           “Esme’s water broke.” John entered from the back door still wearing his coat and hat.

           “I need to know who spoke.” Tommy’s eyes passed from each of his family members in the room. “Our enemies know everything. Everything. I need to know who spoke about business outside.” His voice became more insistent and his steely expression turned paranoid. “I need to know who spoke and who they spoke to, now.”

           Arthur tried to step in but Tommy was already too far gone. The man looked from person to person, his face still stained by the rain.

           “Your wife, Arthur? Or Esme getting cash for cocaine. And you two.” Tommy turned to his sisters. “Back in the family, aye? Out of the blue.”

           Ella’s eyes narrowed. “You think I’d let something like this happen?” She challenged.

           “If anyone has talked about the tunnel to anyone else, I need to know this second!” Tommy snapped.

           She stood and gave him a disappointed glare. “I’m not going to sit around and let you speak to me like this. Not after everything you’ve done to this family.” She could sympathize with her brother. He lost his only son, the only thing of Grace he had left. But somewhere along the line, he’d found himself in that position because of his own choices. Ella left the betting shop and retreated upstairs to her room.

           Tommy looked to the doorway where she disappeared. There was someone else. Someone else who knew. Not only that, it was someone who held that damn egg.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

           Ella spent the night in her room, curled up in bed under the quilts. The rain continued until the morning, leaving a fog over Birmingham. The first thought upon seeing the daylight filtering in through the lace windows was about her nephew’s safety. There wasn’t much more she could do other than pray he was okay.

           It was hardly seven in the morning when there was a brief knock at the door and the knob turning.

           “El, get up.” Tommy entered a second later.

           “I’m still sleeping.” She said even though she was staring at the opposite wall while lying on her side.

           “It wasn’t a request. I need you in the car, now.” He looked disheveled, most likely he didn’t sleep at all that night.

           “I’m not doing any of your dirty work, Tom. Not after the way you spoke to everyone last night.” She made no effort to get up.

           “Ella, fucking get up and be downstairs in two minutes.” He ordered in the voice she used to fear. The voice that used to let her know that she was in trouble. Maybe for telling fortunes at school, biting John’s arm, or hiding from him when they were called inside for dinner at dusk. He had been an authority figure in her life ever since she could remember. But she’d gotten sick of it. Fed up with his complex.

           She sighed heavily and sat up. “I’m only doing this because of Charlie, not because of the way you’re acting now.” She made sure that was clear before he left.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

           Tommy parked outside of a large warehouse that Ella was unfamiliar with. She was sat in the backseat while Michael sat in the passenger seat. Neither of them cared to explain what they were doing there.

           “Wait here,” Tommy ordered firmly and stepped out of the car.

           Ella let out a frustrated sigh. “So he’s just brought us along to make us wait outside?” She lamented to her cousin.

           Michael shrugged and made himself busy by loading his pistol with bullets. “He has a plan.”

           “Yeah, always seems to have some sort of plan.” Ella decided she wasn’t going to just sit in the car and went to step out.

           Michael turned around in the front seat. “He doesn’t want us to…”

           “I’ll be fine.” She cut him off and shut the door behind her. Tucking her pistol in her holster tucked under her fur-lined coat, she made her way into the warehouse.

           Her entrance caused a pause in the conversation. But she was the most surprised when she saw Alfie standing a little bit away from her brother. His blue eyes watched her with a hint of apprehension, unsure what her reaction would be to him.

           Tommy was the first to speak. “Ella, I told you to wait in the car-”

           She didn’t listen and began walking straight for Alfie. The man beside the Jewish gangster tensed up a bit at her fast approach. But Alfie waved him off and let her step right into his space.

           Without a word, she reached into his heavy, black overcoat. Searching his inside pockets until she found what she was looking for. Her mother’s ring.

           Alfie almost looked guilty. Guilty for having it. Guilty for keeping it, instead of giving it back to Tommy. Guilty for holding onto the physical hope that he could still have Ella.

           She held it up to his face. Her lower lip trembled but her eyes didn’t dare move from his. “Why’d he give this to you?” Her voice shook. Everything continued to pack on, putting more and more weight on her shoulders and making her more and more confused. The push and pull was agonizing and she was going to end it.          

           “Ella,” Tommy spoke firmly, trying to get her away from Alfie.

           “Answer me.” She ignored her brother unaware that he had drawn his gun.

           Alfie noticed the pistol. “Go back to the car.” He spoke gently but wanted to get her out of the way.

           “Why did he give this to you?” Ella shouted. Her words echoed through the large warehouse and caused a few birds to spook off their perches.

           The space went silent for a moment, and then Tommy cocked his gun. The metallic clicking sound was too familiar to Ella. Initially, it used to mark the thrill of the hunt. Getting ready to claim a prize after tracking it patiently through the woods. Now it meant death. Retaliation. Fear. Power.

           Ella turned around but didn’t move out of the way. Standing in front of Alfie, she glared at her brother. “Tell me.”

           “Ella, move.” Tommy’s hand didn’t lower but she noticed it was shaking ever so slightly.

           “Why did you give this to him?” She repeated herself.

           “It was a mistake. You can take it back.” Tommy looked past her, over her shoulder at the gangster. “It’s not his to give anymore.”

           “Why?”

           “He left the richest name off the list.” Her brother answered, his eyes were cold.

           “What are you…”

           Tommy’s anger was palpable as he continued to point the gun forward. “He made a deal with the Oddfellows. Told them about the tunnel, told them about the deal with the Soviets.”

           Ella froze for what felt like hours. She didn’t want to turn around and face the man she loved. The man who had held her heart in his hands while he went behind her back. “No…” The word came out long and sounded foreign to even herself. Finally, she faced Alfie again. “You did this?”

           The man was facing two worlds colliding together. Two different faces of his self. The brash, unapologetic, ruthless gangster and the man who found the one person on the planet who saw his vulnerable side. “Things you don’t understand…”

           “Tell me what I don’t understand!” Ella snapped. She was beyond the point of acting patient and listening to the men in her life speak. It was her turn. She’d waited long enough. “Everyone ‘round here thinks I don’t fucking understand anything. So, please, fucking enlighten me. Tell me what I don’t understand!”

           “I told you he couldn’t be trusted,” Tommy spoke up.

           Ella just laughed sarcastically. “And yet you were willing to marry me off to him.” She snarled and pointed at Alfie. “You proud? Proud of what you’ve done? The damage you’ve caused. They’ve got my nephew and we don’t know if he’s even still alive!”

           Alfie couldn’t keep a neutral face. He had no idea about Charlie, no idea what the Oddfellows were up to. But in his anger and humiliation for being lied to, he chose to make a deal.

           Ella closed her fingers around her mother’s ring and walked towards her brother. “Nothing but a pawn to you lot. Isn’t that right, pral?” She gave Tommy a scathing look. “Are we all just pawns? Charlie too? Moving your little pieces ‘cross the board while you stay safe, protected by your soldiers?” She yelled. “Are you both proud? Proud of what you have? Guess what. In the end, when we’ve all died ‘cause of you, you can be comforted by your money. All ‘lone in an empty house, satisfied that you won. Never caring about the people who loved you!”            

           “I didn’t know about Charlie,” Alfie replied honestly. “But if your brother wants to fucking kill me now then let him do it. Step aside and let him. But don’t you fucking dare tell me that I never loved you. Were ready to give you that ring because Tommy were threatening to pass you off to someone else. And I’ll be damned if I let him use you.”

           “If you loved me you never would’ve gone against my family!” Ella matched his volume and clenched her hands into fists. The topaz gem on the ring digging into her palm as her knuckles whitened. “You wouldn’t have put an innocent little boy in danger!”

           “Then step aside, let him shoot me!” Alfie stepped towards her, his cane slamming down onto the concrete. “That’d solve your problems, love. Once ol’ Alfie Solomons is dead and gone, you won’t have any more fucking issues. You can go off with your family and forget ‘bout me. Let me pay for me fucking sins, step aside.”

           Everything inside of Ella became so wound up the more he spoke. Her entire body trembled from all the immense pressure pressing down on her heart. “That’d solve your problems.”

           “I never stopped loving you!” Alfie barked over her voice. “Not once, even when I made this deal. And I fucking hated myself ‘cause of it. The world ain’t built for us, love, no matter what.” He pointed his cane at Tommy. “He’s always going to want to do away with me, won’t he? Even if we were married, he’d want me gone. So better off he does it now.”

           Tommy lowered his gun. “Stand down, Alfie.” He muttered and tucked his gun away. “Michael,”

           Ella hadn’t noticed their cousin had run into the warehouse once he heard all the shouting.

           “Go and tell Moss, it’s Palmer.” The Blinder instructed. “Ella, get back in the car.”

           She took one more look at Alfie. Her body ached from the emotional toll he’d caused her. Despite it all, she still yearned for the past days when things had been so simple between them. When they were in love and it didn’t cause such a fuss. Now she felt like she’d been stretched so thin.

           “I’m sorry.” He mumbled quietly so Tommy wouldn’t hear. “I wish it could work. But I’m being realistic, love. You’re better off without me.”

           He pushed her away with his words. Most likely it was his intention all along whether he realized it or not. With him, Ella would know nothing but friction. She wouldn’t know peace. And as much pain, as it caused him, he would rather see her walk away than suffer beside him. It didn’t matter how in love they were. What mattered was how the odds were stacked against them from the very beginning.

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[duskandstarlight]

Embers & Light (Chapter 27, Nessian multi-chapter)

Notes: Hello lovely readers! I am so sorry for the day's delay in posting this chapter. I was really poorly last week (and I'm still recovering) so I wasn't able to keep on top of my writing in order to bring you a chapter yesterday. That is not only because I found this very difficult to write, but because this is a LONG chapter. 14k words. There was so much to pack in, and as you all know, I am not one to gloss over certain elements, especially not Nessian goodness. Thank you to everyone who has sent me will-wishes this week and last. You are all lovely people and it's very much appreciated. Let me know what you think, as always. And apologies for any typos and inconsistencies—as I said, I've not been well so my brain has not been functioning like it usually does!

Let me know if you want to be tagged/untagged!

Chapter Twenty-Seven Cassian

Frawley and Lorrian were all ready to go when Nesta came downstairs. Those ever-perceptive eyes—ice blue and brown—fell immediately to Nesta’s chest as she stepped into the hallway. But to Cassian’s relief, the witch remained relatively silent, mounting Caerleon and casting into the sky with her husband close behind her in a glow of emerald without more than a few crisp, comments.

Nesta flew on Sala. Despite knowing that she had trained on Caerleon enough the previous week to know what to expect, Cassian could not help the fear that wound its way into his mouth as beast and Fae left the ground. He needn’t have worried. Sala’s gait seemed as natural to Nesta as breathing; her legs tucked into the manticore’s flank just before the beast’s wings with a confident, determined grip and her fingers were secure in Sala’s ruff. Cassian had launched himself into the skies straight after her, watching Nesta as if he were a hawk. He knew the magic binding Nesta and Sala would keep Nesta seated despite the battering winds and any notion of gravity, but that didn’t stop him from flying a few feet below her for the first couple of miles, ready to throw himself into a nose dive should she fall. 

But later, when he realised that Nesta was perfectly at home on top of her manticore, Cassian had risen to fly beside her. And when he had winked at her, his broad wings flapping to match her furious pace, the smile she had sent back had been genuine enough for Cassian to know that if he died that day, he would die happy. That he had seen Nesta offer him a true smile without any thought of stifling it, and it was beautiful.

A few miles from the camp, the four of them landed to leave the manticores in a thicket of pine trees. Cassian watched Nesta bury her face into the manticore’s neck and whisper in the beast’s ear before she wordlessly strode over to him.

They had decided the night prior that Frawley and Nesta would leave their manticores behind. It was an idea that had been met with great protest by Frawley, but in the end, Cassian and Lorrian had talked her round. They were both of the same opinion; bringing the manticores to the Solstice luncheon would probably push the already hostile Illyrian lords to self-combust. So the manticores would remain on stand-by, out of sight but near enough to the camp to intervene if necessary.

“Ready to go for a ride, sweetheart?�� Cassian teased Nesta as she walked towards him.

Cassian had expected things to be strained between them since he had given Nesta the necklace. There was also the small matter that they would be publicly declaring themselves together today, but Nesta appeared wholly unfazed. If anything, she looked happy, despite the sexual innuendo which usually had her dropping swiftly into irritation. Her cheeks were stung pink from the cold air, giving her a healthy glow, and her eyes were impossibly bright in a way that made his own heart ache.

Her lack of reaction didn’t help Cassian to stop thinking about Nesta in a sexual capacity. And the thought of Nesta actually riding him… He had dreamt of her so many times now that their imagined actions had become a well-rehearsed dance. He knew what it felt like for her to straddle his hips. Knew what she sounded like when she sighed and sank down onto the length of him, his lips attacking the column of her neck. Of how he groaned so deeply that everything in him shook. Nesta’s phantom hands always weaved through his hair at the sound, and when she bent to kiss him, she tasted entirely right...

“I suppose I’ll have to make do with you,” Nesta struck back, pulling Cassian out of his salacious thoughts with a jolt. Her tone was playful, but there was an underlying edge of disappointment that told him she was fed up of being carried around.

Even though it hurt, Cassian understood. He wouldn’t want to be carted around the skies when he could fly through them. So, he only cast a new protective shield over them, knowing that Nesta would spit blue murder if he ruined her hair. He also knew that he should look presentable for once, rather than turning up in blood-stained armour and hair so wind-snarled that running a brush through it threatened to break it more than it promised to ease out the knots.

Cassian might be the Night Court’s general, but that didn’t mean it was beneath him to look presentable.

For a long, the two of them travelled in silence. To his surprise, Nesta had curled her fingers into his chest, an action which had been lost long ago with her fear of flying. The action was absent-minded enough to tell him her thoughts were elsewhere. Indeed, when he glanced down at her she looked far away.

Cassian was just about to ask if she was all right, when Nesta asked, “Sala will be ok in the forest?”

He bit back a smile at her concern. Somehow, he knew that would upset her.

“Yes, she’ll be fine,” Cassian replied sincerely. “She’s an alpha predator and she’s with Caer.”

Darting another glance downwards, he found Nesta chewing on her lip. The action made her appear even more beautiful. Cassian didn’t know how Nesta always managed to look so arresting. Sometimes, he thought it was because he saw her through rose-tinted lenses, but then someone else would make a comment, like Lorrian yesterday, and he’d know it wasn’t in his imagination at all.

“If you need her, she’ll come,” Cassian assured Nesta, locking his eyes with hers so his words held weight. “Sala is bound to your magic, just will her presence and she will find you.”

Slowly, Nesta nodded. When she unclenched her teeth, her bottom lip was swollen and flushed. He wondered what it would feel like to kiss her when they weren’t dying. Whether she’d let him. Sometimes—only rarely—Cassian thought she might. Like earlier, when he had given her the necklace and she had twisted to look up at him. It would have been so easy to cup her cheek and bow his head that little bit further. And for a second, he’d thought that was what she had wanted. Her eyes had darted to his lips, but rather than satisfaction Cassian had felt a stab of mutual fear. Because they both knew that if Cassian was to give in to temptation—if she let him and wanted it—they would not stop until their skin was bare and their bodies were moulded into the other.

Cassian fortified his ring of fire at the thought. Made it even tighter and more formidable. Blocked out the thought of Nesta’s endless skin and her unforgiving curves. Since the kerits attack on Windhaven, Cassian felt more of Nesta down that shared tether. It was still constricted, but it was enough to get hits of emotion more frequently than before. And even though Cassian was desperate to, he hadn’t dared to reach out and touch that twisted rope again.

It hurt to deny himself the pleasure of brushing against it. The urge pulsed beneath his skin, whispering her name over and over: Nesta, Nesta, Nesta.

“You’re ok with today’s plan?” Cassian asked Nesta, because he needed to say something that didn’t make him think about how they would be sharing a bed later. How he would be so consumed by her scent it would be hard to breathe, let alone think. Needed to focus on the fact that today could be very dangerous and that he was willingly carrying her right into it.

It would not be like last time when she had been suffering from nightmares. This time she would be lucid. He would not be able to arch a protective wing over her and ghost his body alongside hers. It was going to be necessary torture and he had no idea whether she had yet pieced together that they would not have separate sleeping arrangements. Nesta was usually so quick to put two and two together, but she had not truly snapped or refused point blank to be anywhere near him, which made him suspect that it hadn’t yet clicked.

“Aside from being promised to you?” Nesta asked, a slight crease appearing between her brows.

The words were not vicious, but Cassian still had to snicker away the hurt. “Aside from that.”

“Yes, I’m ok with the plan,” she replied. She craned her neck up to look at him. “You’re worried.”

Cassian could not help but press his lips tightly together. He thought about denying it, but somehow he knew that she could read his expression too adeptly.

“I’m always wary before I meet with the war-lords. I’m even more wary when a meeting has been brought forward,” Cassian admitted. He cast his gaze forward to the skies, to Lorrian and Frawley who were flying ahead of them. Lorrian’s natural gait had always been faster than Cassian’s. Whilst Cassian’s wings were bigger, Lorrian’s build was made for speed. “I’ve got a bad feeling about it,” he admitted. “Marsh is a notoriously harsh war-lord, but he’s been unwell in recent years. Usually, a war-lord would not think twice to rid himself of a son who would pose as a threat. Kallon has openly claimed to have Enalius’s sword and his father has not made a single move against him, even though it threatens his position.”

“You think Marsh would kill his own son?”

Cassian snorted. “It has happened before. That, or a son would be cast out of the camp and stripped of his entitlement.”

Nesta frowned. “So, what you are saying is that you do not think that Marsh has long left to live and he is allowing Kallon to rule in his stead?”

“Yes, that is exactly what I think,” Cassian replied seriously, not at all surprised at Nesta’s intelligence. “And that means Kallon could soon be in a position of great power and influence, especially if he claims to have been chosen by Enalius to unite the Illyrians.”

They flew in silence for a few minutes. Cassian could almost hear the cogs turning in Nesta’s mind, as she digested the information he had just given her. But when she finally spoke, it was not about Kallon or the rising discontent. “I won’t be subservient.”

Cassian looked down at her in surprise. Did she mean today? “I don’t want you to be,” he said carefully. Honestly.

“Aren’t you going to remind me of the Illyrian customs and how I shouldn’t behave considering I’m a female?” Nesta asked stiffly.

Cassian frowned. Maybe things weren’t fine between them, after all. There was a sudden edge to her voice that he had heard when he had first shown her the necklace. That sharp, brittle parry that had almost seemed like she was purposefully attempting to put distance between them. He had felt her panic. She hadn’t been able to stifle that emotion before it flew down their tether. Nor had she been able to disguise the beating of her heart, which pattered at such a rate that it had melded with his own terrified rhythm.

Nesta knew what the necklace was, Cassian was sure of it. Knew by now that he had dived back into the Sidra to retrieve the gift she had refused, just as she had rejected him.

Now Cassian was no longer clouded by the fierce grip of rejection, he could not entirely blame Nesta for turning him away on Solstice. She had spent the evening sitting as far away from the fire as possible during a visit against her will. And not only had she had to fight battle trauma, but she had been forced to endure how they were all moving on without her. It was what Nesta had insisted upon, but Cassian was not stupid enough to think that it hadn’t hurt, especially when he had opened Mor’s gift and laughed along with everyone, pretending everything was fine when it most certainly was not. When it had felt as if someone had already thrust a hand into his chest and thrown out his bloody, bleeding heart for everyone to see.

To see the world through a pair of dusky blue eyes rather than hazel had everything tilted sideways, but it was necessary, he knew that now.

“No,” Cassian replied shortly, and meant it. Nesta was wild and he hungered for it. To see her chained and timid went against every fibre of his being.

“Is that not what is expected of the females here?” Nesta questioned, her voice that little more pointed.

Cassian frowned again. “It is, but I like you just the way you are,” he confessed slowly. “It is not what I would ever expect of you.”

Then, he barked a laugh, missing the sudden change in Nesta’s expression. “And you’ll find your defiance is in good company. You and Frawley are going to make a formidable pair.”

A soft snort. It was as close to a laugh as Cassian was going to get, but he would settle for it, even if it was nothing on the joy that had hit him square in the stomach a few weeks prior. He had been eating breakfast in the kitchen when he had felt it: pure, radiating laughter that had somehow ghosted into his ears and wound itself around his most vital organs. He had been out of his seat and in the skies before he had a moment to catch himself, following that tether between them that was more defined than ever before. But the cold, bracing air had done him good, and Cassian had turned sharply around, suddenly understanding that it was not his moment to share. That it was something Nesta needed to experience independently from him.

So, Cassian had waited at the bungalow for Nesta to return, every second a new form of torture. And from the moment she stepped through the front door, he had known they had reached a turning point. There was a lightness to her features that he had not seen before. As if the laughter had broken through that expressionless mask and rendered her new.

Cassian had expected to have to wait for a glowing retelling from Mas the day after, but Nesta had told him herself, a ghost of a smile on her lips as he made her breakfast and a mug of chai, listening to her talk and talk and talk.

He would have sold his soul in that moment. Would have done anything for her. But he had only sat opposite with a cup of steaming coffee and watched her eat as if she hadn’t for days. And when he had asked if she wanted to come with him to oversee his camp duties, she had nodded without hesitation, telling him she had a few hours before she was due to show Feyre around the camps with Mas.

“I should warn you that they’ll be interested in you,” Cassian told Nesta after a moment.

Nesta’s body turned stiff in his arms. “What do you mean?”

“Word has spread amongst the camps about what you did,” Cassian explained.

Mas had encouraged the widows to do as much. The monthly market set deep in the mist-shrouded valley of Empyr, was the perfect opportunity for those that could fly to spread word, just as Kallon’s recruits spread vicious discourse about the Night Court. The valley was flanked by lush forest green and cascading waterfalls, and Illyrians flew from all over the mountains to stock up on essentials, from grains and spices, to weaponry and healing medicines. It was also the location of the Illyrian festival Kharon, where once a year, Illyrians congregated to sail souls to rest down the River Styx.

Cassian couldn’t wait to take Nesta there. Was waiting for the perfect moment.

“Feyre was there, too,” Nesta reminded him, but Cassian only shook his head.

“You brought Mas back to life. A lowly widow in the eyes of the average Illyrian. You gave someone worth who was deemed as having none, Nesta. You sparked an oppressed female to lead others and finally stand up against cultural traditions that have been engrained for centuries—”

“But the males don’t see it that way?” Nesta guessed, cutting him off. Her expression did not give any indication that his praise had either pleased or irritated her.

Cassian tilted his head in a shrug, but he did not stop staring into her eyes—into the smoky blue that mesmerised him even now. “Should the dissent continue to rise, we might be forced to invoke a referendum about whether Illyria should become an independent nation,” Cassian explained. “Females have the right to vote. Rhys instated the law many years ago, much to the chagrin of the Illyrian males. I think that’s why Kallon has been targeting the females who lost their husbands and sons in the war—in the hope that their support would swing the cause in his favour.”

“But if he is behind the orchestrated attacks, then we could stop a divided nation?” Nesta asked, finishing his strain of thought.

Cassian’s smile was grim. “Exactly.”

“You think he did it?”

Cassian shrugged. “I keep thinking about those bastards who have disappeared. I would not be surprised if their allegiance had been bought by the rebellion. I’m sure they have been promised a station above the lowest ranking foot soldier. You heard Devlon, they are all exceptional in the skies, but they aren’t recognised for their talents. They have nothing to lose and everything to gain.”

“What would happen if you captured them?” Nesta asked quietly.

Cassian looked into the distance—at the pine-capped mountains and the craggy mountain stone. He didn’t want to think about what would befall those males. He knew them. They were good soldiers with no sense of self-worth.

Nesta touched Cassian’s shoulder. “Maybe it won’t come to that,” she said.

“Maybe,” Cassian replied, but he knew he didn’t sound convinced.

  Lord Marsh’s residence was a too-large stone building set deep into the forested mountain ledge that overhung the rest of the mountain pass. Flags bearing the Ironcrest insignia—a crested hawk eagle with its wings spread wide—rippled in the breeze, and Fae males armed with spears flanked the huge double-doors, which were made of heavy pine and punctured with black iron studs and heavy handles in the shape of Illyrian wings. The guards iron helmets were plumed with pointed black feathers tipped with white, just like the hawk that had given Ironcrest the latter part of its name.

Carefully, Cassian touched down onto the stone a careful distance from both the entrance and Lorrian and Frawley. He did not give Nesta the opportunity to step away. Instead, he tightened the arm that was still wound around her waist and curled a wing around them like a shield.

Already he felt territorial. Already he did not want to let her go.

“You stay with me tonight.”

Nesta’s head whipped up at the dead seriousness of his tone. His words were not up for debate but to his surprise, she did not hiss ‘no’ and he did not feel that silver power push against her skin. Cassian suspected that Nesta’s nerves had started to fray at the prospect of being somewhere that was not the bungalow or Lorrian and Frawley’s cottage.

He touched her hand to bring her back. Nesta stared down at the fingers that clasped hers as if she did not understand how they had got there, before she tightened her grip and turned to face him. As she met his gaze, that smoky blue latched onto him and he felt as if he was a predator who had crawled into the palm of her hand and rolled over in surrender.

“If you need to get my attention when we are inside then send me a subtle signal,” Cassian told Nesta in a quiet voice. Already there would be too many prying eyes and ears. He could already feel Fae watching him from the crown glass windows, their faces distorted by both the plain whorled glass and the stained colours of the insignia set into their middle.

Nesta frowned. “How—”

Cassian pressed his fingers gently against Nesta’s stomach. He felt the wings of her ribs and the muscles of her core. “Here,” he said softly, his heart battering against his chest. “Like you did the other day at Kanaman.”

This close up Cassian could taste the sweetness of Nesta’s breath. Could see every single one of her eyelashes and the black-blue kohl that rimmed the upper lids. Nesta was not usually one for enhancing the features she already had. She did not need to. Staring at Nesta as a human had been enough for Cassian’s breath to catch in his throat, but as Fae… she was devastating. And whilst Cassian preferred Nesta windswept in leathers and a simple braid, he could not deny that when he had found her that morning to give her the necklace, his knees had gone weak.

Yet, there was something about Nesta being dressed up which made Cassian feel as if he were at a distance from her. As if the formal garments and the tight, intricate arrangement of her braid slammed a partition between them, highlighting how he was only a lowly bastard and she was too good for him. It was why he had often kept his distance before, too fearful to speak with her in front of his friends in case she were to shoot him down publicly. And the truth of it was that Nesta made him feel like he was young again. He had played games without realising it. Ignoring her to feign indifference, hoping to hide just how affected he was by her mere presence in a room. How scared he was to let his friends see just how much his wild and vulnerable heart had been flung out before this bewitching female for the first time in centuries. Because Nesta was not like anyone else he had ever met. He had never felt like this. Not just an undeniable pull of attraction, but something deeper than lust or fancy. Something more.

It was only when Cassian spied the pyrite laying below her collarbone did he relax a little.  Perhaps it was too simple for someone as arresting as Nesta, but she hadn’t rejected it. Had let him put it on her and she had not taken it off, not even when she had realised what it was. How it highlighted that painful memory that was strung between them.

She had called the necklace beautiful. Had meant it.

“What—” Nesta started, but she broke off suddenly, a flicker of recognition dawning on her face. Absent-mindedly her fingers closed around the pyrite, as if touching it allowed her to understand—to tap into his mind and read his thoughts.

For a moment, they stared at one another. Both of their hearts thumping even as their expressions remained impassive. If not for the slight stain on Nesta’s cheeks Cassian would not have known she was affected at all.

It amused him that she had thought she had gotten away with sending an emotion back without him noticing. It was the first he had felt something gentle from her, rather than a blast of emotion. And whilst the sensation had still been stifled down that constricted tether, it had touched him in a way he could not explain. That she had cared enough to soothe his torment.

In that moment, Cassian had felt wholly connected to her, but Nesta hadn't even glanced his way.

Outside of their cocoon, Cassian heard approaching voices and the clink of armour. Even still, he found himself hesitating, wanting a private moment with Nesta for a little longer before they were thrown to the vultures.

So, Cassian surprised her, raising her knuckles to his lips. Her skin tasted so intoxicating the primal part of him internally growled, but he only looked at her with dark eyes as he slowly retracted his wing — at the smoky silver that slid behind her irises, and unable to help it, breathed softly, “Pulchra.”

His lips quirked against her skin when her breath hitched. Then, slowly, he dropped her hand and offered her his arm with a smile that for once he did not have to catch and shape into something else. “After you, amore,” he said.

Nesta studied him for a moment. He watched her eyes slide past him to the stone building—to the window and the faces that he knew were staring, prying and scheming. Saw the understanding dawn on Nesta’s face that told him she had believed the kiss for show, when really it had been nothing but a perfect excuse.

And then she took his arm.

  Warriors on duty armed only in fighting leathers and what Cassian suspected was a number of well-hidden knives led them to the drawing room. Stone walls lit by bobbing faelights cast dark, long shadows in the hallways and onto the faded rugs. As they turned a corner, female servants came into view laden with silver plates piled high with food. In the near distance, a wide doorframe gleamed, light spilling into the corridor and with it, the rumble of forced conversation and the clink of glasses.

One step into the bright room had Cassian on high alert and scanning for every possible exit point. As usual, the Solstice Luncheon did nothing to bring the Illyrians together. Instead, the clans remained steadfast in their own groups of lords and ladies, save for the odd stiff conversation between camps with long-formed alliances. Cassian spied Lord Condor from Forktail speaking stiffly with Devlon, and Cassian immediately thought of Lorrian. How would he fare coming face-to-face with his younger brother today? Notoriously they did not get on. Rumour had it that Lord Icor Condor had not been happy that Lorrian had been promoted from outcast to Colonel. Cassian had received a hate letter for it, not that he cared. Everyone knew Lorrian was the best equipped Illyrian to get their warriors back to a high-level of skill in the skies.

It did not take Cassian long to locate Ironcrest’s war-lord. He was sitting at a large pine table laden with Illyrian cuisine in front of the right-hand bay window. In front of him, a large silver goblet was full to the brim with red wine, as well as a plate piled high with untouched food.

Lord Anguis Marsh had always been a broad shouldered male who was unusually well-kept for a warrior. His dark hair was slicked back to feather at the nape of his neck, and he sported a hooked, crooked nose and an ugly scar which effectively splitting through his upper lip. When Marsh had been in good health, he had been known for his alarming speed on the battlefield and the vicious nature with which he gutted his opponents. Now, Cassian could not find that male in front of him.

Marsh was the eldest of the war-lords—a few millennia old, perhaps—and as Azriel had reported, his health was not what it was. The lord—or prince, as all the top ranking war-lords were referred to (with Enalius being viewed as their God and King)—had not been able to fight in the most recent war, nor had he made a point of sitting in on the War Counsel. Kallon, who was Marsh’s only princeling and son, had been denied a place on the Counsel in his stead, with Cassian arguing that it was not only because Kallon was unseasoned, but because he wasn’t intending to fight against Hybern himself. It had been a decision that Cassian knew had not been taken lightly, and he did not delude himself to think that the repercussions weren’t now stacked against him.

The prince’s declining health was far worse than when Cassian had last seen Marsh. That much was evident from where he remained seated at the thick pine table rather than standing with the majority of his guests. Although, Cassian mused, he would not put it past any Illyrian war-lord to feel so superior that they remained seated at their house table as if it were a throne.

Steering Nesta over the table to get the formalities over and done with, Cassian deliberately shortened his strides to match hers. As he did so, he tracked Marsh reaching stiffly for his goblet to take a deep drink. It did little to disguise the unmistakable tremble of his hand. Only the war-lord’s eyes remained the same as Cassian remembered; small, yellow and beady — alert and vigilant in the way that only a true Illyrian warrior was. They slid from Cassian to Nesta, before moving on to Lorrian and Frawley behind them.

“General.” A deep, drawl laced with the faintest rasp. Not as fierce as it used to be, that was for certain.

Yet, the sneer that twisted the male’s tan face as they came to a stop a few feet from the table undoubtedly belonged to Marsh. The movement highlighted the scar on Marsh’s lip, the skin crumpling as the split caused it to curl in the wrong way. “I see you brought company, bastard, when usually you do not grace us with your presence at all.”

Cassian did not let a flicker of expression taint his blank canvas. He had sent word of their intended stay well ahead of time, but Cassian knew that Marsh would feign ignorance just for the spite of it. “Yes,” he replied. “As I am sure you are already aware, Colonel Lorrian has been reappointed and is overseeing the armies aerial fleet. Neither of us would miss the Rite counsel.”

It was true, Cassian would not miss the Rite counsel that would take place later that afternoon. It was unusual that it had been moved. Usually it took place mid-January, but seeing that it was Ironcrest who was due to hold the ceremony that year, combining the Solstice luncheon and the Rite counsel made sense. It didn’t stop Cassian from being suspicious. Any deviation from the Illyrian’s deepest traditions always had Cassian’s hackles raised, not because he did not appreciate progress or the ability to adapt, but because it was not the Illyrians usual way, especially when it came from one of the oldest Illyrian war-lords.

Marsh did not acknowledge Cassian’s comment regarding the Rite. Instead, he said maliciously, “I didn’t believe there was an aerial fleet left.”

Cassian did not allow his body to stiffen. Did not allow to show how they affected him, even now. He could beat them all to a pulp if he wanted, Cassian reminded himself. He had more siphons than all of them. More Killing Power. He may be a bastard but he was a worthy warrior and better suited to lead the armies than any one of them.

So, he dropped into a voice that he saved for occasions like this. A voice which promised death and destruction and was not to be disputed. “Colonel Lorrian will oversee the training of your aerial warriors tomorrow morning,” Cassian clipped coldly, as if he had not heard the rebuttal. “And we will see how much of that rings true. I am sure Ironcrest would not have allowed their warriors to sink in standard.”

Another curl of the lip as Marsh sneered. Without looking behind him, Marsh raised his goblet with a shaking hand. A female servant rushed forward with a tall, heavy pitcher of wine. When his goblet was refilled, Marsh did not shift his yellow, beady eyes from Cassian as he lifted the goblet to his lips. His hand shook with enough effort that the contents spilled over the lip and onto his arm.

A snarl unleashed itself from Marsh’s throat, the sound not unlike a whip hitting home. The goblet thunked onto the pine table, wine sloshing over the surface. “Maya, you useless female,” Marsh chastised the female servant, whose eyes had widened with fear. “You jostled me. Get me a napkin at once or I will banish you to the widows camp and be done with you.”

The hand that was still looped through Cassian’s arm tightened slightly, and Cassian felt the threat of Nesta’s magic push beneath her skin. Training regularly with Nesta had allowed Cassian to become used to the seal of her magic. It was something which had become as naturally as breathing to him since that day at Spearhead, when they had first trained with his siphon. It was almost as if Nesta’s magic had imprinted onto his very being. When it moved, he felt it. When it blazed, he burned without fire.

As if it were the most natural gesture in the world, Cassian brought a hand to cup Nesta’s where it lay on her arm. It was a reminder to stay calm. Nesta’s job was to scout out the emotions in the room, not set it aflame.

“Father,” a male voice announced.

Cassian turned to see a male standing a few feet from them. Kallon was the imitation of his father when he had been in good health: impossibly dark hair scraped back to the nape of his neck; yellow eyes; a chiselled jaw; and sharp cheekbones. He was handsome in the way that most Fae were, and his skin betrayed his youth; the majority of brown unmarred, save for a vicious looking scar on his arm and half of a missing index finger on his left hand, which left the digit intact only to the knuckle. Kallon did not have Illyrian tattoos yet—had not seen war to earn them—and on the backs of his hands lay no siphons.

Given the steadfast rule at all gatherings for the war-lord, Cassian was not surprised to see that no sword lay either in a scabbard by Kallon’s side, or strapped down his spine, as was Illyrian custom.

“My son, Kallon,” Marsh announced with the stiff flick of a trembling hand, “who I presume you have met before.”

Cassian did not bow his head. “I don’t believe we have met in a number of years.”

Piercing yellow eyes studied Cassian. “I don’t believe I would have had cause to, considering our General does not visit Ironcrest often, and given that I was not permitted a place on your war counsel.”

An insult already and one that was not entirely true. Cassian had visited Ironcrest a fair few times over the last four months, but Kallon had never been in the training ring or with his father at the same time.

Kallon’s luminescent yellow eyes moved from Cassian’s to the female beside him. They stilled and then, painstakingly slowly, they deliberately raked a path over every inch of Nesta’s body. The movement was purposefully claiming, and Cassian suppressed the growl that came roaring to the forefront as Kallon dared to flex the claws on his wings. “And who is this bewitching female?” he asked.

Nesta had turned preternaturally still, and not one part of her body moved save for her eyes, which slid to the talons at the apex of the princeling’s wings. In fact, Cassian noted, Nesta’s posture had not changed since she had entered the house; her spine stacked tall, her chin slightly raised, those beautiful eyes lined with silver shimmering mercury blue. But there was something in her stillness that made Cassian wonder if Nesta, too, had dissected that Kallon’s good looks had a cold and unreachable quality that hinted at something far sinister. As if he used them as a way of luring in victims, much like sirens tempted sailors to the rocks at sea.

Nesta would have felt distant and otherworldly if she had not been holding his arm. If he could not feel her, ever so slightly, down that bond thanks to her lowered walls.

“This is Lady Nesta Archeron,” Cassian replied, forcing all malice from his voice.

“Oh, yes,” Kallon mused smoothly, his irises flaring as if they were an extension of his nostrils. No doubt trying to scent whether Cassian had claimed her. “I have heard of you. I can feel your power. I’ve heard others call you a witch, but I have also heard that you have taken a power that is ancient beyond reckoning. Something that is not yours.”

The princeling’s voice had dropped into a purr and a snarl roared inside of Cassian as Kallon closed the distance between them to take Nesta’s hand. His signet ring flashed in the faelight as he placed a slow, deliberate kiss to Nesta’s knuckles—the exact same spot atop Nesta’s ring finger that Cassian had kissed moments earlier.

“Such a touching story,” Kallon continued, his voice unbelievably even as he looked up at her, “about how you defended one another on the battlefield.” His gaze intensified and sharpened on Nesta as he lowered her hand from his mouth. “Rumour has it that your dedication did not last long, but who can blame you for deciding not to settle for a lowly bastard?”

The way in which Kallon straightened was slow and deliberate. He did not let go of Nesta’s hand, his yellow eyes continuing to stare pointedly at the female before him, as if he had been privy to every night she had fucked someone else and Cassian had perched outside on the rooftop.

Hot and cold washed over Cassian’s body with such ferocity it felt as if he had jumped into both ice and fire. Rage and humiliation battered against his shields, but he did not lower them. Would not allow Nesta or anyone else in the room know how much those words affected him.

But then he felt Nesta’s anger fling itself hard down their tether, the sensation not akin to a blow to the stomach. It pierced through his fire, his heart, and for a moment he felt as if he had been set aflame. He knew she had lowered her shields so she could sense others' emotions in the room, but to be reminded how much she truly felt when she let every barrier fell away was astounding.

Even so, when Nesta spoke, her voice was icy and level beyond reckoning. “Evidently that is not true, otherwise I would not be here.”

She retracted her mist-wrapped hand from Kallon with such care Cassian knew that she was considering smacking him round the face.

A low, sensual laugh that was more fitting for jovial conversation than it was here. “Do not try to convince me that you, a High Fae, has settled for the lowest born faerie? Just how poor was the offering back in Velaris? I hear there was no shortage of males in your bed…”

Cassian had stopped breathing for fear that if he did he would launch towards Kallon and use his fists to beat him bloody and blue. His shield had faltered, the fire sputtering as the words hit home like a spear to the heart.

Nesta did not rise to the bait. She only clipped, “It turns out that the only male I found to be worthy was an Illyrian bastard, so that is no longer relevant.” That chin of Nesta’s rose defiant, and with it, she grew even taller; a vengeful mighty queen looking down on her subjects with pure loathing. “And I may have been Made High Fae against my will, but I am human at heart. I believe you think them to be at the bottom of the chain, so perhaps that will help you sleep easier at night.”

Kallon blinked at Nesta, momentarily stunned. His gaze slid to her fingers, where mist was still seeping from them, curling around Cassian’s bicep. The heat was a welcoming lick rather than hot enough to burn, but the way her fire started to take form, the mist turning into a rope which blazed in coils around her forearm was enough to insinuate otherwise. And there was the fact that Nesta could will it to burn hotter if she liked. Cassian did not doubt that she could incinerate the room with a mere flick of her fingers.

The thought thrilled him. Stacked up the fire inside of his own body, his internal shields answering to hers as his flames licked higher.

Kallon did not step back, although Cassian saw the muscles in his body tense as if to fling himself out of range. He cocked his head to the side, contemplative, as if Nesta were a puzzle he wanted to figure out. And then, he slipped. For a fraction of a second his right hand fell to his hip, where a sword or knife usually hung from his weapon’s belt. But the way his fingers remained there, lingering… it was enough to tell Cassian that he was hiding something. That he was armed, even though he was not supposed to be.

And the knowledge clearly gave him courage, because he stepped towards Nesta, his eyes gleaming—

Nesta snarled, her whip uncoiling itself, the tip lashing out across the clearing with such speed Kallon recoiled.

“It’s true then,” Kallon said, his eyes bright as he took a step backwards. “Silver flames—”

But his father interjected, as if he had endured enough of his son’s games. “I do not remember inviting two witches and an Incomplete to this luncheon,” Marsh snapped.

“Scared of what we’re capable of?” Frawley asked, speaking up for the first time since they had stepped into the room. Her voice was quiet but chilling, and her ice-blue eye levelled Marsh with such a glare that Cassian found himself tensing. Frawley was not irresponsible enough to start a fight, but she had been known to provoke the war-lords when she saw fit. Usually when they insulted her husband.

“To think that you would be in the company of two females more powerful than you,” Frawley mused with the deathly sort of calm that Cassian usually harboured for himself during battle. “And that’s not to mention that one of us beheaded the King of Hybern.”

That lip twisted and contorted, but Kallon spoke before his father had the opportunity to do it himself. “I do not think that we need to thank a witch for ending a war where Illyrians were treated as disposable,” Kallon said.

A murmur went through the crowd. But that did not deter Nesta, who levelled Kallon with a gaze which had him stilling as a slow, cruel smile crept across her face. “I’m not a witch,” she vowed. “I’m something much worse.”

True silence. So quiet that Cassian could have heard a pin drop.

And that was when, without waiting to be dismissed, Cassian chose to steer Nesta away from the war-lord’s table and into the watching crowds.

  Nesta moved beside him as if she were floating, as if gravity did not apply to her. Cassian challenged every stare and every curling lip they passed. When they reached the large windows farther down the room where it was less crowded, he drew them to a halt.

Begrudgingly, he dropped his arm, but then he felt couldn’t resist the temptation this partnership had granted him, so he dared to raise a hand to touch his fingers to the nape of Nesta’s neck. As well as being self-indulgent, it was also a gesture of intimacy that he thought would make Nesta least uncomfortable. It was a self-indulgent move, something that sung intimacy and was designed to stake a claim. Because he had seen the way in which Kallon had stared at Nesta. The way he had tried to scent for a bond or claim on her. The gleam in Kallon’s eyes had told Cassian he was not wholly convinced about their claim of being partners, enough for him to prod and poke about Cassian’s bastard status and Nesta’s bedding habits. To see what they said and how they behaved.

And whilst Illyrian males were not overly affectionate with their partners in public, Cassian never intended to take a wife who he did not openly cherish.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked softly.

To his surprise, Nesta did not flinch. Instead, she turned into his touch, lifting those smoky blue eyes to his as if this impromptu dance they were orchestrating was as natural as breathing. That she hadn’t just been called out on her promiscuous behaviour and her continual rejection of him.

She gave a short nod. “Please.”

Her expression, Cassian noted, might be carefully blank, but her eyes were readable to him. He had spent four months living with her. Had learnt to dissect every hollowed out stare and every dulled light whenever she was unguarded enough to let him. And whilst Cassian had expected Nesta to wear the mask she so habitually wore, her eyes were open enough for him to know that she was still angry.

Sweeping up four goblets of wine from the closest servant, Cassian tried not to mourn the loss of Nesta’s skin beneath his fingertips. Frawley flicked her hands casually at both Lorrian’s and Nesta’s drinks, turning the wine to juice before either of them had a moment to comment.

“I could do with some wine,” Lorrian confessed to Cassian in a low, bitter tone as Nesta turned to respond to something Frawley had just said. His friend’s face was wholly impassive to the outsider, but Cassian knew Lorrian well enough to catch the slightly mournful look in the Lorrian’s eyes as he glanced down into the depths of his goblet. “I give it five minutes until I have a war-lord upon me demanding for an update on the state of the aerial fleet.” He cast a slow, hard look around the room. It was a look that Cassian had honed himself over centuries of learning how to assert authority. “That being said,” Lorrian continued, “I think that could have gone a lot worse.”

Cassian grunted, the sensation making his chest jolt and his armour clink. “Speak for yourself.”

Lorrian shot Cassian an apologetic look. He watched Cassian take a deep sip from his goblet. At least the wine was good, Cassian thought bitterly, as if the silver lining would smooth over the battering he’d just received.

“If it’s any consolation, my brother has been sneering at me since we set foot in the room,” Lorrian admitted to Cassian, as if he knew what Cassian was thinking. “I’d sell my other arm in a wager that he’ll have strut over here by the end of this damn luncheon to give me hell.”

It was intended to be a joke but Cassian knew how sensitive Lorrian was about his missing limb. And understandably so. Illyrians were cruel at the best of times, but to have already been referred to as an Incomplete was enough to have a traumatised warrior drowning in a sense of underserved dishonour.

Like Cassian, Lorrian was resplendent today in his black scaled armour, and his right arm glowed a soft emerald from where he had used his magic to temporarily reinstate his limb. “At least we took Frawley’s poison blocker before we left,” Lorrian continued to mutter under his breath. “I bet the majority of this room would take great joy in our deaths.”

Another grunt from Cassian—this time one of agreement. He glanced down into his goblet which was now empty. It was not like him to drink so quickly in the company of the lords, but Kallon had Cassian’s anger pushing at his skin, ready to jump to the forefront with one sneering look.

He lifted his eyes to search for another servant, but the same female Marsh had snapped at earlier—Maya—appeared at his left-hand side with a silver pitcher of wine as if she had been watching him.

The first thing Cassian noticed about the widow was that she had large, almond shaped hazel eyes that were so light, they were almost amber. Her long, ebony hair was fashioned into a double bun at the nape of her neck—a style at odds with her servant status—and on the inside of her wrist, as she lifted her arm to pour him a drink, Cassian spied a tattoo of a sun and moon.

A twin.

Cassian was so distracted by the ink that he didn’t realise he had moved his goblet away until it was too late. The wine spilled over the rim of the cup and onto the flagstone floor, the red liquid splattering over his leg and onto the back of Nesta’s dress.

Maya’s eyes went as round as saucers and he saw the panic flood her expression in a way that told Cassian she was not treated well in the Marsh residence. Nesta turned around sharply, most presumably, from feeling the females terror with her magic.

“I—I am so sorry, my lord,” Maya stammered. Her eyes, which had been dutifully downcast, had snapped up in alarm to connect with his. “Please, let me clean this up. I—”

But Cassian only shook his head, wordlessly taking the handkerchief Lorrian passed to him and took a deliberate step backwards so Maya was deliberately placed in front of him. “I think you will find that it is me who should be apologising,” Cassian corrected kindly. “I moved my goblet.”

He turned to Nesta. “Are you wet?” he asked, holding out the handkerchief to her before even thinking about drying off his wine-covered hand.

“I’m fine,” Nesta replied, shaking her head. She had not made any movements to draw attention to herself like many other females would have done. It was as if she, too, had deduced that if Marsh was to catch wind of the incident, Maya would be cast out into the cold. “It’s only a little on the bottom of my skirts. It will soon dry.”

Maya’s eyes slowly fell to the floor at Nesta’s words. They widened in horror at the spatters of red that had already seeped into the light fabric.

“I am not wed to this dress,” Nesta assured Maya. Her usually clipped manner had fallen into something softer and more sincere. It was a voice she used with a fair few: Elain, Roksana and Mas. Sometimes him.

Sometimes.

Cassian pressed his lips together to stop himself from protesting. Because whilst Nesta might claim not be wedded to her dress, he certainly was. The floating material was the colour of dusky cornflower, a shade which made Nesta’s irises so light they shimmered ice blue. The effect was so startling Cassian’s heart had stopped when she’d opened her bedroom door that morning. If he hadn’t been so nervous he would have probably gone to hell with it all and bent his head to press his lips with hers. Instead, he had stared into those mesmerising eyes and, for a moment, forgotten the silver chain that was burning into his fist.

Avoiding the puddle of wine, Nesta stepped deliberately closer to Cassian, using their bodies to shield the spillage from the war-lord’s table. She touched his arm with her fingertips and looked up at him. “It’s nothing our housekeeper can’t fix. Isn’t that right, amore?”

For a moment, Cassian stared at Nesta, unable to process that she had not only spoke a word of Illyrian, but the term of endearment he had used earlier. Her voice was matter-of-fact, but there was something lacing the words that made him, for a stupid second, believe she meant it.

“Our housekeeper is very skilled,” Cassian assured Maya, allowing a rare smile to slip across his expression. “It won’t be an issue.”

But Maya was still pale. Her eyes slid past them, to the war-lord sat at the far end of the room.

“He can’t see you, Maya,” Cassian assured the servant evenly, as he finished wiping the wine away from his arm and sleeve. When he was finished, he wound an arm around Nesta’s waist, intending to pull her closer to his body, but she moved for him, moulding her curves against his hard lines, blocking Marsh completely from view. Jasmine and vanilla washed over him, the scent a relief. He rubbed a thumb over the fabric of her dress in thanks for playing along. For the blessing of having her pressed up against him.

“I can take care of it.” Frawley took a small step forward to close their circle.

She held out her goblet purposefully outwards, as if she were in need of a refill, and Maya tentatively topped up her a drink as Frawley subtly flicked her fingers. The puddle of wine and the stain on Nesta’s dress vanished.

Again, Maya’s eyes widened, but she was clever enough not to make any kind of movement to attract attention.

“Th-Thank you, my lord. My ladies,” Maya said gratefully, the clear relief in her voice enough to make Cassian angry. When would the injustices inflicted on Illyrians by Illyrians stop? Cassian had no doubt Maya had been mistreated, despite the fact that her twin status must provide her with a certain amount of protection. Illyrians were a superstitious race and would not risk the wrath of the Gods for casting a twin out into the cold.

In fact, Cassian was surprised that Marsh dared to keep her as a servant at all. Usually twins were the only low-born Illyrians that were established into civil society. And they were always low-born and always unbelievably rare. More often than not they were the product of lords unable to keep their cocks in their pants outside of their marriage bed.

Holding back a grimace, Cassian made himself nod at Maya as she bobbed a perfect curtsey to each of them, her golden eyes downcast and submissive, before she took leave.

Curiously, Cassian cocked his head at the widow as she quickly disappeared into the crowds, no doubt to find solace in the kitchens for a moments reprieve.

“Do you know who that was?”

Lorrian’s voice brought Cassian out of his thoughts, and he dragged his eyes away from Maya’s retreating figure to look at his friend. He continued to slowly rub his thumb over Nesta’s ribcage, the curve of her bone beneath the his skin a comfort, somehow.

“No,” he admitted to Lorrian, because he didn’t.

“That’s the widow of Halias Marsh.”

Cassian caught the eyebrows that wanted to disappear into his hairline just in time. “Marsh’s younger brother?”

Halias had not been alive in Cassian’s lifetime, but he knew that he had been a cruel male who had made Anguis Marsh look positively sweet in comparison. Whilst Anguis was known for his sharp, cunning intellect, Halias had been made of a brute strength which had led to an arrogance and dominance both inside and outside the sparring ring. It had been no secret that the brothers had an ongoing rivalry, with Halias believing he was best suited to the role of prince. When Halias had died in a fire, there had been rumours that Marsh had orchestrated his brother’s death, but those sorts of whisperings weren’t uncommon amongst the Illyrian camps, where everyone was out for glory at the expense of others.

“Yes,” Lorrian confirmed in a low voice.

“What happened to her twin?” Cassian asked with a frown.

As Cassian and Azriel’s self-appointed guardian, Rhys’s mother had done her best to teach them the history of the Illyrian camps and the war-lords family trees. They had been lessons which Cassian had found inanely dull at the time, usually because he had been exhausted from a rigorous day of training. But he did remember learning that the Ironcrest brothers had secured twins for brides. He also recalled that it had caused uproar amongst the clans at the time. Twins were rare in Prythian and a symbol of fertility, power and good luck. As was usual for twins, they weren’t of high status, but had been plucked from the mud and inserted into elevated society from birth—reared for the two princelings for when they came of age.

The tattoo Cassian had spied on Maya’s wrist was a part of Illyrian culture. When twins were born, they were marked with the tattoo of a sun and moon: separate yet integral to one another, forever entwined. They were said to be a gift from the Gods: fertile and harbouring power beyond reckoning which would be passed down to their offspring. Their wings were cut at birth. Twins were too precious to risk flying away when they could produce offspring with hearty Killing Power.

“Her twin died in the fire with Halias. I believe she was called Lyanne.”

It was Frawley who had spoken and Cassian looked at her with a frown on his face. “With her twin’s husband?”

“It was quite the scandal at the time,” Frawley said in low tones. “Her twin sister was married to Marsh but sleeping with his brother. I’m surprised you have not heard of it before.”

“Marsh loved his first wife.” It was Nesta who had spoken, and Cassian instinctively tightened his arm around her. “I felt his pain when he looked at Maya. It ran deep, as if he could not bare to look at her.”

That would explain why Marsh had not taken Maya as his wife, Cassian thought. To be wed to a replica but know that they were not the Fae you loved… The heartache would be too much, especially if the female you had given your heart to had bedded his brother, and whilst Marsh was cold beyond reckoning, it was interesting to know there was a side of him that was warm-blooded.

“I bet there’s a reason she’s not in the widows camp,” Lorrian said quietly, and Cassian’s eyes snapped to his friends so quickly his neck cricked.

His neck burned but he was too busy processing what Lorrian was saying. To think that Marsh had kept his wife’s sister in his residence so she could warm his bed when he willed it… the hairs on his arm stood up and something inside of him recoiled, even as he knew that it was incredibly likely. It would explain how well-kept Maya was. How, like Lorrian had said, she had not been turned out into the widows camp and into the cold.

“How long have you known that?” Cassian demanded quietly.

Beside him, Nesta had turned rigid. He didn’t have to look at her to know her skin had turned pale. And despite their constricted bond he felt an unfathomable icy rage force its way down the tether of twisted rope to meet his own.

He did not look at Nesta as he sent an emotion to soothe. A heat to lick against their anger until it had thawed.

He dragged his thumb across her rib cage in a slow, deliberate motion. He felt her let out a long, measure breath.

“I don’t know it,” Lorrian corrected Cassian smoothly, as if he were discussing the weather, not wanting to raise his voice so others could hear. His eyes burned when they connected wth Cassian’s. “But it would be interesting to find out, wouldn’t it?”

By the time Cassian and Lorrian headed into the Rite meeting, Cassian wanted to leave Ironcrest so fiercely that he had almost refused to leave Nesta behind. As usual, as the lords consumed more wine throughout the luncheon, they seemed to overcome their disdain at approaching rival clans. It result in the pursuit of a kind of hostile, verbal swordplay that reaffirmed why no-one had been permitted to enter the residence with a weapon.

Not, Cassian thought grimly, that it would stop any of them from magicking one with their siphons anyway.

Icor Condor—Lorrian’s brother—had been the first to stride over to them and interrupt their conversation to publicly sneer at his sibling

Despite being the eldest of the two, Lorrian had lost his right as princeling heir when he had left the camp for Frawley’s heart. When their late father had died, his brother Icor had inherited the status of war-lord, much to his pleasure and Lorrian’s disgust.

Icor was Lorrian’s sole sibling, and at a first glance, the two of them were almost identical in looks. It was only on closer inspection that one noticed the unrelenting hardness to Icor’s dark features—something that was due to the constant state of stark displeasure that hung across his expression. He was also slightly broader in build, the twisted cords of his muscles pushing against what Cassian suspected was too-small armour, and whilst Icor’s eyes were technically hazel, the majority of the time they were a light, unnerving jade.

To the untrained eye, it was Icor who appeared more formidable. But outcast or no outcast, Lorrian was the finest cut of Forktail princeling, made for the skies in a way his brother was not. And whilst Icor was undeniably an exceptional warrior—his primary skill was with the spear—Forktail’s ancestry boasted formidable warriors from the skies, and Icor had been loath to forget it.

To his credit, Lorrian had appeared completely unaffected as his brother barrelled insult after insult his way, but when Frawley’s ice eye had glowed brightly with threat, Icor had taken sudden leave, claiming that he couldn’t stand to breathe the air of someone who was not only Incomplete but a defector of his race, as well.

Nesta had dug her fingers so hard into Cassian’s armour at that point that Cassian had thought her fire might beat Frawley’s own magic to throwing itself across the room and hitting Icor square in the chest.

Now, Lorrian and Cassian followed the rest of the war-lords as they made their way to the war-room, which was situated in the right-hand wing of the residence.

They had barely had time to say goodbye as Frawley and Nesta were ushered into the parlour with the war-lords and Rite representatives partners. Frawley’s eyes had gleamed as she and Nesta floated from the room, and Cassian knew that the witch hoped to wheedle out some information from the females whilst their husbands weren’t by their sides.

The issue of oppressing others, Frawley had said the evening prior, when they were hashing out their plans, was that oppressors had a tendency to become over-confident and over-trusting in their tyranny; so sure of their unwavering power over others that their mouths became loose. And if the females did prefer to keep quiet due to fear of being found out by their husbands, Nesta would sense it.

It was, Frawley had insisted, a win-win situation, and Cassian would have been inclined to agree, if the Illyrians didn't harbour such a fear of outsiders, especially those that were not only powerful but looked terrifying, as well.

Lorrian, Cassian had noticed, hadn’t pointed that out to his wife. Nor had he reminded her that her independently moving eyes had a tendency to put Fae on edge rather than at ease.

Which, Cassian thought with a near huff of laughter, probably made Nesta the most approachable out of the two of them.

That knowledge grew inside of his mind until he wanted to howl, and he clamped his lips tightly together to stop a sound from escaping.

He supposed it was a good sign that he could still find humour in things, especially when he had a looming sense of dread that everything was about to go southward.

“She will be fine,” Lorrian told Cassian, frowning at his friend as they walked through the dimly lit corridors which were darkened all the more by heavy tapestries. “Nesta is more than capable of looking after herself, and she has Frawley with her. They are probably safest with the females, anyway.”

Cassian didn’t want to explain the reason for his expression, so he just nodded. It wasn’t as if he liked being separated from Nesta. The more time they spent together, the more he dreaded their time apart. It was a constant sort of worry that gnawed at his insides and made him feel as if someone had ripped a limb clean off his body. And since Nesta had nearly died healing Mas, Cassian had started to experience incandescent, sporadic flashes of panic that Nesta was dying and he did not know. That she was suffering and he was not there to ease it, even as reason told him that anything that urgent would fly down their shared tether.

“That’s what it was like with Frawley,” Lorrian added to Cassian, his hazel eyes discerning as they followed the hulking, retreating backs of the other war-lords.

“What it was like?” Cassian repeated, feigning confusion. Suddenly, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to partake in the discussion.

But Lorrian only dipped his chin. “It’s when I knew we would be   chroí  . After we were joined, it felt like the greatest relief, as if a spool of yarn had been pulled tight between us but now it could just… exist. Relax a little.”

Cassian thought of the constricted tether between them and the way his light was desperate to push against the inner walls, until that rope had widened into a tunnel clear of brambles.

Not once had Cassian spoken with Lorrian or Frawley about Nesta. About how he was in so deep that sometimes he thought that if she were ever to reject him again he wouldn't be able to climb out of the pit he had fallen into. Both of his friends were sharp enough to have dissected his feelings, he wasn’t naive enough to pretend otherwise. He had never introduced them to a female before, had never allowed them to get to know someone so intimately that was clearly not a friend.

Not that Cassian knew what he and Nesta were. Wouldn’t dare to ask for fear of ruining it all.

And his friends had not pressed him for more information or, to his knowledge, asked Nesta about the two of them. The latter of which he was immensely thankful for.

Yet, that didn’t mean that Cassian hadn’t felt Frawley’s ice blue eye swivel carefully between the two of them, or Lorrian’s knowing smile as Nesta joined in with his friend to torment him.

In fact, the only thing Frawley had commented on was her fondness for Nesta.

“I hope we get to keep her, Cassian,” the witch had said sternly when he had arrived at the cottage earlier that week, as if, ironically, the decision was up to him. Then, without commenting on how premature his arrival was, Frawley had waved impatiently to the back door, “She’s training with Lorrian.”

Having been thoroughly dismissed, Cassian had headed into the backyard to find the paddock to the left of the barn had been cleared of its usual horses. Instead, Nesta stood at a shooting line that Cassian suspected had been made by Lorrian dragging the toe of his boot through the mud. At the far end of the ring —20 metres or so away—stood an archery target.

His friend had not turned as Cassian drew up beside him. Instead, they had both watched in silence as Nesta pulled back the bow string with a strength that no other Illyrian female possessed before releasing it.

Together, they watched an arrow fly across the clearing and hit clean into the outer yellow ring of the target. Lorrian had still not looked at Cassian, had only kept his arms crossed firmly over his chest as they watched Nesta stride over to the target on her long legs to collect her arrows.

“You’ve met your match,” was all Lorrian eventually said, shaking his head in disbelief, before he went over to correct Nesta on her stance.

Now, Cassian glanced sideways at his friend. Lorrian’s eyes were full of a shared understanding that Cassian could not bear. So he looked away, and before he could stop the words, he admitted tightly—quietly, “It’s going to be the death of me.”

Ahead of them, the heavy double doors of the war-room came looming into view, and with it, another layer of dread. Cassian flared his siphons, breaking the sound bubble Lorrian had encased them in, and stalked into the room.

Marsh was already seated at the long, wooden table. He had left the drawing room well before the rest of them, no doubt to hide the extent of his illness, but Cassian could almost taste death on the war-lord.

The others could, too. Those sharp, beady eyes never missed a thing. And if they had not gleaned it for themselves, the way in which Kallon seated himself beside his father was enough of an indication of who was truly intending to run the meeting.

There was a growing expectancy in the air. The deafening kind that was almost like a ringing silence, even as chairs scraped against flagstones and war-lords muttered to their Rite representatives, who took a seat beside them.

It did not escape Cassian that one of Ragar’s friends was seated beside Devlon. That beside the other war-lords, Cassian recognised lordlings who had been reported to have met with Kallon all those weeks ago.

That sense of apprehension intensified, but Cassian settled his wings over his chair and waited for the first war-lord to break the silence. Even as his mind worked at a hundred miles per minute, trying to piece together what he was clearly not seeing.

Unsurprisingly, it was Icor who finally broke the silence. “A representative can’t take place in the Rite,” Lorrian’s brother sneered from where he sat opposite Cassian and Lorrian, his lip already curled as he narrowed his eyes at Kallon.

The princeling did not rise to the barb. He only settled back into his chair with an unrivalled arrogance and smoothness that made Cassian want to smack him in the face. It was an action that almost reminded Cassian of Rhys when he was playing wicked, but there was something impossibly cold and threatening beneath the movement which set Kallon apart from his brother. It made Cassian want to sit up straighter, but he did not allow himself to do it. To let others know that Kallon held his attention so fiercely.

“I am aware of that, Icor,” Kallon replied, once he had taken his time getting comfortable. “I do not intend to partake in the Rite this year.”

Not a murmur ran down the table, but the air became tight and pregnant again. Expectant. It was almost unheard of for a princeling not to partake in the Rite past a certain age, and Kallon was near twenty-five.

It meant that he would not earn siphons of his own for another year.

It was an unusual move, especially given that Kallon was trying to stake authority amongst the Illyrians. Siphons were the quickest way to earn respect amongst Cassian’s race. It was why they begrudgingly accepted Cassian.

Kallon’s birth as a princeling meant that he was born with a natural amount of Killing Power that superseded low-born foot soldiers. Azriel’s information had detailed that Kallon usually trained with three siphons in the sparring ring. That although he was green, he was better than most with the Illyrian saber. That since he had been training with the sword he claimed to be Enalius’s, he had taken to using a fourth siphon to contain the Killing Power that seemed to still be growing within him.

That, in itself, was a worry. Cassian’s Killing Power had reached its maturity at the age of twenty-five, training with seven borrowed siphons in the sparring ring until he finally earned his jewels after the Blood Rite.

The Siphon Master had not hesitated in giving Cassian siphons the colour of blood.

For the blood glory you will earn in battle, ratnik, the Siphon Master had said at the Rite ceremony, as he placed red siphons atop Cassian’s hands, on his knee caps, his upper arms… And across his heart, a flawless star ruby. Even now, Cassian remembered how the jewel had beat a deep, dark red that took on a blueish hue, as if it were kicking into life for the first time. Cassian remembered the gratification that had flickered over the Siphon Master’s face as the ruby did not shatter but became an additional heart, pulsing gently in the spring light.

“Shall we begin, Father?”

This time, every war-lord bristled as Kallon spoke. Somehow, the air became even thicker. A princeling did not order a prince. Yet, Marsh only raked his shrewd eyes over every single male in challenge, before he waved a trembling hand at his son, commanding him to start.

Kallon stood with a confidence that superseded his age; as if he were a messenger sent by the Gods and had the intention of delivering a fucking sermon. Cassian’s stomach dropped leaden to his toes at the same time that his blood began to boil beneath his skin.

Beside him, Lorrian stiffened, as if he too knew that they had been foiled, even though neither of them had yet learnt why.

“Many of you are probably wondering why my father and I have called this meeting early,” Kallon started. The princeling stood tall, his feet slightly apart, his shoulders squared, his wings held up high… A warrior’s stance. But there was something infuriatingly relaxed about his posture, as if commanding an audience was all completely natural to him.

“Tradition states that the first Rite counsel is not held until the new year, but given that Ironcrest is hosting the ceremony this year, we thought it made sense to arrange for this meeting to coincide with the Solstice luncheon.”

There was a pause in which Kallon looked around the room. His voice was too cordial for an Illyrian, especially a princeling, and if it were not for that unfathomable chill to his voice—a carved out emptiness—Cassian would have been willing to bet that he would have been sneered back into his seat. And of course, there was arrogance, too. An entitlement that came with those born into wealth.

“Since Enalius gifted our ancestors with a drop of his power and we were able to mine siphons, the Blood Rite has become the most important tradition in our culture,” Kallon continued. “Illyrians produce the best warriors Prythian has ever seen. Our bloody history shows that whilst we are perceived by High Fae and many others of our kind to be the lowest of faeries, we are triumphant in battle and far supersede not only the Night Courts forces, but the forces in every other court. We Illyrians are relied upon for our gifts, but we are treated as disposable when our talents are not required. The recent kerit attacks on our camps has highlighted what we have known for centuries; that the Night Court does not care about our race to provide sufficient protection.”

Another cessation of speech for what Cassian expected was not for Kallon to catch his breath, but to allow his words to settle. All of the war-lords and representatives remained eerily silent, and whilst they had originally sat forward as if they were waiting to jump in and protest, they were now stock still, drawn in by the words that they all already believed to be true.

“We suffered many losses in the war against Hybern,” Kallon pushed on. “Forces across all of our camps are drained and depleted. Whilst the Rite is an important part of who we are, the loss of more Illyrian lives would be the greatest sin. Enalius gifted all of our families with a drop of his blood so we could ensure that the Illyrian lines did not die out. That we could continue to perform our duty to honour and protect. My father and I have called you here today to consider a hiatus on the Blood Rite. To focus instead on strengthening our troops rather than inflicting more bloodshed upon our kind.”

Silence fell again as Kallon stopped talking. As, with a sweeping look around the table, the princeling sat back down and leant back into his chair with a superior expression on his face. No doubt a sense of achievement that he had captivated the hostile war-lords for enough time to say exactly what he intended. To plant the seeds in the minds of those who already did not look favourably towards their High Lord’s rule.

Lord Alcathoe was the first to snap. The war-lord from Swallow’s Ridge leant forward, his expression dark and openly aggressive. “The Blood Rite has been performed every year without fail. What claim do you have to suggest a hiatus?”

“We have not ceased the Rite in the aftermath of war before,” Lord Hamel added. Hamel’s voice was monotone and bored, but Cassian had learnt from his many visits to Craggs Peak that the war-lord was as vicious as any of the other males around the table—worse than some, actually. One misplaced word and the war-lord was known to explode.

Cassian thought it only a matter of time until everyone at the table witnessed it.

“I don’t think a young whelp who has not fought in a war or earned his own siphons should be leading a discussion in which he has no place.”

“Watch your mouth, Hamel,” Marsh snarled in warning. “My son is smarter than all of your offspring, both the bastards and your true heirs. If you have any true heirs, that is.”

Hamel’s answering snarl had him rising out of his seat. The war-lord’s face had turned purple with rage and his teeth were bared. Spittle flew across the wooden surface of the strategy table. “If you weren’t already on your death bed, Marsh, I’d—”

“It is true that I do not yet own my own siphons and that I have not yet fought in a war,” Kallon interrupted, standing again with a flare of his wings. The sound snapped around the room, like a nine-tail whip cracking against skin. “But I see what our race has suffered at the hands of the Night Court. We are treated as expendable and as bodies rather than being valued for who we are and what we stand for. To put a hiatus on the Blood Rite will allow us to become stronger. It will allow our warriors to become proficient in the art of battle and for our numbers to rise. We cannot afford to lose any more warriors.”

The blood in Hamel’s face was slowly draining from purple to red. Still angry, but not as if he was going to self-combust. The war-lord had sunk back down into his seat, and it was clear that an internal conflict was going on in his mind; as he decided what held greater importance, his hatred of Anguis Marsh and his son, or his opinions on Night Court affairs.

And the issue was that whilst there were statements of Kallon’s that were wrong—namely that the war was not an Illyrian cause and that Rhys saw the Illyrians as disposable— the princeling was also right. The Illyrians could not afford to lose any more warrior blood in the upcoming Rite. It was an issue Cassian had deliberated over repeatedly. One he had brought up with Rhys and Azriel. A problem they had decided not to interfere with for fear that it would set the Illyrians against them even further.

But what Kallon was doing… it was clever. It played on the Illyrians sensibilities and the ever-growing notion that they should not be ruled by Rhys’s hand. And if Kallon could get the war-lords to agree… he would be seen as a martyr, whilst the Night Court would be viewed as complacent in further deaths of the Illyrian race.

It would gain him support amongst the most influential of the Illyrians. It would strengthen the dissent. And if the war-lords made it clear that they were openly opposing Rhys’s rule, then many more Illyrians would follow their example.

As if Kallon knew he was triumphant, he pinned Cassian with a stare. “Do you not agree, General? We have suffered the death of an entire aerial legion, plus many of our strongest warriors against Hybern. Surely you cannot argue that we should go ahead with the Blood Rite rather than strengthen our forces before we allow ourselves to suffer any more losses?”

Cassian and Lorrian were rabbits caught in a hunters snare and Kallon knew it.

“The Night Court agrees that we cannot afford to lose any more males in the Blood Rite,” Cassian replied, his voice so deep and commanding that he did not recognise his true self—the part of him that was not General but Fae. “Should another war come to Illyria, we need to ensure we can protect our kind and those throughout our court. A reprieve from the Blood Rite is the best way to prevent further bloodshed.”

A growl sounded from Icor. It was an abrupt, guttural sound that sounded too much like a temper tantrum. He had no doubt been expecting Cassian to side with him. “You have not answered the question, princeling. What right do you have to suggest a hiatus?”

Across his cruel face, Icor looked briefly triumphant. A petulant child believing he’d won a game rather than contemplating the life or death of his best warriors. “So tell me, what right do we have to interfere with the will of our warrior Gods?”

“My son has been chosen by the Gods. By Enalius himself.” Marsh’s grating voice was deep and commanding. Forceful.

A dismissive snort. “I do not think—” Icor started, but Marsh dismissed Forktail’s war-lord entirely, and looked towards his son. His heir.

“Show them,” Marsh ordered Kallon with a wave of his hand.

The princeling turned his head in a way that was more automaton than Fae. He looked towards the doors, where a male steward wearing Ironcrest colours stepped out of the shadows.

In that moment, Cassian wished Nesta was in the room with them, if only to sense the emotions of every single war-lord as their lofty expressions turned carefully blank. As their eyes fell to the sword laying atop a velvet-crushed cushion the colour of mustard.

Enalius’s sword. Or at least, a sword with ancient magical properties.

Cassian could feel the hum of it in his blood—his magic—turning over inside of him, pressing against his skin as if it was trying to leap from his body and join with the steel. His siphons pulsed, his star ruby beating like a star-blessed heart. And from the look on every other males face, they could sense the magic of it, too.

The sword looked exactly as it did in the drawing printed in Heroicis. The sword Cassian had committed to memory as a youngling, as he stared at that inked drawing—the only thing he could understand as an illiterate bastard trying to make sense of a book full of words. The blade was arced, the steel etched with the Illyrian marks of glory that each of the war-lords wore on their own skin. The curved bone pommel gleamed as if it had been recently polished, even though the handle looked well-worn and cracked.

Just as Frawley had reported, the oval jewel was missing from where it should sit on the wide guard.

Cassian knew without Frawley having to confirm it—with a certainty that was completely devoid of doubt—that Kallon was presenting them with Enalius’s sword.

And worse, that the princeling would gain the begrudging respect of the males around this table for it.

Tags: @arin1030 @superspiritfestival @sayosdreams @perseusannabeth @mylittlebigplanet @biggestwingspan-az @bellsqueen @ekaterinakostrova @bookstantrash @prophecyerised @rainbowcheetah512 @awesomelena555 @wannawriteyouabook @iammissstark @lovelynesta @melphss @nestalytical @darkshadowqueensrule @laylaameer01 @a-trifling-matter @grouchycritic7794 @thalia-2-rose @champanheandluxxury @swankii-art-teacher @princessconsuela02 @lavendergoomsltd @little-diyosa @princessofmerchants-reads @jeakat @sjm-things @imwritingthesewords @nestable @inejbrekkxr @silvernesta @inyourmindeye @amelie775  @iwastoowildinthe70s @helen-the-weirdo @pizzaneverdisappoints

[morganas-pendragons]

I’m Running To You | B.B.

Before you fade from me. 

This will have minor and major Endgame spoilers. You were warned. 

I’m really only writing Bucky for @buckychrist now, so this is for you hayley

00000000000

He knows it’s not right from the first time he arrives at your door with a bouquet of your favorite flowers. Sunflowers. The amount of heart that he intentionally puts into your relationship is unlike any of the relationships he had before he fell. He shouldn’t pursue you, but he does. He chases you harder then he’s ever chased anyone, and Bucky is one hundred percent anticipating smacking his face against the ground in the process. He’s anticipating falling, 

No. You... You are everything Bucky has been searching for since waking up in the ice. HYDRA had drilled it into his brain from the start - a mantra on repeat in his mind - Unworthy, unloved, bred for war and stained in the blood of millions. A ruthless killing machine incapable of feeling loved. Of being loved. 

You had taken his broken form, malleable in your hands, and crafted him into this remarkable man he almost didn’t recognize when he glanced in the mirror. And when he looked at you, oh he knew. Bucky knew you were proud of your creation and proud of him for learning that he could stand on his own feet. That he could be his own man. 

That didn’t mean he wasn’t terrified of losing you, though. Terrified of how his heart would betray him when you inevitably died before his eyes, or died by his own hand. 

What a nightmare that would be. 

2018

Dated for two years, married just a few weeks ago, and now here the two of you stood side by side in arms against the forces of Thanos. You were human - simply mortal - and without any skills like his own. You didn’t have serum flowing through your blood like he and Steve did. You weren’t a genius like Bruce and Tony, but he learned quick after meeting you in 2016 that you were more then capable with a weapon. 

  After the Compound had dove into chaos, you’d parted from Steve and Sams side in frantic search of Bucky. The two of you had only met weeks before in the slums of Bucharest, when you’d caught him rifling through his jacket for money to purchase his plums. He was sweet, and your heart ached to provide for him. 

He just didn't know how much of an influence you’d have. 

You gripped his hand in your own and lead him through the alleys that provided cover for your apartment. It was a one bedroom, one bath, but surely big enough for you and your newest acquaintance. He’d been reluctant. You had to reassure him that no one would find you here, and that he’d be safe. 

That was a word he very rarely heard anymore. Safe. 

Bucky told you about The Soldier from the first night, and made it abundantly clear that you were to not get in his way if HYDRA ever reactivated him with his trigger words. 

  “I don’t think you get it, James.” You whispered, caressing his cheekbones with the back of your hand. “No matter how much he’d want to, I don’t think The Soldier would be able to hurt me.” 

You are still the only person he’s never physically harmed. The Soldier succumbs to the tenderness in your words, the soft gaze of your eyes, and he’s ready to comply to whatever you say because you are and were the only human being who sought to never harm him. 

  “Why’s that doll?” 

  “Because in the end, he only wants a home for his aching heart.” 

You found him rather easily, but it took some coaxing for The Soldier to believe you were not a threat. It was only after you kicked your gun across the room that he chose to believe you, and then Steve came barging in and well - We all know what happened there. 

The point is, he’d never hurt you. And you thought he never would.. not up until the two of you were together in Wakanda. Upon hearing that Shuri Udaku, a mere sixteen year old, was capable of removing HYDRAS brainwashing from Bucky’s mind - you almost forced him into doing it. It required extensive cryosleep, but if it meant there was a possibility of a future, you’d take it. 

  “Will you be here when I wake up, doll?” 

Your lips quirked upward in a smile as the cryo-chamber slowly began to close, and you rested your hand against the lid. Bucky had been particularly skilled in the art of reading lips, and so you murmured, “Until I fade from you.” 

You’d fallen in love with him. Gradually, slowly over time, but he’d stolen you alot quicker then you’d been anticipating. 

Bucky came out cryo in late 2017, early 2018, but you’d put off marrying each other until he was comfortable with himself. The two of you lived in Wakandas country side and tended to the fields, meditated together, took charge of the children for the other tribes together. It was the closest thing you’d get to a future. 

T’Challa came to you in the early days of summer, dressed to the nines in his regal robes, and very politely asked if you wanted a wedding. You were so stunned by the question that it was hard not to say yes. 

  “I’m sorry.. what did you say?” 

T’Challa smiled at your shock and flexed his fingers. “It seems my sister has not kept quiet about your relations with our White Wolf, and so she has convinced our mother and the Dora to prepare a ceremony. Traditionally Wakandan, of course. I’m here to see if you’d accept.” 

Of course you’d accept. It would’ve been ridiculous not to. 

The ceremony was held in the most beautiful part of the city. You wore the best dress they could provide, which was a marvel in itself, and donned the most beautiful wedding rings you could’ve asked for. There was joy and laughter and song. No one left disappointed.

You went home to your tent that night as Mrs. Bucky Barnes. It was less then a month later when he came back again and asked for the two of you to fight, and now here you stood in the ruins of the Wakandan outskirts with Steve Rogers by your side. 

It was deathly silent. 

  “Well, is that it? Did we-” The word win lingers on your tongue, and somewhere deep inside of you, you know there was a price to be paid. “Steve?” 

You realize about 2.5 seconds later that Bucky also simultaneously said the name of the other super-soldier, and your happiness is short lived when the man you love turns to dust right in front of your very eyes. 

And then it’s silent again. Silence in the air, silent in your mind, until you begin comprehending the reality of what has just happened: Bucky Barnes is dead. He faded from you before you could catch him.

That’s when you start screaming. 

2023

It’d been 5 years since “The Snap” and learning how to adjust to a life without Bucky is the hardest thing you’d ever done. You had buried yourself into taking care of the other Avengers who still lived in the compound. It granted a distraction for a little while, but then you were right back at the beginning. Mourning over Bucky. 

Natasha took it upon herself to send you out to Tony. Given that he didn’t live in the Compound any more and instead sought out solace in the country with his daughter and wife, she thought it was the best place for you to find peace.

What you found instead was two of your current best friends and the best god-daughter you could’ve asked for. 

  “Y/N!” Morgan eagerly pulled on your jeans as you looked over the prints for the machine beside Tony. It had been a few days since Natasha and Steve had left him alone with his daughter after the proposition of traveling through the quantum realm to receive the stones. The only logical way to get your husband and the others back. “Daddy says you like to sing.” 

  “Your daddy is a liar, Morgan-” 

  “But he said you used to sing to him all the time!” 

You hadn’t sang a note since Bucky had died. You’d lost your voice when he'd gone, and you weren’t planning on getting it back. “Okay, sweet girl. Just cause you’re my favorite Stark, I’ll sing you one of my favorites. Are you okay with that?” 

Morgan Stark was a precious, precious girl. A girl who’d get to grow up with her father and would know the story of the woman who had died to save the world. 

You gently tucked the youngest Stark into her bed and propped yourself up at her side, fingers carding through her hair as you began to sing, “And the blood will dry.. underneath my nails..” 

You’d found him in the aftermath of the battle. Everyone was there - all those who had faded before - ready to face the threat of Thanos and his armies. The gauntlet was missing in action, away from the hands of the Titan, but the only way to resolve the issue was to snap. 

And up until the last five minutes, you were sure it was going to be Tony. Tony, who would have sacrificed worlds if it meant that Pepper and Morgan were safe. Tony, who had been held captive by his own demons and forced to face his mistakes time and time again. Tony was not the one who was meant to sacrifice himself for the greater good of the world. He had too much to lose, too much to live for.

  “And the wind will rise up to fill my sails...” 

Thanos had snapped his fingers, and nothing happened. It wasn’t until he turned around and looked at you - a human who had done nothing special - that he realized his fate. You wielded the gauntlet, rage coursing through your blood stream and determination flashing in your eyes before you said, “I am.. worthy.” 

Worthy. Worth. The one thing Bucky had never thought he had, or that he was deserving of. Funny how it’s the minuscule details that come to mind when you’re dying. 

 “I’m coming home... I’m coming home..” 

Keeping your eyes open proved to be difficult. The entire right side of your body had lost feeling almost as soon as you’d snapped, and you knew when the other Avengers came to surround you that this was it. You’d sacrificed yourself for them to get their happy ending. 

But you weren't gonna get yours, and neither was he.

  “Tell the world I’m coming home.. let the rain wash away all the pain of yesterday..”

Steve gently pressed his thumb against the earpiece tucked into his ear as Tony maneuvered you into his arms. “Bucky,’’ He said quietly. “Follow Mjolnir. Hurry.” The super soldier rose his arm and used the hammer as a flag while Bucky hurriedly sought him out. What he wasn’t anticipating was the consequence of whoever had snapped. 

You. 

  “Y/N? Y/N!” You can’t move. Your lungs are deflating, barely taking in air, but it’s just enough to keep your eyes open long enough to see your husband come crashing down at your feet. Chasing you, as he always had been. “What-Stark, can you-” 

Tony shook his head as he loosened his grip on your form. There is no hope for a cure. You’d taken that gauntlet very well knowing the consequences of it, of what you were to lose. You just didn’t think you’d miss him more after he came back home. 

  “We can’t fix her, Barnes.” Tony replied. “This is.. It’s permanent.” 

 “And though my kingdom awaits, and they’ve forgiven my mistakes..” 

  “James.” It’s all you could manage, but it was just enough for Bucky to look up at your face. Despite the pain radiating through your bones and the lack of air your lungs were inhaling.. You looked oddly at peace with yourself. 

Bucky swallowed the knot growing in his throat as he took your hand. “It’s-It’s okay, doll. I’m gonna be okay. We’re all gonna be okay.” His metal arm slowly rose until his fingers came in contact with your cheek, and he cursed his inability to feel your skin beneath his fingers. “You’ve spent so much time taking care of me.. showing me I was a better man then what HYDRA turned me into. You’ve done your work, soldier. And don’t forget, never forget how much I loved you-” 

  “I’m coming home.. I’m coming home, tell the world I’m coming.. home.” 

It had been rather difficult to keep himself composed in front of you, but Bucky managed to whisper, “Sleep.” just before your eyes fluttered shut and your hand went limp in his own. 

There’s a million things that flash before his eyes at that precise moment - all the lives that never came - and then he realized how silent it was in the aftermath of the battle. Thanos’ armies have been vanquished and they’d won the war, but the silence was deafening. They should’ve been celebrating, for Gods sake-

And then he realizes why it’s so quiet. It’s because they’re mourning you, all the people around him who watched as Tony Stark rose from the Earth and cradled your body in his embrace while Rhodey pried the gauntlet from your arm. Those who stood in the background that had ventured back into the world with him, and those who had been influenced by your kindness and softened heart when you’d been working with the Avengers. 

But then it hits him, when he starts screaming until his voice is raw, that you are dead. Bucky ran and ran and ran after you and the future you were supposed to have, and because he fell flat on his face, his worst nightmare had come true.

Bucky thought learning how to live again would be possible after they’d buried you at Tonys countryside cabin, but when Steve inevitably leaves him as well, it became too overwhelming. He drowned himself in alcohol and home-videos, and his eyes burned as an hour became days of watching the evolution of your relationship unfold on camera. 

And he thinks about the days that never came as the words flow freely from the speakers of his TV. 

  “Oh Sergeant Barnes... I’m running to you before you fade from me.” 

He just hadn’t been fast enough to catch you. 

[frizz22]

Heyyy, I love your work SO MUCH. Could I possibly prompt you to write something about Zelda and Vinegar Tom? She must have loved him a lot to keep a stuffed version of him so many years after his death. I’m just kind of craving a scene between them right now. Thank you!!

Thank you so much! I hope you enjoy this just as much :) Sorry it took so long. Read on ao3

It was the first time Zelda truly understood what a familiar was for.

Not just a companion, or a symbol that she’d come into her full powers. There was so much more to it than that.

She’d heard the stories, of course, read up on the great deeds of the familiars of famous witches and warlocks. But Zelda had never considered she and Tom would be in that kind of situation. Never anticipated she’d need saving. Believing she was powerful enough, more powerful than most. And that this would be plenty to keep them both safe.

And in any case, Zelda never wanted Tom to be lauded as one of the ‘greats’ among familiars. Great was a relative term. And it appeared as though all the ‘great’ familiars were granted the title because they’d died saving their witch. A noble end, or so the books all claimed. But it wasn’t an end Zelda wanted Tom to meet, never thought he’d ever come close to meeting.

Until she got too arrogant. 

They’d been traveling. Had been for over a decade now, going wherever they pleased and picking up odd jobs or projects that sparked Zelda’s interest. The most recent one being curse breaking; specifically curse breaking on the ancient Egyptian witch tombs hidden within the mortal pyramids.

The first week had been exhilarating; one curse after another fell before her with relative ease. The locals were stunned and promptly hired Zelda on for another week, asking her to work on the darker, more powerful curses in one of the more remote tombs.

Only too happy to continue, Zelda and Tom made for the new tomb the next day, eager to see what it held. They went alone; the locals long scared off the place and Zelda not having the patience to babysit a novice curse breaker who would only screw things up.

Breaking through the first few levels of general protection and mortal deterrent spells was easy. As they made their way inside, Zelda held an enchanted torch aloft, letting it spread its light throughout the antechamber.

Zelda gasped in delight moments later, the torch revealing a four-armed skeleton—the trespasser having sprouted extra limbs before suffering an excruciating death. Digging the torch into the ground, Zelda examined the skeleton, casting various spells and making notes of her steps and findings to share with her employers.

Tom walked slow circles around her, sniffing the air as he went. His voice sounded in her head as she continued look at the mutated skeleton. “You know, if this is what we find in the entrance, imagine what we’d find if you stopped fiddling with that pile of bones and moved on.”

A snort escaped her, and she lifted her head to look at him. “Bored already, are we?” Zelda teased, arching a brow. “It’s a four-armed skeleton, Tom, aren’t you the least bit excited?”

Sitting down, Tom yawned widely, his tongue curling a bit at the end.

The response had Zelda laughing despite herself and she stood, dusted off her pants and grabbed the torch. “Fine then, impatient, lets carry on.” She cast a quick spell to mark the location of the skeleton so she could find it later and moved deeper into the tomb.

She moved further and further into the tomb, disabling a spell here and there, growing bolder with each one—unsure why the locals found this particular tomb so troublesome. Yes, there was the skeleton in the front chamber, but aside from that there was nothing daunting in this place at all. Nothing even magically challenging. From what Zelda could tell, the curses that were in place were rather weak. Perhaps the witches who’d charmed it had simply put the skeleton up front to scare away others so they wouldn’t have to go through the effort of actually making the place a fortress.

Or, a self-satisfied voice murmured in her head, perhaps Zelda was just that much stronger than the others and so it seemed like nothing to her. Tom, who was padded next to her and stopping to sniff one spot or another, looked at her then; sensing her internal gloating.

“Zelda,” he warned, his voice ringing in her head.

Waving a dismissive hand, Zelda scoffed. “What? I’m allowed to acknowledge my own power, there’s nothing wrong with that. I merely—”

“Zelda!” He cried, bowling into the back of her knees and knocking her to the ground. Just as she hit, sending up a cloud of dust, a screech sounded from where she’d been standing.

Scrabbling to her feet, though staying in a low crouch, Zelda’s hand snatched the torch back up from where she’d dropped it in her surprise; praising Satan she’d charmed it to never go out unless she said the right spell.

“Tom,” she whispered, scuttling back and trying to see through the dust. But only another screech greeted her, and Zelda practically fell backwards away from the noise, heart pounding in her ears. “Tom!” She hissed, peering through the gloom. Just then both Tom and the creature came into the sphere of light her torch was giving off.

It was a reanimated corpse, a mummy come back to life. And there was her familiar, hanging off the cursed thing’s arm, clamping down and shaking with his whole body as he snarled.

Zelda attempted to blast the thing, aiming for central mass so Tom wouldn’t be hit. The spell went right through the beast, if anything it only angered the being further. Screeching once more, it clawed at Tom, ripping him off and flinging him to the side so it could advance on Zelda once more.

But Tom got back up, in goblin form this time, and rushed the corpse, slamming the thing into the wall and sending up another blinding cloud of dust. Zelda was forced to cover her face, the gritty dirt filling her lungs and sending her into a harsh coughing fit.

When she recovered, the dust had somewhat settled and she could just make out Tom back in his usual dog shape, laying broken on the ground. The mummy in pieces off to the side, twitching slightly but no longer a threat.

A panicked sob tore itself from Zelda as she lurched forward, trembling hands hovering over her familiar unsure how to help, not wanting to touch least she cause more harm. “Tom? Tom?!” When he still didn’t respond, Zelda hiccupped. “Vin!” Her voice cracked but still he didn’t move.

Desperate, and seeing blood starting to pool underneath him, Zelda scooped up her darling Vinegar Tom, the only sign he was alive a soft whimper at her touch, and Zelda did the only thing she could think of—she teleported home. Home to Greendale. Home to her sister; Hilda the best healer she knew and the only one she trusted with Tom.

~~~~~~~

The jump nearly killed her. She hadn’t prepared for it, hadn’t left from a designated teleportation spot which were created to make international trips easier, safer.

By some unholy miracle Zelda arrived in the Spellman kitchen, swaying dangerously and Tom’s limp body clutched to her. “Hildie!” She bellowed, bursts of color filling her vision even as the edges went black as she swayed.

Her sister came barreling into the kitchen, confused and spell in hand. “Zelds?! You’re supposed to be in—,” she stopped, registering the state Zelda and Tom were in. “Oh Satan,” Hilda gasped, “what—?”

“Save him.” Zelda whimpered, collapsing into one of the chairs next to the table as she held out Tom. “Please, Hildie, you have to save him.” She begged, tears streaking through the grime covering her face.

Nodding vigorously, though slightly pale, Hilda carefully took Tom and hurried into the greenhouse where her medicinal plants resided along with the rest of the first aid kit.

And though she desperately wanted to follow, act as Hilda’s surgical nurse and heal Tom, the buzzing in Zelda’s head had grown stronger, and her vision was dipping and fading in and out as she sat there. Before she could summon something to restore her energy, Zelda passed out.

~~~~~~~

Some time later, Zelda woke up, tucked into her old bed, with a rough tongue rasping against the back of her hand. “Tom?!” She exclaimed, voice thick with emotion. The dog nuzzled her hand and pushed his head underneath her arm so that it was draped over him as he rested his head on her stomach.  

Chest heaving, Zelda gently tugged Tom completely onto her lap and laid his head on her collarbone. Cradling him to her, Zelda stroked Tom’s ears as she cried in relief.

The door opening a few minutes later caught her attention; Hilda was back, a basket of potions and bandages slung over one arm. When her sister saw they were awake, a small noise escaped the back of her throat.

Slumping against the vanity, Hilda shook her head. “Don’t ever do that again. You understand?”

Lifting her eyes from Tom completely, Zelda furrowed her brow. “Do what?”

“Teleport like that.” Hilda admonished, pushing off the vanity and coming to sit next on the edge of Zelda’s bed. “You nearly did yourself in, making an international jump like you did. The exhaustion and magical depletion almost had you. Had you been even a few miles further away you wouldn’t have made it!” She was practically in tears by the time she finished, undermining her lecture a bit.

Grimacing in apology, Zelda shrugged. “Tom needed you.” She murmured, tracing a finger up her familiar’s nose, in between his eyes and over the crown of his head. “I wasn’t going to let anything happen to him.”

Softening, Hilda reached out and pet Tom’s head before starting to unpack her basket. “He got hurt protecting you, didn’t he?” And it wasn’t really a question, there’d have been no other reason for Tom to be in the state he was, nothing else could have caused it except a fight to protect her.

Licking her lips, Zelda nodded. “Yes, so it was only fair I take the same risk to protect him. To save him.” She breathed, dropping her eyes back to Tom and framing his head in her hands, playing with his ears; Tom’s tail thumped lightly against her legs in response.

Hilda rubbed the back of her neck and sighed tiredly. “Well, both of you need to be more careful. Take better precautions,” she scolded, handing Zelda a potion. “And you’re going to tell me the whole story, but first you need to rest. Drink this, it’ll help restore your energy and magic faster.”

Zelda drank the potion while Hilda gingerly changed Tom’s bandages, dipping the new ones in a potion before wrapping them around Tom’s various injuries. “Thank you, Hildie.” Zelda took her sister’s hand and squeezed hard. “So much, I don’t know what—” And tears clogged her throat, leaving Zelda unable to finish her sentence, that she didn’t know what she’d do without Tom by her side.

A small smile tugged Hilda’s lips and she nodded, leaning forward to kiss Zelda’s forehead. “Of course, Zelds. Now rest, and when you wake up again, we can talk. Just be glad Edward isn’t here, he wouldn’t give you a moment, would demand answers right now.”

Huffing, Zelda inclined her head in agreement, grateful Edward wasn’t home. With that, Hilda got up and left the room, shutting the door softly behind her.

“That was a stupid thing to do,” Tom’s voice chimed in her head, reclaiming Zelda’s attention.

Taken aback, Zelda blinked. “What? Teleporting here? What other choice did I have? I knew Hilda could save you. That was the end of the matter.”

“And if you’d died?” He cocked his head at her, ears lifting up just a bit.

Sniffling, Zelda shook her head and wrapped her arms around Tom. “Stop that. It didn’t happen so it doesn’t matter. And don’t go interfering next time.”

Tom sighed and rested his head on her chest heavily. “Zelda, what if I don’t interfere and you get hurt?”

Scoffing, Zelda shrugged a shoulder. “Then I get hurt. There are more resources to help witches than to help familiars. If you get in the way again, you could die.”

“Then I die.” Tom countered, taking her words almost verbatim. “That is the job of a familiar. To protect his or her witch, in all ways, from all things.”

Swallowing hard, Zelda shook her head. “No. That isn’t your job. Your job it to be here for me. To understand me when no one else does. To counsel me. To know me better than any other living thing. Your job is to be here, so I’m, so I’m not alone.” Tears slipped down her cheeks. “So, you have to promise, promise you won’t interfere again. So you can be with me for centuries.”

A low, soft whine emanated from Tom’s throat and he snuggled against her closer. “Zelda, I cannot promise you that. I want to be here for you always, but what you and I want might not matter.” His little eyebrows rose a bit. “And just as you could not stand to see me hurt or dying, neither could I do the same.” And she must have looked ready to argue further, because Tom huffed. “And if you die, I die. So, if we are looking at future scenarios logically…”

She hated that he’d used logic on her. Hated that it made sense and that he’d wriggled out of promising her he’d stay safe and with her always. But Tom was right, if something happened to her, well, he wouldn’t be far behind. It wasn’t fair, but it was the truth.

Instead of responding, Tom knew he’d won the argument already anyway, Zelda just cuddled him closer and shut her eyes to rest.

Today was the first time Zelda realized and truly understood what a familiar was for… not to be her closest companion and confidante; but to be her protector, her guardian. And, Zelda swore to herself as she drifted off, that she’d never put them in a situation like that again. Tom, her Vinegar Tom, would be with her for centuries to come, she’d make sure of that.

[theadorablespderman]

Sailing Close to the Wind

This is dedicated to the anon who requested a fic off of the prompt list I posted a while ago. The prompt was #18 for the angst list: “Leave! Me! Alone!” thank you all for being amazing and thanks to the anon for requesting this fic! it was so much fun to write. I hope you guys like it!

(not beta read so any mistakes are mine) 

***************************************************

Rating: M (due to implied sexual content)

Peter/Michelle

Summery:

Leave 

          Please

Me

          Don’t

Alone

          Go

***************************************************

"Pieces of shit! Leave! Me! Alone!" The roar cut up her throat, taking the air from her lungs. Michelle wrenched off the pocket-watch hanging by a rusted nail from her apartment door. She pitched it at the ground before promptly stomping on the watch face. The crunch of metal and glass under the pressure of her boot satisfied her. Observing the crushed remains of the clock, Michelle growled. This was the third timepiece she found nailed to her apartment door this month. And, her desk at work was teeming with unfulfilled, threatening notes.

She kicked the broken pieces of the watch with vigor. They skidded into a dark corner of the hallway. "Jesus! These assholes are such cowards. All the notes—the creepy phone calls...Jesus, I swear I'd be frightened if they actually followed through with any of their goddamn threats." She tilted her head back, filling the space of the hallway with her voice. Maybe the flickering fluorescent lights were bugged. Maybe they were listening to everything she said. Or, maybe she was just paranoid.

With anger bleaching her flesh, the noxious words were unstoppable.  "You hear that you pieces of shit? Either leave me the hell alone or make good on your promises and— "

A sweaty palm clapped over her mouth, cutting her off. Instinctively, Michelle licked it, tasting salt and the tang of lemon. Peter dropped his hand, grimacing at Michelle's thick saliva. "Are you five years old?" He swiped his hand down his khaki pants, his face screwed up in disgust.

"What's your deal, loser?" The anger leached from Michelle, releasing as carbon dioxide from her lips. She gave Peter a sideways glance while she jammed her key into her door. Maybe he would forget her momentary breakdown if she pretended it didn't happen. If she busied herself with her lock, he might not see how frazzled she felt.

The lock always stuck, so she pushed her shoulder into the door. The watermarked boards groaned under the pressure. In one snap of the wrist, the lock turned over and the door swung open. Another annoying thing about her door. The knob didn't work. She had to keep the door locked to keep it closed. Unjamming the lock always meant she pitched two unsteady steps into her apartment when she walked in.

Stumbling into her minuscule living space, she tossed her keys onto her side table. When she glanced back at Peter, he looked as worn as she did. She wasn't sure how she didn't notice it during dinner. Until she realized the clock set him on edge. The ticking meant to signify the last seconds of her life. He never was present when she received threats. He only ever heard about them after the fact. Now his gaze carried unbridled worry as he scanned the pockmarked ceiling and the peeling wallpaper. Searching.

He was looking for other signs. More bad omens.

With a sigh, she camouflaged herself with indifference and took the few remaining steps to Peter. Michelle swung a hand in front of his face, snapping twice before gaining his attention. "I'll repeat my question. What’s your deal, oh weird one?" She walked back to the door. Slamming it shut, she wedged her shoulder into it, flipping the deadbolt over.

She watched Peter's hands sneak into his pockets, bunching his dress shirt around his wrists. Michelle found the action incredibly attractive for no reason at all. She was a sucker for bare forearms.

Swaying on his feet, Peter finally answered. "You can't say stuff like that." His distracted attention landed on her. Nervous energy rolled off him, cutting through her with edged teeth. The tension left a metallic taste on her tongue.

A chill rushed over her skin. She took a step closer to him. Finding his bicep under her hands. The warmth soothed the fraying edges between them. "Is this about that clock?"

It was a stupid question. Of course it was about the clock.

His face remained impassive, only holding a fraction of terror behind brown eyes. Michelle continued, "Don't worry about it. It's just empty threats." Snaking her arms around his stomach, she wanted to believe her own words. If she told herself they were empty threats, she had no reason to fear the consequences of her decisions.

Peter hissed, short and breathy. It resonated more so in his chest than from his mouth. If she wasn't so close, she wouldn't have heard it. But with his eyes closed, his lips sucked into a straight line, it was obvious her words didn't put him at ease. "But I am worried about it. About you." He said, Eyelashes fluttering. His irises finally appeared behind his lids. The tension in his face melted into that of unmasked anxiety. "They're watching and waiting. And I'm—I'm really worried." He whispered it from the same place in his chest that his heart resided.

Michelle tilted closer, her hands slipping up his arms, laying flat along his stiff shoulder. Pressing her fingers into the hardened muscles, she felt the strain drip away. Sliding down his back, ice thawing, slipping from a melting glacier.

Their foreheads met and the chill of Peter's skin surprised her. He was shaking. The tremble of his hands distinct as they engulfed her waist. "Hey," She breathed the words, finding anything above a whisper too loud in the intimate space. "I'll be fine."

No.

His body translated the response without the need for words. No. She wouldn't be okay.

"Why?" She placed the word in the kiss she pressed against Peter's cheek.

His arms wound tight around her, dragging her against his body. "They know about the article." Warmth from his words bathed her neck. She tilted it enough for Peter to plant a kiss to her jugular. "I can't find them, but I've heard whispers. The Maggia and everyone else involved—they’ll do anything to keep this quiet. At first, they thought they could scare you, but now—" His voice cracked. “They’re warning you that they want you dead. And I-I can't let that happen. You can't—" A drop of something cool, singular, fell where Peter kissed. One tear. His tear. "You can't let that happen. I know you won't stop, and I don't want you to. But I need you safe too..." His words dropped off into more grazes against her skin.

Michelle turned her head, allowing Peter's lips to caress the line of her jaw. Her fingers carded into his hair. Tears blurred against her skin, transferring from Peter's cheek to hers. His chest heaved against her own, sobbing with nothing but breaths from his lips. "What should I do?" She asked the question, even though she knew there were plenty of things she should do. She should leave her apartment. Go somewhere safe, discrete, given that the city’s deadliest mob had a bounty on her head. But at the moment, Michelle didn't want to leave. She didn’t want to think. Not in this moment with Peter's breath, intimate and private, mingling with her own. Leaving was impossible when his hands left whispers on her skin.

As Peter peppered more kisses across her cheeks he replied, "Leave here,” A peck on her jaw. “Go somewhere safe,” A sigh in her ear. “Don't die," He trailed to her lips, kissing each corner before slanting his mouth over hers. "Please."

She opened her mouth to him, her knees buckling against the edge of her bed.

Kissing Peter was the same as wading through a lake. He enveloped her, water molding to her skin. It was a slow kiss, long and lazy. Moving against each other with sweeping motions of their lips. Peter’s tongue caressed her lips. She opened her mouth willingly. Letting everything but him slip away until she was bare.

When Peter’s lips found a pathway past her neck, between the valley of her breasts, Michelle knew he marked her skin with salt. Her own eyes stung with tears. They slid past her temples, into her hair.

She was trapped in a dangerous game. Fear wracked her with heavy blows every day. She investigated everything from drug rings and human trafficking to political scandals and corporate cover-ups. Those articles created a plethora of enemies over the years. Michelle knew there were specific people who might just crack a smile if she died tomorrow. Normally, it was nothing more than an occasional thought. A thought that held no power or fear over her. But this wasn't a small drug lord, or arms dealer. Her article would expose the rich and powerful of New York City.

People had been killed for exposing less.

Exposing child sex trafficking, provided by the Maggia gang and patronized by a number of New York's shining elitists, was more than dangerous. It was the type of story that loaded the gun, cocked it, then waited to see who would fire first. With nothing but a few additional investigative loose ends, the story would be ready in less than a week. Michelle could feel the trigger slowly pulling back, milliseconds from discharging.  

Once the article published the bounty on her head would grow. The ticking clocks outside her door would increase. A faceless gunman could introduce her to death tomorrow. If that was because she publicized the identities of the buyers and sellers of child sex trafficking, she would write that story again.

That didn't mean she wasn't scared out of her mind.

Michelle fell back into the present as Peter traveled lower, leaving burns the shape of his lips on her naked skin. She couldn't remember exactly when she stripped her clothing, but she prayed Peter continued.

He was water, touching every surface. Her labored breathing stemmed from him. Peter deprived her of all oxygen before supplying it again. She felt the tremble of his shoulders between her thighs. The desperate strokes his mouth made. The way his hands clasped her hips. She knew his anxieties echoed her own.

Then melodies were playing. Peter was her reality as she crested. He was everything when she fell apart in a bundle of exposed nerves in his hands.

Peter trailed back up her body, finding her mouth once more. Skin touched skin with cleansing fire. Michelle was reborn with the weight of him pressing into her. As he kissed her—his cheeks now dry and his voice hoarse—he whispered everything and nothing into her skin.

They created weather together. Every touch of Peter's desperate fingers crackled with lightning. The heat of open-mouthed kisses birthed wildfires. Humidity hung against their slick bodies. Wind rushed from the canyons of their lips, leaving them without atmosphere to breathe. When Peter dove into her, the northern lights flashed in Michelle's eyes. They created oceans and mountains with their rhythm. Two tectonic plates crashing into the other with beautiful power. Sound and space collided into the melody of I love you.

After the crescendo where heaven and earth collided, she collapsed into a series of earthquakes. Him into a cacophony of volcanic eruptions. Tears and sweat mingled. Under the covers, Peter tucked his nose into the curve of Michelle's neck. He was still shaking, his hold on her as firm as it had been when they started. She swallowed hard, felt a similar tremor in her chest, and spoke, "I have to publish the article."

Peter nodded. His lashes fluttered against her skin. "I know."

Fatigue washed over her. Her fingers halted combing through Peter's hair. She rested her hand at the nape of his neck, her vision growing watery. Peter's thumb mopped up the stray tear rolling over her cheek, down her neck. "I don't want to do this without you," His eyes shot to her own, steady and strong. She looked away, realizing the gravity of her choices. Maybe she could've had a different life if she wasn't so stubborn. If she didn't need to uncover and investigate everything. Or, bring attention to the political and social injustices plaguing the planet. If only she didn't feel that unshakable need. But she did. Because if she didn't, she didn't trust anyone else to do it. Michelle trailed her eyes back to Peter's. "I know I'm a lot. I know it's a lot to handle. Most people at twenty-three don’t have these problems," But, most people weren’t investigative journalists in a relationship with Spider-Man. She placed an idle kiss against Peter's lips. “But I don't want you to leave me alone."

"I wouldn’t leave you, but I don’t want you to leave me alone, either." Peter returned the kiss, his fingers curling around her neck. He smelled sweet, pleasant like the rain. She filled her lungs with the smell of him. "You’re so strong. I know you can protect yourself, but I’ll do everything I can to keep you safe. To keep you alive. But you have to stay alive."

Michelle's eyes drooped of their own accord, but before sleep claimed her, she whispered, "I'll do my best."

She smiled into Peter’s chest as she drifted off. Safe for the moment.

[mutantsrisingrpg]

Congratulations JENN! You’ve been accepted as HYPERION.

Jenn, I’m so glad that we’re going to have Hyperion on the dash! I really enjoyed your writing style and the depth it brought to him. I was transported to the place where he grew up, and felt taken on such a journey that showed me where he is now. I can’t wait to see where you take him next, and I’m glad we’re all along for the ride!

Welcome to Mutants Rising! Please read the checklist and submit your account within 24 hours.

Out of Character Information:

NAME/ALIAS: Jenn

PRONOUNS: she/her, they/them.

AGE: 27

TIMEZONE & ACTIVITY LEVEL: CST.  I am available to post on the weekends, and depending on energy levels, week days.

In Character Information:

DESIRED ROLE: Hyperion/Gerrard Bermudez

GENDER/PRONOUNS: he/him

DETAILS & ANALYSIS:

There’s something unrivaled in the brutality of hunger and thirst.  It’s constant, a revolving door that doesn’t know where to find its close.  It’s the original sin and the death sentence, competing for last place. It’s the wet, stone precipice before a bottomless fall and Gerrard walks it with a hand in his pocket and cigarette between his lips, a study on conceding just enough of oneself to hunger, and holding the rest at bay.  

It always waits, preparing a cackle for when he falters.

The mediation isn’t out of any inherent moral uprightness.  His neutrality isn’t peaceful, disengaged, and aloof; no, it’s far more the lack of motion on the chained dog’s leash.  It’s control that exists because it has to, not because it wants to by nature.

Funny, isn’t it, that Hyperion is ‘the watcher above’— a titan who’s battle isn’t spoken of in the Titanomachy;  perhaps it was something small in its scale. Perhaps hunger didn’t win that day, and history was allowed to take its course.  Or perhaps his battle into Tartarus was regarded with a hush after he dared usurpers to hollow his bones and drag the power from his skin.

BIO: Mexico City was color.  Unbridled, unrestricted, his first memories were of blazing colors and skulls that might as well have been neon lights.  Their silence was rattling, eye sockets making dark pits to cute their contrast to the pinks, the oranges, the yellows—- to every tone that crept in to smile in the moonlight as the sun set on the dead’s day.  He could remember marveling, he could remember crowds and makeup and the kind of sensory overload that was thrown into orbit by constantly changing music as he walked, weaving his way through bodies far larger than his.  Something at the back of his find repelled it all, like a wild animal crossing something toxic, sidestepping the skull-in-crossbones the violent colors represented. All the more appropriate for the day. He could remember his sister, taking his hand and pulling him the moment panic started to seep in and scream that he was lost.  Her timing was impeccable. It always was, accompanied by perfect words, the exact necessary moments to diffuse seconds before ignition. She’d pointed to a pair of twins, grinning as they moved in mirror to each other, their skin taking on the colors that dappled butterflies, arms echoing the beat of wings. His eyes grew wide, trying to drink in more than his eyes would allow, begging for comprehension he didn’t have.  Their skin turned like a series of mosaics, one flipping and then the next as the patterns changed. Pesos were thrown around them in appreciation of their act, one that was other worldly and mutant to a boy who didn’t quite understand what that meant yet. He would see the pair the next year.  And the year to follow. They became the main attraction amid the celebration, living works of art that surmounted a crowd.  And then one year he could remember his head hitting the ground as he was pushed. He could remember the panic on his sister’s face as men approached.  He could remember her standing between the cowering pair and the cartoon-like threats his blurry mind stylized. They bared down on the teenage girl, casting what seemed like impossibly long shadows like zebra stripes across her frame.  Her hands were outstretched. He couldn’t make out her words, the ringing in his head too loud and all-encompassing, refusing to grant him moments of clarity among the clouds. He was old enough this time, old enough to see the confusion across their faces as their adrenaline stocked muscles found relaxation.  They were taken by a haze of their own, stepping backwards, coaxed into submission by the way her words had reverberated in their minds, lulling them to stillness. He could remember not screaming her name fast enough when another group of men approached from behind.  Her body hit the ground as fast as a trigger was pulled, and in discord, he was brought to his feet. A shattering, broken scream left him as his mind went blank. A year later he sat in a sanitary room, one that made his skin feel shallow from bleach, constructed of thick stone and rubber.  The haze never seemed to leave, creating the same sort of cartoon, this time a storm cloud that existed between his ears. His eyes lulled shut for a few moments, head hanging forward until the sound of a thick barricade woke his senses from where they’d made their bed. A small, battery powered screen was slid in through slating, rubber casing of the door closing as soon as it was passed through.  Slowly, he moved from his chair, feet giving their place to knees as he found himself crawling towards a playing video that made itself into a tune he knew. It was familiar. He didn’t touch it. He just peered down, watching a playback of those moments. The men. The twins. His sister. He wiped at his eyes as the tears welled. He watched her gentleness, watched the assisted diffusion, the kind that only pleased against violence, the kind that made no attempt to strike. He knew what was next in the sequence, and the gunshot still made him jump and wrenched a sob out of the boys frame, body shaking as the tremors of tears took hold.  His own scream came next, and suddenly, his shaky breath caught; eyes widening as he watched the bolt of lightning contest the natural, arching upward into the sky. It expanded, like a deep breath was taken before it struck back down towards him. It collided with his body and splintered, shooting off in a shockwave that centered on his form. For a split second, he saw the men surrounding his sister drop to the ground. He couldn’t make it out, but the devices in their ears and across their bodies had overloaded, and they died in twitching heaps. Power collapsed as the wave pressed out around him, a stampede of energy that demanded its due.  Darkness fell across the area, only candle flames remaining among the short circuiting flashes of cellphones before the camera recording lost its source like the rest, cutting off and leaving black and white fuzz behind. There was a void in his mind, the moments colored in with the worst crayons in the box, all shades of violent red and dangerous yellows. He curled into himself, letting tears take him, making a companion of the continual sound of that static. He could remember the first mistake they made.  Rubber and stone didn’t conduct. Electricity found on travel through and across them, sent off like the free radicals that tore cells apart when left unattended.  Their own curiosity sent them to the morgue. They like to shove nails under the skin and pry it away to see what was underneath. They found their victory in the crying boy on the stone floor, the one whose body sparked with frustration, draining itself without enough sympathetic energy around him.  They’d come to bring the video again, anxious to watch him fold in on himself, to crumple into nothing. In the moments the rubber was peeled back, a veil was pulled back from his eyes, revealing the webbing that was electricity that ran rampant in the world outside his cube. Among them he found a string that dangled, a thread from the three Fates themselves that was dull and nearly lifeless.  He reached for it and pulled. The pacemaker in the chest of the guard malfunctioned, spitting bursts of energy like an angry cat, sending the man into cardiac arrest. He clutched at his chest, words unfound, radio only silence. Gerrard’s arms passed through the slot they used to pass his food and likewise, their torture. He reached and felt for the crossbar he’d heard come down so many times, a heaving effort pushing it from its place.  He remembered the sound of the door opening, a first in what could have been years. His escape was made in a fugue state, electronic locks overloaded, others like him released to pour from their cages, opportunities taken to strike out against hands that had taken such joy out of wrapping their hands around their throats. He disappeared that night. Chicago was the haven; it was an oasis, the closest thing to asylum for people like him.  He met her when he was eighteen, and she didn’t turn him away. Instead, he’d been welcomed with arms he’d never felt before while she whispered in his ear:  this was his home now.  He could remember the first day in the city, hours upon hours of bus rides managing to bring him to the doorstep.  He found shelter. He found food. He found others like him. Hyperion was born in Chicago; a thief to begin with that caught the eye of new family, one that found power in practice, and reminded him who had cast those long shadows and dropped his sister to the ground without a second thought.  He learned, with those whispers in his ears, where to abandon petty theft for greater work. It spun the thunderstorms back to life in his skull, providing the static shock that started hurricanes and the kind of thinking that required payment for things that had been taken. Static was a constant itch that crawled under his skin, remnant energy from witches burned at the stake.  There was a hefty debt, and Hyperion would, eventually, collect.

EXPANDED CONNECTIONS: TIERNEY SINCLAIR, Thorn: Oh, Tierney.  It’s a murmur, one that sounds coy and teasing in the way it floats and twists through the air, but it’s armed to the teeth, like knives in the dark that are only seen when they swing.  Gerrard sees a mirror. And Gerrard does not like to share. EOIN DOUGHERTY, Customer:  A dollar sign turned interest, one that, if coaxed in the right direction, could prove to be not just an asset but an investment.  Hyperion is the one that watches over, and oh, does he watch this one closely for the opportunity he needs. KIARA MANDAL, Goal:  Kiara is the twinkle at the back of his eye, the one that says that he’s up to nothing good; that he drags trouble with him.  He finds Kiara to be…. Underutilized at best, and given the opportunity, he’d grab her wrist and pull her off the cliff with him to find what her potential really looks like.  

EXTRA: “I’ll be there in a minute.”  The presence behind him didn’t contest; he was left to his quiet, a dark silhouette against a bright interior.  It was clinical, full of right angles and crisp edges even despite what was left upturned and in chaotic asymmetry as the lights above flashed once, then twice.  They were electronic gasps, attempts to continue despite the way the damaged pathways frayed. He took a deep drag on a cigarette, the end taking a sympathetic coal breath along with the lights above, and suddenly they found their equilibrium.  The lights held their connection, letting him look across the occasional smears of blood. Scattered ash. Rubble and the light, gentle dust it carried with it. Outside, there were sirens.  They were like tiny pings to his radar, dots on the network his feeling stretched across, electric impulses firing back and forth among the vein like spindling that was a city like Chicago.  He closed his eyes as he took another deep inhale, smoke filling lungs that screamed for the nicotine to keep the yapping of nerves away from his mind. He stretched out into it, a different plane of existence than most would tread.  It was coursing energy, static made massive, interlinking at every step of a human existence. He followed the pathing, the comfort of surge sounds pulling a smile across his lips as he reached out, his finger wrapping in an electric thread the way someone would with the hair of a lover.  He grasped and he pulled. The hospital dropped from the grid, leaving a hungry man satiated as he started his steps down the stairs; his feet never quite touched the ground, held aloft by the static of the storm surge that rippled across him, a downed powerline that learned to walk. – “Hype!”  No response.  “Hyperion!”  He paused, steps stopping as he shrugged a jacket onto his shoulders.  “Where are you going?” His eyebrows raised, amusement crossing his lips as he tilted his head to the side.  “Incredible how that isn’t your business.”  The response was met with a pout.  “But what about your curfew?  You’re going to get in trouble.”  The side of his mouth twitched up further, pulling into something like a smirk that tried to pass as a smile as he reached out and tapped his questioner’s nose.  “I hope so.”   – Blood landed on the back of his hand, ejected by a cough.  Energy zipped across him, skittering crackles, a lighting storm on the microcosm of his skin. The blood evaporated, hit with what might as well have been a laser, removed from its momentary existence with him.  His knuckles weren’t beaten. No weapon in sight. Just him and his body, looking at the shape hunched against the wall. They weren’t battered. Purpling bruises didn’t cover their body. They sunk to the ground, eyes shut tight as they panted.  A loan drip of blood found its way from the corner of their mouth, joining tracks with what tears had already left behind. “You’ll live.”  His words were soft, almost reassuring in the way they landed.  Perhaps they would have been were it not for the bouts of pain that had wracked them, leaving muscles sore and screaming from the way they’d been overloaded time and time again. They didn’t seem convinced, a shame.  Hyperion crouched, looking at the other with eyes that liked to nit-pick. They clung to details, refusing to scoop in what they saw indiscriminately. He reached out a hand, making them flinch away instinctively. He followed nonetheless, fingers curving along their cheek as his thumb brushed to interrupt the teary path.  “You’ll live.  You will. And I want you to remember this.  Can you do that?” The nod was almost immediate, a slight tremble through their skin.   “If you remember, I don’t have to see you again.”  They shook their head;  no, god, please not again.  His thumb brushed again and he leaned closer, holding their chin to make their eyes lock, no other choice found. His voice dropped low, a whisper with the edge of a growl.  “I want you to remember whose fault this was.  Because it wasn’t yours, and it wasn’t mine.”   — A scream sent a number of pigeons dashing, response enough even if flight wasn’t taken.  There was food to be found on the patio, under the cafe’s umbrella shielded tables, so the birds didn’t dare scatter too far despite the commotion.  A woman clutched to her chest as her companion knelt on the ground beside her, crying out with panic in its purest form. “Help!  She’s having a heart attack!”  Phones were picked up along with audible gasps, 911 dialed as people gathered, useless as they stood and watched the scythe brought low, starting the process of cleaving the soul away. Gerrard turned in his chair, holding a small basket of fries.  He snacked on one, a look of curiosity crossing him as he scanned the woman.  His hand lifted slightly, fingers rubbing together as if disposing of the salt that clung to them.  A slight spark occurred, like a generator spinning to life. Static hung in the air for a moment, and then another, as his eyes fell on the pin at the dying woman’s lapel.  It was acrid in his mind, one that spoke to an agenda, one that saw mutants as beasts to cage. As the silence faded out, he picked up another fry, putting it to his lips, biting, chewing.  All perfectly normal. And he watched the frantic electrical impulses, firing with no sense of syncope, and instead of letting it fade– letting the scythe swing— he rubbed his fingers together again, feeling his own heart skip to make hers struggle longer; just enough correction to let the pain ratchet through her.  He watched, he ate his fries, and eventually he let her die.