#and it makes me idly wonder if those words mean something v different to them.

[mashbrainrot]

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[timeless-fanfic]

Hi, can you do a one shot of John and his wife taking care of their child daughter with Jesus’s words?

Lessons at the Table

Word Count: 3146

John x Reader

Note: I have no idea how this got so long…forgive me!

The soft glow of an oil lamp flickers across the small room, casting dancing shadows along the walls. You sit across from John at the table, watching your daughter Rachel as she idly pushes a piece of fish around her plate. The warmth of freshly baked bread lingers in the air, but your focus is entirely on the little girl in front of you.

Rachel hasn’t been herself all evening. The quiet, thoughtful nature she inherited from her father often left her lost in her own world, but tonight, something feels different. There’s a heaviness in her silence, and you can’t help but notice the furrow in her brow, the way she keeps glancing up at you both with uncertainty.

“Rachel, my love,” you say gently, breaking the silence, “you’ve hardly eaten. Is something bothering you?”

She looks up from her plate, wide brown eyes locking with yours. You offer her a soft smile, hoping to ease whatever thoughts are troubling her. You feel John shift slightly beside you, his hand resting on the table, always steady and calm.

Rachel hesitates before answering, her small voice barely above a whisper. “Eema... is it true that God loves everyone the same?”

The question catches you off guard, and you glance at John, who meets your gaze with the same quiet confusion. It isn’t unusual for Rachel to ask questions about God; after all, she’s grown up surrounded by stories of faith, hearing John speak of the miracles he’s witnessed firsthand. But there’s something in her tone tonight—something deeper, more troubled—that causes a knot of concern to form in your chest.

“Yes, sweetheart,” you reply carefully, trying to gauge where this is coming from. “God loves everyone, no matter who they are.”

Rachel shifts uncomfortably in her seat, her fingers fiddling with a piece of bread. “Even the people who do bad things?” she asks, her eyes flickering between you and John. “Like... people who hurt others?”

Your heart sinks as you exchange another look with John. It’s a heavy question for a child to carry, and you wonder where she’s heard such things. Perhaps in the marketplace, or from other children. Your home, though small and humble, had always been a place of peace, a sanctuary from the harshness of the world outside. But it seems that world is creeping in, bit by bit.

John speaks this time, his voice low but firm, the way it always is when he’s about to explain something important. “Yes, even people who hurt others. God still loves them.”

Rachel’s face scrunches in confusion, her innocent mind trying to reconcile this idea. “But why? If they hurt people, why does God still love them?”

You reach out, placing a hand gently on her arm, trying to comfort her even as the weight of her question hangs in the air. You’ve asked yourself the same thing many times before, in quiet moments of prayer. The Romans, the cruelty, the oppression—it’s hard to understand how love can extend to those who bring pain.

“God’s love isn’t like ours,” you say softly, glancing at John as you speak, knowing he would agree. “It’s bigger than anything we can imagine. Even when people make mistakes, or do things that hurt others, God’s love doesn’t stop.”

Rachel seems to chew on that thought for a moment, but her eyes stay clouded with doubt. “Even the Romans?” she asks, her voice even smaller now. “The ones who are mean to us?”

You feel John tense slightly beside you. His expression remains calm, but you know this is a question that stirs something deep inside him. The Romans. They are the ever-present shadow over your lives, a reminder of the brokenness of the world, the cruelty that seems to reign unchecked. You’ve heard John speak with such passion about justice and mercy, and you know the struggle he faces in reconciling his faith with the reality of Roman rule.

“Yes,” John says, his voice careful but resolute. “Even the Romans. Jesus teaches us that we must love everyone, even those who are unkind to us.”

Rachel’s small hands clench into fists on her lap, her brows furrowing in frustration. “But... but they hurt people, Abba,” she says, her eyes filling with confusion. “They take things, they make people cry. They’re not kind like you and Eema.”

You watch John closely as he takes a deep breath, his gaze softening as he looks at Rachel. He’s always been a man of conviction, but you’ve seen how being a father has changed him. There’s a tenderness in him now, a gentleness that wasn’t always there before.

“I know it doesn’t seem fair,” John says quietly, leaning forward to meet Rachel’s eyes. “But that’s what makes following Jesus so special. He wants us to show love and kindness, even when it’s hard. Even when people don’t deserve it.”

Rachel bites her lip, clearly struggling to accept this. You can see the battle in her young heart, the desire to understand a world that doesn’t always make sense.

“If God loves them,” she asks after a long pause, “then why do they keep hurting us? Why doesn’t He stop them?”

The question cuts through the air like a blade, and for a moment, neither you nor John speak. Your throat tightens, and you reach for John’s hand, squeezing it gently as you search for the right words. It’s a question you’ve both asked yourselves many times, especially in those long nights of prayer, when the weight of the world feels too heavy to bear.

John looks down at your intertwined hands for a moment before answering, his voice softer now. “We don’t always know why people do the things they do, Rachel. But we trust that God sees everything. He knows when people are hurting, and He doesn’t forget.”

Rachel looks up at him, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “But what if they never stop? What if they keep hurting people forever?”

John lets out a soft sigh and reaches across the table to tuck a strand of her dark hair behind her ear. You watch him, your heart swelling with love for the man beside you, who has always sought to live by the words of the Rabbi he follows.

“Then we keep praying,” John says gently. “We keep showing love, no matter how hard it is. Because that’s what Jesus teaches us. And that’s how we change the world.”

You place your hand on top of John’s, offering him a soft smile. He glances at you, and in that look, you see the same thought reflected in his eyes—raising a child in this world will not be easy. But you will do it together, with love, and with faith.

Rachel nods slowly, her small face still filled with uncertainty, but you can see the seeds of understanding beginning to take root. She doesn’t say anything more as she returns her attention to her plate, but you know she’s still thinking, still turning the words over in her mind.

The room falls into a quiet peace once more, the only sound the gentle crackle of the oil lamp. You exchange another glance with John, and in the warmth of that moment, you are reminded of the strength you find in each other, and in the teachings you hold so dear.

The rest of dinner passes quietly, the tension lingering in the air despite your best efforts to fill the silence with light conversation. Rachel eventually eats a little more, though it’s clear her mind is still on the troubling questions that weighed heavy on her heart. You and John exchange glances across the table, an unspoken agreement passing between you—this wasn’t over. Not yet.

As the evening winds down, you help Rachel wash up and get ready for bed. She’s quiet, more so than usual, her small hands tugging at the hem of her night tunic as she shuffles toward the bed. You tuck her in gently, brushing a strand of hair away from her forehead, and lean down to place a soft kiss on her brow.

“Goodnight, sweetheart,” you whisper, your voice tender.

“Goodnight, Eema,” Rachel replies softly, but her gaze flickers over to the small window, staring out into the night as if searching for answers beyond what you can give.

John kneels beside her, offering a comforting smile. “We’ll talk more tomorrow, okay? Try not to worry too much.”

Rachel nods but remains silent as John presses a kiss to her head. You both linger a moment longer, watching her eyes flutter shut. Her breathing slows, the gentle rise and fall of her chest signaling that sleep is finally beginning to claim her.

You and John step quietly out of the room, leaving the door ajar just enough to let the soft light of the oil lamp filter in. The weight of the day seems to press more heavily upon you now, and as you walk toward the small bedroom you share with John, you feel the tension lingering in your chest.

Once inside, you sit down on the edge of the bed, your hands folded in your lap as you let out a soft sigh. John sits beside you, his presence always steady, always reassuring, yet tonight you can see the lines of worry etched on his face. He’s as troubled as you are, maybe more.

You break the silence first. “She’s so young to be asking these questions.”

John nods, his hand resting gently on your knee. “She’s heard more than we realized,” he murmurs. “The world… it’s creeping in.”

You lean into his shoulder, letting the warmth of his body anchor you. “I wasn’t expecting her to ask about the Romans,” you admit quietly. “She’s just a child. How do we explain something so… complicated? So painful?”

John’s hand moves up to your back, rubbing small, soothing circles. “I don’t know,” he confesses. “It’s hard enough for us to understand, let alone her.”

You stay like that for a moment, resting in each other’s presence. The room is quiet, save for the distant hum of the night outside. Crickets chirp softly, and the cool night air seeps through the cracks in the walls. You’ve always found these moments with John to be your refuge—a place where the world outside can’t reach, where the questions and burdens can be shared between you.

“I don’t want her to grow up afraid,” you say softly, pulling back to meet his gaze. “I want her to have faith in God’s love, but... how do we protect her from the cruelty that exists?”

John’s brow furrows, and you can see the internal struggle in his eyes. “We can’t shield her from everything,” he admits, his voice thick with emotion. “But we can guide her. Teach her to trust in what Jesus has told us.”

You nod, though the ache in your heart doesn’t entirely ease. “It’s just so hard to explain… why people hurt others.”

John looks at you with that familiar, steady gaze—the one that’s always given you strength when you felt uncertain. “Jesus knew this would be hard for us,” he says softly. “That’s why He gave us His teachings. To remind us that love is the answer, even when it doesn’t make sense. Even when it hurts.”

You smile faintly, resting your head against his shoulder once more. “You always seem to know what to say.”

He chuckles softly, but there’s a hint of sadness in his tone. “Not always. I’m still learning, just like you.”

You both fall silent again, and for a moment, it feels like the conversation is winding down, slipping into a peaceful lull. But then, a soft sound from Rachel’s room catches your attention—a quiet murmur, barely audible. Your heart skips a beat as you realize she must still be awake.

John hears it too. He gives you a gentle look and squeezes your hand before quietly standing up. “I’ll go check on her,” he whispers, careful not to disturb the calm.

You nod, staying behind on the bed as you watch him slip through the door and down the narrow hallway toward Rachel’s room. Curiosity tugs at you, and after a few moments, you rise to follow, keeping your steps soft and quiet.

As you near Rachel’s room, you pause just outside the door, close enough to hear without being seen. You know you should probably stay back, give John the space to speak with her, but something pulls you closer—a need to know what’s on your daughter’s heart.

You hear John’s gentle voice, soft and reassuring, though you can’t make out the words at first. Slowly, you ease yourself closer, leaning slightly against the doorframe as you listen.

“Rachel,” John says quietly, “I know you’re still worried. I can see it in your eyes.”

There’s a brief pause, and then you hear Rachel’s small, trembling voice. “Abba… if God loves everyone… why do they keep hurting people? Why doesn’t God stop them?”

Your heart clenches at the familiar question, the same one she’d asked earlier at dinner. You lean in a little more, your breath catching in your throat as you wait for John’s response.

“I’ve asked myself that many times,” John admits, his voice full of empathy. “But do you remember what Jesus told us about the Kingdom of God? He said it’s like a mustard seed. It starts out small, almost invisible, but it grows into something so big, so strong, that even the birds come to find shelter in its branches.”

Rachel doesn’t respond right away, and you can picture her thinking, her young mind turning over the parable. You’ve seen that look in her eyes before, the way she contemplates everything so deeply.

“God’s love is like that seed,” John continues softly. “Sometimes it’s hard to see at first, especially when there’s so much hurt in the world. But it’s growing, even when we don’t realize it. And one day, it will be big enough to cover everything. Even the people who hurt others.”

You press your hand against your chest, overwhelmed by the tenderness in John’s words. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you listen, feeling the weight of the lesson sinking into your heart just as much as it is for Rachel.

“But what do we do until then?” Rachel asks, her voice still small, but filled with that same innocent curiosity.

“We keep planting seeds,” John says simply. “With our kindness, our love, our prayers. Every time we show someone love, we’re helping that seed grow. And one day, we’ll see the difference it makes.”

There’s a pause, and then you hear the soft rustling of blankets as Rachel shifts in her bed.

“Do you really believe that, Abba?” she whispers.

“I do,” John replies, his voice unwavering. “Because Jesus showed me. He shows us every day.”

A soft sigh escapes from Rachel, and you hear John gently smoothing her hair, just like he always does when she needs comfort.

You wipe a tear from your cheek, feeling a deep sense of gratitude for the man you married and the love he’s given to both you and your daughter.

The quiet murmur of John’s voice fades into the soft stillness of the night as you stand just outside Rachel’s door, your heart full. You wait a moment longer, hearing the gentle rustle of John tucking her in for the second time that evening. When he finally steps out, you catch his eye, and the two of you share a tender, knowing smile.

Without a word, John slips his arm around your waist, guiding you back down the hallway toward your bedroom. The weight of the earlier conversation lingers in the air, but there’s a sense of peace now—something softer, more assured. As you both settle back onto the bed, the quiet intimacy of the moment feels like a balm for your soul.

Without a word, you reach for his hand beneath the covers, and he squeezes it gently, a silent exchange of understanding passing between you. The room feels quieter now, the tension of the earlier evening fading into the stillness of the night.

You turn onto your side, facing him, your head resting on the pillow as you take in the familiar lines of his face, softened in the dim light. “She’s alright now?” you ask, your voice low, not wanting to disturb the peace.

John nods, his thumb tracing small circles over the back of your hand. “She’s alright,” he murmurs. “She just needed a little guidance. Some reassurance.”

You exhale slowly, the weight of the day’s worries easing. “She’s starting to ask bigger questions, John,” you say softly, the vulnerability in your voice showing just how much her words had stirred in you earlier.

“I know,” he replies, his voice steady but gentle. “It’s part of growing up. She’s trying to understand the world, just like we all do.”

You nod, though the concern still lingers at the edges of your mind. “I just want to make sure we give her the right answers. That we’re preparing her for... whatever she might face.”

John’s eyes meet yours, warm and reassuring. “We are,” he says softly. “And when we don’t know the answers ourselves, we have Jesus’s words to guide us.”

His confidence wraps around you like a protective shield, and you feel the tension in your body slowly ebb away. “You’re right,” you whisper, the fear of earlier replaced with a sense of calm. “We’re not doing this alone.”

John smiles, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your forehead. “No, we’re not,” he agrees quietly. “And she’ll be alright. She’s strong, just like her mother.”

You chuckle softly, shaking your head at his words, but there’s a warmth in your chest that comes from knowing he believes in you, in your family. You nestle closer to him, your bodies fitting together in the familiar way they always do, the comfort of his presence grounding you.

For a while, you both lie there in silence, the soft rustle of the breeze outside and the distant chirp of crickets filling the space between breaths. There’s a peace here, in this quiet moment, where the uncertainties of the world seem far away and the love you share feels like the only thing that matters.

As your eyes begin to flutter shut, your heart is filled with gratitude—gratitude for the family you’ve been blessed with, for John’s steady presence, and for the teachings of Jesus that guide you both through the unknowns of life.

John’s hand tightens around yours just as sleep begins to pull you under, and you feel his voice, more than hear it, as he whispers, “We’ll be okay.”

And in that moment, you believe it.

[officerjennie]

Treat Me Gentle, Kiss Me Soft

CW: brief dysphoria, past transphobia mention, gentle scar touching, penetration, smut, oral sex, dirty talk Rating: E Prompt: Soothing their fear Summary: trans!Eskel, GNC!Aiden. Eskel discovers Aiden looks damn fine in a dress, and they discuss Eskel's hesitations concerning sex. Aiden is soft and tender with him, and Eskel feels precious like he never has with anyone before him.

It took less than half an hour to buy everything he needed at the market, and time still didn’t go by fast enough. Eskel found himself more than eager to get back to his room - their room - no matter that it was still midday, not even pausing to look at the billboard for potential jobs as he cut a direct path towards the inn.

How rare an occasion it was for him to have any days off, and he found it all the more treasurable when there was someone waiting for him.

He took the steps upstairs two at a time, near silent due to his upbringing, consciously making a slight bit of noise out of habit in case a human might startle at how inhumane he could be with his movements. Their room was at the end of the hall on the right, from sight and smell he could tell most of the rest of the floor was empty - but even without heightened senses that would have been easy enough to guess. Few innkeepers in these parts would accept two witchers under their roof without a desperate need for coin.

Didn’t keep the man from up charging them, but Eskel had the spare coin and didn’t let Aiden know that part. Not that he wasn’t certain the other man wouldn’t find out, but at least it would keep the peace for now.

And peace was just a small yet wonderful part of what he was after.

When he reached the door there was a moment’s pause where Eskel wondered if he should knock or not, his mind whirling like it loved to do with guesses and second guesses: Aiden knew he was coming back so he shouldn’t have to knock, but wasn’t it courteous to give a warning anyway? But he would have heard him coming so it wasn’t necessary, but wouldn’t it be rude to not? What if he was doing something like undressing - even if Eskel had seen it all before it didn’t mean the world was meant to see it; but then no one else was around, so would it really be bad? But what if-

It took physical effort to stop his own thoughts, a shake of his head to quiet them before he opened the door without knocking, his heart only beating a little faster at the thoughts that had been against the action.

“They didn’t have any vials the size you wanted,” he started, quickly closing the door behind him as he presented his new supplies, half of which he’d gotten for Aiden, “but the village south of here usually-”

His next breath was a sharp intake, making up for the one Aiden took from him. Because as often as they’d traveled together Eskel had never been blessed enough to see him like this.

Their room had been equipped with a mirror, a rare luxury in inn rooms, though Eskel hadn’t imagined it would get much use between the two of them. He’d apparently been wrong.

Aiden’s back was to him, blocking most of the mirror from view as he soothed his hands down the silken fabric of a dress that barely contained his muscular build. Compared to many witchers Eskel had come across Aiden was rather lithe but the thin, thin straps that wrapped up and around his shoulders made every inch of muscle impossible to ignore, the loose fabric still somewhat tight around his toned midriff, the skirt gracing his mid thigh as the hand smoothing down its fabric reached the ends. And Eskel had never been one to put much thought into color but that particular shade of light blue was cementing itself as its favorite as it drew attention to the beauty in Aiden’s dark, dark skin.

It took everything Eskel had in him to tear his eyes away from the ends of that dress, and it was only because Aiden was looking back at him. A hint of teeth in his grin, dark eyes bright with something joyous, and there was a lightness to his expression that Eskel had never been witness to before.

“Like what you see?”

The purr made Eskel’s voice catch in his throat. He could only give a short nod in response but Aiden didn’t tease him for it for once, turning back to admire his own reflection, smoothing his hands down his chest and stomach as Eskel dared to step closer to get a better look at his front.

“Found it in a small market just last summer,” Aiden mused, not taking his eyes away from the dress in the mirror even as Eskel stepped up next to him. “Couldn’t wear it out, sadly. Can’t be getting monster guts on something this soft.”

Aiden didn’t look at him, but he looked near him, eyes half-lidded and mischief curling the edges of his mouth. “Wanna feel it, darling wolf mine?”

Eskel wanted nothing more than to do just that. Though it hadn’t crossed his mind until Aiden brought it up he suddenly found his hands were desperate to grasp that silken fabric, to feel it beneath his calloused fingertips, to watch it scrunch up and fold in on itself as it’s shoved out of the way of his greedy hands searching out more to touch.

He swallowed thickly, Aiden’s eyes following his hand through the reflection as he lifted just one, reaching out to barely touch the edges of the fabric, not daring to touch where it laid against his skin. It was cool against his skin, soft, light and fragile in a way Aiden was very much not. Eskel studied every inch of him in the mirror and memorized the way dark curls reached out from the v of the neckline, how his chest strained against the material, how Aiden rivaled the ethereal beauty of painted murals of the gods in something as simple as a dress he’d found and thrown on without a second thought.

Melitele’s tits but he loved this man, and he wanted him. Wanted to lick up the lines of his thighs, suck on that clever tongue, taste him like he hadn’t dared to taste anyone in years.

“It’s-” Eskel cleared his throat at the rough start, blinking to try and quell his own thoughts. “It’s soft.”

He didn’t look up, keeping his eyes on the reflection of his fingertips where they gently rubbed against the soft blue. But he felt Aiden’s gaze on him all the same, and when Aiden reached over to run the back of his fingers against his cheek and the edge of his lips he couldn’t help but lean into the touch.

“We don’t have to.” The words were a gentle offer though it did nothing for the stutter of his heartbeats. “But I have wondered if you’d like to.”

They’d come close. Dangerously close before. Eskel would remember those nights when he’d run a hand between his legs, his breath catching at the memory of sharp teeth nipping at his lips and jaw and neck. The way those hands had felt running up his back and hitching up his shirt, how Aiden’s scent had been on him for what felt like days just from a heated makeout, making him finger himself open and wonder what it would be like to have Aiden underneath him and between his thighs while he rode him for all he’s worth.

Gods but he wanted, but he was too afraid to reach out and take what could be his.

“We don’t have to.”

He looked up at last, finding no clever grin but a soft frown, and Aiden turned to face him instead of the mirror. Rough palms cupped his cheeks like he was something precious and it made his chest flutter in the way only Aiden had ever been able to manage, his thumbs stroking his skin as his head tilted, braids spilling over his shoulder like black ink.

“I want you, my darling wolf.” Aiden leaned in close enough to brush their noses together, his long lashes gracing the top of his high cheek bones when his eyes fluttered closed for a few moments. “But though my nose tells me you want the same, I understand if you’re not…” A breath through his nose, and then his eyes met Eskel’s, steady and warm. “However you’ll have me, love. If it’s only ever chaste kisses by firelight or bare skin with no sex, it’s whatever you want.”

Eskel had never been a wordsmith but he’d never found the ability to speak so quickly stolen from him by anyone else. He found the only thing holding him up were the rough hands gentle on his cheeks and the fabric that he’d clenched in his hand which he used to gently tug Aiden closer.

“I want you,” he rasped out, emotion making his voice hoarse. “But…”

“You don’t have to explain it, love, truly.” A kiss was placed at the tip of his nose that was meant to soothe him but Eskel clenched the soft fabric of the dress harder to fight the fears that held him back.

“I know. But I want to- and I don’t want to not fuck you.”

“Well.” Aiden blinked, and then ducked in for a peck to his cheek, dusting them quickly all the way to the corner of Eskel’s mouth that couldn’t help but twitch upwards. “Let’s at least get cozy while we talk then, shall we?”

Eskel found himself tugged along to the bed, where they made themselves cozy enough pressed against each other’s sides, their backs to the wall and legs stretched out across the bed the wrong way. Aiden’s legs were impossibly long and begged to be touched but Eskel kept his hands out of trouble by holding his hand instead, knowing it would be best to discuss this before they went any further.

If Aiden would still want to go further.

He breathed deeply to prevent the panic that threatened to rise up; no matter how many times someone knew all of him and still accepted him, still loved him, it never failed to make him worry that this time it would be different. That this time he’d be found lacking or worse, and if it happened with Aiden he wasn’t sure how he’d recover.

Was love always this terrifying? Or was that just a product of who he was and how the world had treated him? He rested his head against Aiden’s shoulder, playing idly with his fingers, letting the touch ground him as much as it could.

“It’s not something that’s easy to talk about.” He always started the conversation like this. Let the other person know he’d wanted to bring it up, that he hadn’t really been hiding it but hadn’t known how to tell them. That it was difficult to bring up. Not in as many words, not always in the same words - he was just grateful that Aiden was so damn good at hearing what he didn’t say.

That was the easy part. He shifted closer to Aiden to hide the urge to squirm; talking about his body always made him itch, made him want to crawl out of it, no matter that most any other part of the day he was comfortable in his own skin. It was fine until he drew attention to it and thought about it - about how others might think about it, and he knew damn well from his scars that people could be nasty with their thoughts.

Most people didn’t matter. But Aiden did. And he struggled more with words over this issue than he did any other.

“I don’t… When I’m naked I- my privates don’t...exactly look like the average man’s.”

Aiden squeezed his hand, intertwining their fingers in a nonsensical pattern. “Honey I’ve seen a lot of dicks in my life, no two men look exactly alike.”

A steady inhale through his nose got him through his next words. “I’ve had people look at me before and refuse to call me a man.”

The hand intertwined with his own stopped moving, clenching a little tighter, and though Aiden didn’t tense up further than that Eskel knew he was angry. He was good at keeping loose when angry. And perhaps for the briefest of moments Eskel’s mind played with the thought that he could be angry at him and not the ones who’d hurt him before.

“I’m no less of a man in a dress,” Aiden mused, his tone light, fingers going back to twisting around his as if they both couldn’t hear the cold anger beneath his words. “And you’re no less a man no matter what you look like.”

Those words relieved a pressure in his chest that Eskel would feel bad about having later. He always did; always hated the doubts and fears, though he knew there was nothing he could do about them. Knew just the same that any apologies would be brushed away or scowled at, depending on the recipient, so like all of his fears he kept it to himself, instead turning to kiss the bare shoulder that he’d had his cheek pressed against.

“S’long as you're fine with that, I’m fine with feeling your dress.” With his fears gone a playful grin tugged at his lips, his free hand coming to rest on the thick thigh that had been calling to him since the first time he’d discovered Aiden had little shame when it came to his bare skin. It flexed under his touch and Eskel let out a quiet snort, running his hand up until just his thumb was underneath the dress, giving the firm muscles a nice squeeze as he looked up at him.

“Just the dress?” Aiden’s natural look was a mischievous one, and it set Eskel on fire seeing it then. He wanted to see exactly what kind of mischief Aiden could get into with him.

He just had one simple request. “The dress stays on.”

And Aiden was more than happy to oblige him.

---

Eskel had been pulled into Aiden’s lap, one hand tangling in the braids that had been begging to be tugged, the other holding Aiden’s face as they kissed each other breathless. It had occurred to him on several occasions how that quicksilver tongue of Aiden’s could possibly drive him crazy and he was imagining them all over again - what it would feel like to have it teasing the soft flesh of his inner thighs, interspersed with sharp nips; what it would feel like licking his cock, licking into him, driving him wild and setting a fire burning inside of him.

He moaned as Aiden licked into his mouth, other hand running over the short hairs at the side of his head, an idle thought that he’d gone longer than usual without shaving that side quickly being banished in favor of clearing his mind of nothing but the heat of those hands at his hips gripping him tight.

Gods but he’d wanted, and he was finally going to have him.

“I’ve always wondered,” Aiden mused against his lips when they finally paused to breathe, his tongue brushing against Eskel’s lips when he licked his own, “how you would taste. How you would feel on my tongue- gods would that be alright, darling wolf? Can I taste you?”

Eskel shivered at the thought, leaning their foreheads together and taking a few shuddering breaths. “Yes.”

He didn’t have to see it, he could feel Aiden’s grin. Could count on the flash of teeth and the glint in his eyes, knowing him well enough to expect the reactions even in this new situation they’d found themselves in.

Once he managed to steady himself enough to lean back and away, his pants could not come off fast enough. They didn’t come off all the way, shoved down to his thighs with only a moment’s hesitation, over a decade of trust overriding the fear Aiden had sufficiently beaten back just a little while before with his words.

Aiden’s hands cupped his ass as he stared greedily at Eskel’s cock, eyes flicking up right before he tugged him in close, kissing at the fuzzy trail of hair that ran down from his belly button all the way down. Eskel was left supporting himself with his forearms against the wall, head resting against it as he looked down, watching entranced with his lips parted as Aiden left such gentle kisses they made his stomach flutter.

“You let me know if I do anything that makes you uncomfortable, love.” He licked a strip of his skin, making his muscles clench, and Eskel was already thankful Aiden was all but holding him up like this - otherwise his knees would surely fail him. “Want to make your toes curl, not your stomach curdle.”

“Gonna do that with words alone?”

“You know I could.” One last teasing flash of teeth, and then any response Eskel might have had died on his lips with his next breathy gasp as Aiden ducked in to press his tongue firmly against him.

His cock was practically dripping already though Aiden had done little more than kiss him up until that point, his need and want showing but Aiden didn’t seem to mind at all. Aiden tasted every inch of him just as greedily, starting firm and going from root to tip, then leaning back to flick his tongue against Eskel’s small head and drawing noises from him. It made Eskel want to rock into him but he held himself back, holding as still as possible while Aiden licked further down him, pressing against the hole right below his cock and making him choke on his breath.

“Fuck.”

“Mmmm, yes,” Aiden purred, pressing his lips to the base of his cock and looking up at him behind long lashes. “I’ll do that too, love.”

“You’d better,” Eskel growled down at him with no real heat, his hips twitching despite his best efforts, though Aiden made no move to stop the movement.

Instead, Aiden kissed him, firm but not quick, before sucking the whole of him into his mouth. And the noise Eskel made was one he didn’t even have the mind to be embarrassed by, too lost in how easily he fit in Aiden’s hot, wet mouth, how his tongue could work the whole of him so easily, so efficiently, and how eager Aiden was to make out with his cock.

He knew he’d be good with his tongue, but Eskel hadn’t realized how good, and he was regretting not having their earlier conversation much much earlier.

Aiden made up for lost time by driving him wild. There was no shame to be found in the noises he made, how he’d purr against him, the greedy noises that escaped his throat while he worked Eskel’s small cock with his tongue. He sucked and licked and gently grazed his teeth against it until Eskel was shaking from the effort to stay still, to not attempt fucking that hot mouth, until Eskel was certain if anyone else had been on that floor with him that their activities would not go unnoticed.

Not that he cared if anyone knew. Let them hear how he keened for his beloved cat, how he moaned his name into the faded wallpaper that he clawed into to stay afloat.

It was when that tongue dipped lower again, pressing into him just a touch, that he couldn’t help it anymore. Eskel rocked against his mouth without thought to the motions, Aiden never once moving to slow or stop his movements, just holding him up where his arse met his thighs and letting him chase the pleasure. As he moved Aiden moaned into him, tongue pressing against his insides and making Eskel keen some more, nails digging into the wall when Aiden removed his tongue and left him feeling far too empty without it.

He licked back up to his hard cock, kissing it with open lips, voice rough with want when he pressed words against him. “Going to fuck my mouth, darling wolf mine?”

“Want me to?” He could barely hear himself past his own desire.

Aiden hummed against him, resting his head, nuzzling into him and giving slow, lazy licks as he took his sweet time thinking it over. “Depends…” Another lazy lap of his tongue, two, three, and Eskel was damn ready to hold his head still and fuck his mouth instead of waiting for the answer. “Would you be able to come for me again if I let you?”

Eskel ground lightly against his mouth, feeling his lips drag against him, hardly able to keep his eyes open at how delicious it felt. “Depends,” he drawled out as a tease, Aiden’s greedy mouth chasing his movements, “how good you are with your cock.”

“Then I’ll aim for three.”

And that promise broke the rest of Eskel’s desire to hold back.

He ground against Aiden without restraint, leaving it up to Aiden to fight for a breath if he needed it, desperate to have his cock as deep into his mouth as he could get it. There wasn’t much for thrusting but he could grind against his tongue and lips and he did, moaning deep from within his chest as Aiden greedily ate him up. His hands itched to be in his hair, holding his head with the roots of it, and he managed to transfer his weight to only one forearm just to be able to do that. Wrapping the braids around his wrist lightly until he had a decent grip, hearing and feeling Aiden moan against him at the tug of it, fingers grasping at the back of his head so Eskel could really work his mouth.

It was all so much, but not enough. His breath caught in his throat on a moan as Aiden sucked him hard, making his hips stutter, but he wanted so much more than even this. Wanted Aiden’s fingers inside of him, working him open, his tongue pushing in alongside them until he was writhing around them. Wanted to feel Aiden’s cock against his own, grinding against him, making him so wet there’d be little use of lube. Wanted to feel him pressing into him until all he could feel was Aiden, all of him, wanted to clench around him and make him go as wild as Eskel always felt around him until he was spilling into him-

Just the thought of that, of Aiden coming inside of him, made Eskel’s orgasm hit him hard and without warning. His jaw locked while his hips stuttered desperately, a whine tearing out of his throat as he ground against Aiden roughly, imagining feeling his hot seed spill into him and leak out of him for the rest of the day. His own dripped slowly down his thighs but Aiden greedily lapped up every drop that he could, groaning as he helped Eskel through the waves of pleasure, sucking his cock until it was just on the edge of too much and Eskel tugged on his braids a little too roughly.

With a final, firm lick, Aiden let up, letting Eskel slump and rest against the wall, trusting Aiden to not let him fall. He panted heavily, finally releasing his desperate grip on Aiden’s hair, gently scratching the back of his head in lieu of an apology while Aiden nuzzled into the soft flesh of his upper thigh.

They stayed like that for a minute while Eskel came down, being grounded by peppered and light kisses all across the stretch marks that ran across his thighs. He hummed, content, as he let more and more of his weight be held up by Aiden’s strong arms, melting at the tender affection that no one else had ever deigned to give him.

Eventually, Aiden let him down gently, kissing all the way up the soft skin of his stomach, his chest, his collarbone and neck and all the way to his lips when Eskel was seated in his lap. It made his breath catch, the tender affection, and for a brief while Eskel and Aiden both ignored the obvious need pressed against Eskel’s thigh in favor of trading soft kisses.

This was unlike anything he’d ever had with anyone else, and Eskel savored it like he’d never taste it again - but he knew without a doubt he could have it whenever he wanted, because Aiden was his. Strong and steady beneath his fingertips, devoted and loving and there.

Sappy emotions aside, Eskel’s pants were cutting a little uncomfortably into his legs, as were his smalls. He gave Aiden another firm peck before wiggling out of his grip, falling back on the bed to unceremoniously rip his pants and the rest of his clothes off to toss wherever they might land, letting his hands rest on top of his own stomach as he sighed.

“You are stunning, love.”

Eskel quirked an eyebrow at Aiden but it did nothing to hide the rising blush. A hand found its way up his leg, squeezing as it went, Aiden’s eyes following its path with hunger.

“Beautiful,” Aiden murmured to himself, moving to crawl between Eskel’s legs, kissing up one as he went as if he couldn’t keep his hands and mouth off of him. Eskel made room for him and reached out to play with his hair as he crawled up him further, jerking under him when he kissed his still too-sensitive cock - but he didn’t tell him to stop, didn’t want him to stop, wanted to bask in the warmth of him, them.

“Tell me how to, love.”

“Hmmm?” Eskel cracked his eyes open, not having even realized they’d been closed, drinking in the sight of that cool blue against Aiden’s beautiful dark skin. But he had to roll the request around in his head, not knowing what he meant. “How to what?”

“Fuck you, darling.” Another kiss to his cock made him shudder, his fingers winding around the braids he’d been playing with. “I want to do this right.”

“That-” Eskel closed his eyes again, free hand itching for something to hold onto so he reached out blindly for one of Aiden’s, linking their fingers together just because he could. “That one’s fine. S’easier, don’t need lube. Do we even have any?”

He felt Aiden shrug against him. “I’ve usually got some with me. Pesky calluses make for some rough lonely nights.”

That earned him a soft snort, Eskel grinning as he opened his eyes again as Aiden shifted to get more comfortable on his side. He kissed the hand linked in his own before taking it back, and soon Eskel knew just how rough those calluses could be when those clever fingers pressed against his cock.

It felt good despite it, though it was still too much. He was thankful when Aiden left his cock alone to dip beneath it, his middle finger gently rubbing at his hole, encouraging him to relax and allow his finger to slip in.

Eskel reveled in how Aiden took over. Laid him back and kissed every inch of him he could reach as he worked one finger gently into him. The pressure was never too much, the stretch never too far, Aiden taking his time so that Eskel felt like he could melt back into the bed beneath him. If he could purr he would have, sighing as he felt himself open up slowly, as Aiden pressed praises into the scars on his soft stomach and thighs as if he was worth every single one of the honeyed words he gave him.

With Aiden, he almost felt worth it. Almost felt as precious as Aiden treated him. And as he gently tugged on his braids just because he could, just to let Aiden know he was listening, Eskel thought that maybe someday he’d believe every single word.

It was when the third finger was deep inside of him, gentle presses to the spot that let soft moans slip from his lips, that Eskel started to move with him. That it was finally too much to lay there and let himself be cared for because he wanted more, wanted to feel Aiden moving inside of him.

“S’good, that’s enough.” His words were more like sighs, Eskel tugging at his braids once more, and with a final kiss to his stomach Aiden complied - though the withdrawing of his fingers left Eskel far too empty for his liking.

“How would you like it, love?” Aiden moved to his knees, kissing up to his chest, pausing briefly to brush his lips against the scars that ran underneath his pecks and peppering them with light kisses before kissing up to meet his lips. “Like this? On your hands and knees?”

The latter sounded very, very tempting, and for a moment Eskel considered it. How Aiden’s fingers would bite into his hips, how he’d feel draped against his back as he drove into him - but it felt too…

“Like this.” He nipped Aiden’s lip before soothing it with his tongue, wrapping one leg around him to draw him closer.

Eskel wanted to bask in what they’d built together that day. The sharing of their more private lives, kissing scars, gentle hands on skin that had seen naught but a rough life. And facing each other while they both fell apart, in each other’s arms, felt like the right way to continue.

Aiden kissed him like he believed just the same, ending it with a few nips of his own before sitting back. The man knew he was unfairly attractive and took a moment to run his hands down his silken dress, edges of his lips quirking up as he did, until his fingers played with the edges of the skirt. Eskel watched with interest, one hand reaching down to run his fingers over his own cock, not enough to chase any sort of pleasure but enough so that the absence of touch didn’t make him ache.

He could have probably gotten off like that though, watching Aiden touch himself, and he stowed that thought away for later inspection as Aiden lifted up the skirt just enough to tease him.

“Bet you’re going to feel so good for me, darling wolf,” Aiden purred, one of his hands going to rub at the obvious erection hidden beneath the dress. Some of the fabric quickly turned a darker blue and Eskel heard his own breath hitching at the wet spot, his fingers itching to rub at himself harder, faster. “Going to be so hot, so tight, so perfect for me, love.”

“Won’t find out if you don’t get on with it.”

Aiden trilled, his own breath catching at his own touch. “Want me that bad? Want me to fuck you til you forget your own name in favor of mine?”

“Yes,” he panted, and by the gods did he mean it.

Aiden finally hitched up the skirt of his dress, and Eskel groaned at the sight of him. No smalls to cover him up, pre slowly leaking from the tip of his cock down the shaft. He’d seen his cock before - Aiden had no sense of shame when it came to his own nudity - but never had he seen it hard, and never had he wanted more than that moment to suck it into his mouth until his nose rested in the black curls at its base.

Yet another thought for later that he would be going back to, but for now he reached for Aiden, pulling him in as Aiden took his cock in hand and pressed it against Eskel’s.

It felt even more sinfully wonderful than he’d thought it would, their cocks moving together. Aiden held his and guided its head across Eskel’s slowly, replacing Eskel’s fingers as they clung to Aiden’s shoulders, his back, wherever they could reach.

“Fuck” was all Aiden could manage then, his eyes focused on where he rubbed them together, swirling his cock against Eskel’s, then running the length of himself against him. It took all Eskel had in him to watch as well, enraptured, lips parted and eyes heady at the way they moved together, the feel of it making him want to drop his head to the pillows and close his eyes and drown in it.

Aiden eventually let go of himself, pressing further against him, lifting one of his legs up by his thick thigh while the other caressed any part of Eskel he could reach as he slowly rutted against him. If it hadn’t been clearly by how achingly hard he was it was clear in his movements then, in the way his words had become nothing but cut off phrases of praises and curses: Aiden was close, and it had taken nothing but touching Eskel to get him there.

If he’d had the mind to think on it, Eskel might have preened. Instead he rocked his hips into his movements, watching as Aiden tried to keep control and almost failed, watching as he slowly wound up further and further towards his own edge.

Aiden caught himself eventually, a sharp intake through his nose as he forced himself to lean back just enough to reach down once more, taking himself in hand to guide the tip of his leaking cock to Eskel’s well prepped entrance. And when he finally pressed against him, finally breached him and started to fill him, Eskel couldn’t hold his head up anymore to watch.

There were no fireworks, no earth shattering realizations nor heavenly singing as Aiden slowly pushed into him. The world would not remember that moment but fuck if Eskel didn’t feel like the world was anything but the two of them for the lifetime of a single breath. For that moment all his world was the stretch of himself adjusting around Aiden’s cock, the sweaty sheen that had come over the both of them, how his own nails bit into his lover’s skin and how Aiden’s face had scrunched up like he was solving the world’s most complicated question.

It didn’t take long before Aiden was flush against him, his breaths coming harder, his arm shaking where it still held Eskel’s thigh to push his legs open wider. Eskel found his breaths came easy enough but he reveled in the feeling of something inside of him, someone inside of him. Aiden, his Aiden, who’d stretched him with care and pressed the most tender of kisses to his scars and stretch marks like he was someone precious.

He breathed, clenching around the cock inside of him lightly, drawing a moan out from the both of them that was followed by a long curse from Aiden.

“You’re so tight, love, how-” He circled his hips, grinding into Eskel, and swore as he moaned once more. “Gods but I love the feel of you, you feel perfect, amazing love- perfect for me, just-”

It was such a rare sight. Aiden being anywhere near close to undone in any fashion, his tight control remaining intact even in his flashes of anger, and Eskel couldn’t help but reach out and tug him in close to kiss him senseless. It earned him some more delicious grinding but they were stuttered movements, ones that told Eskel Aiden was closer than he’d thought.

And wouldn’t it be rather unbecoming of him to make him hold back any longer?

Eskel let their tongues run against each other while Aiden started to shallowly thrust into him, his own pleasure not having built back up to anything close to Aiden’s keeping his head clear enough to want to make mischief of his own. He nipped and sucked on his lower lip, running his tongue on it to feel him gasp, slowly moving with Aiden’s hip movements as he held him close.

“Feel good?” He kissed him in lieu of waiting for an answer, not needing one. “I’ve wanted this for a while now.”

“Have you, love?” Aiden was breathless, and Eskel reveled in it.

“Yes,” he breathed against his lips, grinding his hips up into him and feeling Aiden jerk with the effort to not chase his own release. “Wondered what it would feel like, you fucking me. In a bed, up against a wall. Bent over whatever poor surface you could find.”

“Fuck, you’d be gorgeous on display for me, perfect, fucking- perfect, love.”

Eskel squeezed around him, encouraging him to fuck him harder though Aiden still held back. He kissed up to his ear, licking and nipping the shell of it and feeling him shiver against him. “Going to feel this stretch for days and think of nothing but you, kitty cat. How you felt fucking into me, moaning my name, spilling into me-”

As if the thought alone bid him to do so, Aiden came hard with a gasp, jerking his hips and grinding into Eskel and spilling his seed deep into him. It had Eskel’s eyes rolling back, Aiden’s name dripping from his lips as he moved with him and helped him ride out his orgasm, squeezing around him in a gentle rhythm to encourage it on.

Eventually, Aiden collapsed onto him, letting his leg go in favor of worming his arms underneath him to wrap tightly around his waist, head pillowed against his chest. He buried his face there, still letting out the occasional soft noise, still buried deep inside of him as if that’s the only place he’d ever want to be.

With a hum, Eskel let himself relax and melt under him, slowly releasing the tension that had been building up in the growing pleasure. His own cock was hard and needy once more but it could wait, Aiden could have this and deserved it, this respite and soft affection of his own. And Eskel was happy to give it to him.

He held him and ran his fingers gently across the skin of his shoulders, rubbing soothing patterns into his upper back where he could reach. After stretching the cramp out of his left leg he hitched it up over Aiden’s, tugging him impossibly closer just to enjoy the feeling of them pressed together. He gently smoothed his hand over a rather wicked looking scar that ran across one shoulder blade, unable to kiss it at the moment but soothing the wound like it might take away any pain it had caused, his body pleasantly buzzing with the pleasure that still coursed through him as Aiden laid on top of him and just breathed.

“You are,” Aiden started after a minute’s rest, his words lazy and lax as they were pressed into his chest, “unfair.”

“Unfair?” Eskel smirked down at him, tugging him up to press a kiss to the top of his head.

“Yes. Unfair.” Aiden laughed, more air than anything else, his eyes alight with humor. “Perfect. Astounding. Sexy enough to leave me wanting even when I already have you, love.”

“Tongue’s working again, I see.” It was easier to tease than face any of the praise, no matter that Eskel adored it - only from him. On anyone else’s lips it had always felt false, tasted bitter with deceit, but when Aiden kissed him then all he could taste was himself.

It didn’t take long before Aiden was moving again. Slower than before, a gentle lulling of their hips, unhurried and not having to hold himself tense this time around. Aiden kissed him lazily as they moved, his cock only half hard inside of him but gaining more interest, Eskel’s own desperate to be touched but for now went without.

They stayed kissing this time, the only words shared between them hushed ones against each other’s lips, quiet gasps of each other’s name when Aiden pressed against the sweet spot that made Eskel involuntarily squeeze around him, honeyed words that they meant kissed into the corners of their mouths while they both felt the heat building once more.

It was long, drawn out, slow. They caressed each other wherever they could reach, kissing each other’s cheeks and necks and shoulders like each kiss was a confession. And when they could no longer catch their breaths, when it was all too much, when Eskel’s eyes misted from the swelling emotion that came with the tight coil threatening to snap and send him over the edge once more, Aiden intertwined their hands together to hold him tight as he kissed the tears away from his eyes.

Eskel came first, and it was nothing like the desperation he’d felt before. It was a heat that stole the breath from his lungs and tore a single sob from his chest, a desperate plea on his lips - for what, he did not know. And Aiden came not long after, with Eskel’s name on his lips, escaping with the softest and most fragile sound he’d ever heard from him.

When they finally could breathe once more, Aiden slipped out of him, the both of them groaning from the absence. Not a word was said over the emotions that had been heavy between them because no words felt necessary then, Aiden shifting up until he could lay his head on one of the pillows with a deep sigh, scooping Eskel up into his arms to rest against his chest. The fabric of the dress still felt cool to the touch somehow, Eskel sparing an idle thought to hoping they didn’t stain it with any unsightly fluids - but he didn’t have it in him to care enough beyond that, his eyelashes still wet, his entire body humming though his legs needed a good stretch once more.

He sighed into his lover’s embrace, feeling Aiden press a few kisses to the top of his head, feeling safe in his strong arms. And he couldn’t help but return the affection, running a gentle finger across the burn scars that stretched across the right side of Aiden’s chest, following the movement with his lips and feeling the stutter of the heartbeat beneath them.

“I love you, darling wolf mine.”

Eskel felt that love, smiling softly as his eyes fluttered closed, not caring that it was nowhere near night as he hummed pleasantly, settling in to sleep. “Love you too, mischief.”

And there was no more pleasant sound in the world than Aiden’s laugh, though it was the sound of his steading heartbeat that finally lulled him to sleep.

-

@witcher-rarepair-summer-bingo

[kandyrezi]

– red carnations;

⌜anonymous asked: Ok so I know there's been a fair bit of Sin stuff, but I feel the need to ask - how would Sin react to her darling hunting her down to confess to her, despite her being in a relationship? They just couldn't hold in the feelings anymore, despite knowing that it's foolish to expect someone as incredible as her to be into them, etc.⌟

pairing: yandere(?) sin x reader (funamusea)

(a/n: there can never too much naga wife love to go around~ u v u tbh i’m not sure how cute of a scenario you wanted it to be, but i hope this is to your liking!)

⊱ ────── {.⋅ ✯ ⋅.} ────── ⊰

The earthly scent of the flowers reaches your senses, in that moment it’s almost easy to become lost in a feeble, little fantasy where nothing in life can go astray.

You’re trying to wrap your head around what has possessed you to such notion involving you piecing together what was previously shattered to lost courage in order to get it off your chest. By how many times your heart beats above the norm whenever she’s near, you could almost mean it quite literally.

…she is married for Elux’s sake, how could you ever hope to think there being a chance of her returning your feelings?

What would that make you anyhow, a concubine of some kind to a harmonious marriage?

For the most part you are an observer from the sidelines; she is always busy, so you aren’t sure if there is a correct time you are supposed to approach her. Sin is nearly always in presence of her wife otherwise, so it would be difficult to get her alone. Unless you want to tell her you have feelings for her in front of Reficul or Mors, who would no doubt bury you alive.

You had no problem conversing and spending time as acquaintances before, but something quite clearly has changed if you’re behaving differently, leaving you to wonder if she would like an explanation for it – when she’d attempted to make small-talk at times when other demons were nearby, but you would more often than not, run away to avoid saying something you might come to regret in messy tumble of words. Now you were seriously re-considering and actually wondering whether admitting your deepest, inner thoughts out loud to the most powerful creature in Pentagram World would be an intelligent idea.

You find her near the edge of the precipice surrounded by pearly gates with rare sprouting orchids clinging to the metal poles, looking as the burgundy dusk settles and stars decorate in the sky behind the gate. It reminds you of a painting that would otherwise be dull were it not for the subject at the focus point to make it whole. You know exactly what – rather whom, makes it complete.

The weather is usually awful all-year around, but in this time of early night the stars had finally aligned for you. You had acquired the flowers from Alibe, who almost too politely allowed you to pluck them from his houseplant collection it almost seemed a little suspicious, but you barely cared about that then.

Minutes tick by in your head then – you go to approach her, but your footing fails you and you trip over a rock, falling off the hillside. You tumble downwards, painfully faceplanting against the soil-covered ground.

A familiar, concerned voice rings from afar a few seconds later.

“Oh! Oh dear, are you alright?”

Waiting for the vivid distortion to clear from your vision, you look up to see her leaning down, placing her palms on underneath your own to grasp your fingers carefully helping you back to mildly unstable feet.

“I’m alright, i-it didn’t even hurt…”

Not nearly as much as it hurt your dignity – or whatever scraps were left of it anyway. You wince, feeling a killer headache rapidly spreading through your scalp, no doubt a far cry from a developing bruise.

(stupid rock. stupid, stupid hillside. and most importantly – stupid, clumsy you.)

Before the mortifying ordeal of knowing you’d just embarrassed yourself in such manner can sink in, you quickly pick up the flowers, hastily try to wrap them together again to look decent, then extending your hand out.

Her gaze follows your mini-bouquet, observing it with curiosity now.

“Hm? Who are those fo—” the serpent doesn’t get a word in, before you blurt out a confession.

“I love you. I’m sorry.”

Covered in layers of dust and dirt from head to toe, you present her with spray made of red carnations. The low whistling of wind only continues to quietly breeze by. You mentally grimace at catching a glimpse of her blinking, being otherwise motionless.

Then she’s frowning.

You feel a pit forming in your stomach, clutching at your insides painfully—

“Dear, your nose is bleeding.”

You nearly gape, tongue stuck at the back of your throat. Sin slithers a bit closer until there’s almost no space left in between bodies.

“Allow me to fix that.” she says and wipes away the blood with a handkerchief kept in a pocket embroidered in her olive cape reaching down long as her hair. Folding the cloth together and putting it away, she places her palm against your temple. It fades away quickly as it merged; pain is no longer coursing through the area from where you hit your head.

(you nearly blush at being tended to like this.)

It’s still a morbid silence that becomes too much for you to bear. You were almost on the brink of wishing the Devil would emerge and slam you six– no, sixty feet deeper into the ground as far as the underworld goes for this foolish act… until Sin extends her arms to take the flowers from you, looking like she wants to say something about it, but an interruption cuts through when one of them begins to blossom and tilt upwards, petals extending, a mouth forming and opening, sinking its razor-like daggers into the serpent lady’s index finger, surprising both you and her.

‘Damn you, Alibe—!’ you curse that doctor in your head for ruining any and all zero point one chances you might have had at that point.

“Oh, what playful ones you are.” The serpent remarks to the plants, not looking deterred in the slightest as she hums a soothing tune to get the red crawlers to calm down, sharp teeth disappearing and eventually reverting to their original state of looking like regular pretty red carnations, petals stopping their shaking.

“Meat-eating plants are quite fascinating, aren’t they? Beautiful in appearance and quite curious in essence, but… they can cause a great deal of hurt if one isn’t aware of their actual, deadly nature.” she says – you swear you see something mischievous in the look she’s giving you, but you can’t decipher what it is.

“Y-Yes, they are certainly a source of interest…” you say, every neuron alert for any potential sign of displeasure, “I thought… you’d like them… maybe.”

“Now… would you like to tell me why have you been running from me as of late every time I try to talk to you?” she inquires, allowing the plants in her hands to now rest idly.

It seems there was no escape after all. You fumble with the hem of your shirt, not sure what to suddenly focus on. You suspect she probably knows your answer already by now, but as you wait a few minutes in silence, you realize she expects you to say it out loud.

“I… I was nervous because you’re the most extraordinary, elegant being in this world and I am just… nothing compared to you. Just one, ordinary blade of grass next to a grand tree that can reach even the far above skies and beyond. I wish I could offer more than what I am, but even that turned out to be a catastrophe in making…” you grumble, recalling that earlier mishap.

Your words cause her to go deep into thought for a minute and you’re anticipating her words.

She speaks again then, “How do you expect me to reciprocate your feelings if you have such a low opinion of yourself?”

You blink, confused at her answer, “I… h-how do you mean?”

“Do you not see yourself as worthy of being in my presence?” she asks, still cradling the gift close in her embrace, whilst her knuckles rest underneath her chin – you see the first sign of displeasure, but not from the actions you’d previously anticipated.

“Um, no, I… I want to feel worthy. I’ve been looking… just observing far too long from a distance, I think my own rotting heart would have turned to dust from inside out if I let this fire in me continue on burning, but now I’m not sure if I should have just let it happen,” you sigh, “I’m sorry for being a bother, but I hope you won’t hold any ill will against me for it… I just needed to get this off my chest.”

Before you allow your own inferiority complex to gnaw away your senses, Sin’s response back to you is almost immediate.

“You may have misunderstood me, it wasn’t my intention at all to dismiss your confession.” she says, with the same gentle voice you’ve become so used to.  She is even smiling with sincerity now.

“Your heart isn’t rotten in any way. In fact, you’re very cute with many things to admire. I know you always speak from the most inner of your soul, and… you should know I’ve reciprocate your feelings from the very beginning, perhaps with even more so the amount of passion you do, if you would allow me to show you more thoroughly, if my words alone are not convincing you.”

You feel foolish to the point you’re only able to quake slightly, swallowing the lump in your throat to clear your voice, “B-But… what about Refi— I mean, the Devil Queen?” you remember to address her with a respectful title for she is still technically your superior, especially in presence of her lawfully-wedded wife.

“I’m sure she won’t mind me having another beloved of my own. After all, love is meant to be shared, whether that’s between two unified persons or more.”

She gestures for you to place your hands towards her, as she hands you one of the very same red carnations you just gifted her.

“I… y-you knew all this time then…?” you accept the flower, holding it within your grasp, wanting to suddenly never let go of it.

“Darling dove, never shy from what your heart desires with this burning, ardent ache. I was wondering if I would have to wait for another eternity for you to approach me again to tell me about this.” she’s jokingly exaggerating her claim, but the words are not lost on you.

“I’m very perceptive of people’s emotions and it’d be sinful of me to lie and say I haven’t had this… desire to keep you all to myself alongside all my other possessions,” she tells you, offering you her hand to take, you swear her eyes are a deeper shade of red than you’ve seen before, “So, how would you like to accept my invitation to accompany me to my garden?”

You don’t need to think over your answer for too long this time.

- : - : -: - : -

(a/n: this is also partially dedicated to Piralos, i don’t know if this was her request but since as an avid Sin worshipper lover, i hope you like this!! 🍷)

[the-darklings]

a soulmate au woth santi and v wouldnt end goof though, right? ugh its 1am and j dont

—SHE LIVES IN DAYDREAMS WITH ME;

warning: swearing, slight nsft but mostly suggestive

pairing: that one most of you seem to really like ft baba yaga

wc: 8.8k+ (started out as a warm-up exercise to flex my writing muscles and…well…it’s soulmate!AU…and mayhaps I SNAPPED)

YOU REALLY HAD TO TEMPT ME, HUH??

gif credit (x)

You always figured it would be John.

Even without the soulmate mark. Even if his words were not the ones marking your skin or vice versa.

It should—is—him.

Not—

Not this man with green eyes and a smug smirk that stretches wider and wider as he takes you in.

“Ah, the woman I have heard so much about.”

It’s a gentle, seductive purr and Tarasov—irritated and already scowling because Giovanni sent his son to bargain instead of coming himself—makes a noise at the back of his throat. A rough, annoyed sound that indicates that he’s not in the mood to play. Not today.

But those words. Those soft, elegantly spoken words.

You always imagined that your soulmate would speak them with subtle awe, respect, even adoration.

You’re not wrong.

The elegant imprint curling just beneath your left breast burns and scorches and you can’t breathe.

Your tongue has turned to lead inside your mouth and you are grateful for it.

Tarasov barks an order and the two parties step inside, ready for a long discussion.

You, as is expected of you, stay by Tarasov’s side the entire meeting.

Santino D’Antonio doesn’t look away from you once.

…

You spend the next few days learning everything there is about your—

Soulmate.

The word tastes bitter in your mouth.

No—no, that arrogant Italian is not your—he couldn’t be.

You haven’t spoken a word to him.

Even when after the meeting he made a point of coming over and kissing your hand goodbye with a sliver of that blood boiling smirk. So arrogant, so used to the world around him bending and breaking for him.

The words on your skin had ached at the touch, at the proximity, but your expression had given nothing away. Still, he lingered, for far longer than necessary, and you couldn’t help but fear that maybe he felt it, too. Some sort of allure driven by a deeper instinct that whispers to him that you are—

You are nothing to him. You love John.

That’s all there is to it.

…

Santino D’Antonio proves to be exactly who you expected him to be.

You can’t do as much digging as you would like though.

Camorra is power near unmatched by others.

They are cruel and they are ruthless and they protect their own viciously.

A small part of you can’t help but wonder what that’s like…belonging. Belonging so thoroughly to a faction—a family—that they would do anything for you. Belonging somewhere where you are trusted and can trust in return.

You can’t help but wonder.

D’Antonio—because he is not your soulmate, will never learn who you are to him—is the heir. One of the two. And he lives up to his title.

Arrogant, spoiled, vicious. Self-absorbed and with a loose to no moral code to abide by.

Exactly the type you will never want or care to spend more time around.

(You ignore the part of you that whispers that he is clever, and ambitious, and ruthless, too. All things you do admire. But no—you smother that part of you daily and tell it to disappear entirely).

…

Your second meeting is—for all intents and purposes—a complete accident.

It’s one of the few, rare days when you don’t have to work for Tarasov and there is no job to attend to.  

John is out of town, working, and you are left alone. For once.

You tried to work on your newest project but nothing was coming together so instead you had ventured out into the busy New York streets.

You window-shopped more than anything and even though you now have the money to buy all the expensive, pretty things you want, you rarely indulge yourself in the luxury of it. It feels wasteful. When you grew up having nothing—barely anything to even eat—spending 4k on a designer bag seems…silly. Wrong, somehow. You understand why people enjoy it, but can’t help but feel like you’ve been rob of that simple joy.

Life has robbed you of many things though.

Perhaps that’s why you found yourself at the Metropolitan Museum of Art only an hour later.

Even while busy, it’s still an escape from the bustling New York streets.

And it’s full of pretty things you don’t have to feel bad about not wanting to buy.

You study the large, sprawling painting of an ancient battlefield when you feel a presence behind you.

A blade slips into your hand and you turn, pausing sharply when you feel a blade press against your side, over the spot where your kidneys are. A foolish oversight on your part. But your own blade comes to rest against the exact same spot on the person in front of you, and you stare at the woman with a hard expression on your face.

A stalemate.  

To people around you, it would look like you’re simply standing close and gazing into each other’s eyes, but your mouth twists.

The woman—with her sharp features and bright blue eyes looks no less surprised or intrigued at the development—and you both regard each other for another tense second before a voice interrupts your standoff.

“Ares, please,” a smooth, accented voice interrupts. “We do not attack guests.”

Ares leans back slightly, and drags the blade slowly, suggestively, over your ribs before dropping her arm. She shoots you a wink, her mouth curling in a sensuous line and you blink.

You like her immediately.

For guts alone, if nothing else.

“Such a pleasure to see you again, cara mia.”

Your attention drops away from the woman in front of you, and comes to rest on your soul—

D’Antonio.

He looks pleased to see you. His hands buried deep in his suit pockets—a rich, dark brown three-piece that fits him to perfection—he stands in the gallery like a king in his throne room.

Your soulmate words tingle.

They dig and drag you closer to him but you remain stubbornly rooted in your spot.

He strolls closer towards you, eyes devouring as he blatantly takes you in, and you work your jaw.

You count five guards, excluding Ares.

Punching him and running for dear life is out then. Pity.

No—instead, you move towards him too. He halts, as if he didn’t expect that, and you meet him halfway.

Did he expect you to cower then? Fear him? You know there is a reason to fear. He is powerful and influential, and he could have you shot right here and now but you know deep in your gut that he won’t.

Stupid, idiotic soulmate bond, that’s not how real life works—

You stop in front of him. Scrutinise him for a long minute. His lips twitch upwards, all arrogance. Like he already knows how this will end. Judging by the look on his face it involves you, him, and his bed.

You almost scoff right in his face.

But you can’t give yourself away. Your jaw remains clamped shut.

You look him up and then down, and then back up again.

Your—nothing, he is nothing to you.

(but a part of you wants to scream at him, whisper to him, and shout at him anything and everything that’s on your mind just to see what words you might have branded him with—)

You can’t.

John. There is only John.

With that chaos roaring through your mind, you dismiss him with a single hum and sidestep him, intent on leaving this damn gallery.

His hand latches onto your forearm, stilling you and you tense.

“Wait.”

His is stare is wild, bewildered, and for a moment you can’t help but wonder if he’s truly that arrogant that the idea of someone not wanting him is shocking to him.

Or if it’s something else, something deeper, something like the feeling inside your gut that coils your insides at the simmering heat of his grip on your arm.

“Join me for dinner.”

He is nothing to you.

You jerk your arm out of his grip and walk away.

He surprises you by not stopping you again.

…

“I met him,” you choke out, your voice a croak. “I met him.”

Winston hums, not even glancing up as you collapse in the seat before him. It feels good to finally vocalise it. Like you’re no longer insane because you’ve acknowledged your reality.

“Am I suppose to read your mind?” he wonders idly. “Or do you expect me to just know what you’re blabbering about?”

“My—soulmate.”  

It comes out as half a curse and half a plea.

The older man looks up at you, thoughtful, but you don’t miss the faint glimmer of surprise in his eyes.

You’ve never asked Winston if he has a soulmate too. Whenever the subject comes up, he withdraws, growing more severe and serious. A part of you wonders if he, perhaps, had someone once and lost them. Losing a soulmate is said to be a loss you never recover from. A wound that never quite closes because it’s like losing half of yourself.

Such a rare gift, finding your soulmate. Such a tragedy, losing them.

“Congratulations.”

You ignore the sarcasm in his voice.

“I don’t want him. He’s wrong for me.”

Winston arches an eyebrow, and takes a slow sip of his drink. “Is that so?”

“What’s that suppose to mean?”

The man sighs. “Is that you speaking or your supposed love for Johnathan?”

Your sharp reply dies on the tip of your tongue at that.

Winston only peers at you over his glasses with a knowing little smile. “That’s what I thought.”

…

He doesn’t want you.

John.

He doesn’t want you.

“Maybe if things were different.”

Maybe.

Maybe it’s just better to accept that no one wants you—

(but someone does.)

You cradle the glass in your hand and swat the irritating thought away. Briefly, your hand settles against your words, running just beneath the curve of your breast. Such a possessive place for soulmate words to manifest. Such a statement, such a promise, curling gently around your heart.

Ah, the woman I have heard so much about.

You shouldn’t linger at the bar for much longer.

Your flight to Tokyo is leaving in less than three hours.

But soaking in self-made misery seems preferable right now.

“What is a beautiful woman like yourself doing in such a miserable place, hm?”

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Your head turns and the Italian before you grins, his teeth flashing as he approaches. He pauses before your table and nods his head towards the empty seat.

“May I?”

A part of you considers telling him no, just to see if he would sit down anyway.

Reluctantly, you dip your head, but your cool expression doesn’t ease. He seats himself with refined elegance, his cocky demeanour on full display as he takes you in.

You count six guards dotted around the lounge, but don’t let it show.

He’s favouring light colours today and you watch dully as he fixes his sleeve, his gaze not dropping from you. He looks impeccable despite the hour.

You’ve forgotten. Winston mentioned earlier about having business to attend to with the Italians. Italy has plenty of powerful players though. So you didn’t immediately assume it would be Camorra itself.

I apologise if I offended you the last time we met.

For a moment, you’re so taken aback that you freeze completely.

He signed his words at you.

Does he think you’re mute? Does he believe that’s the reason why you won’t speak with him?

You stare at him blankly.

His expression twitches and he chuckles under his breath, folding his fingers on the pristine tablecloth.

“I confess, cara mia,” he begins pleasantly, observing you like you are something peculiar and truly beautiful to him. “You are rather difficult for me to read. A rarity,” he adds in a murmur, thoughtful.

My dear.

Your throat bobs once, twice.

You’re not in the mood for this. For him.

John—he—

“We…can’t.”

Santino waits for a moment to see if you will speak and his eyes narrow when you don’t, still thoughtful. “Such a mystery,” he notes, but sounds delighted by it. “Perhaps, despite the hour, you would join me for food, cara mia? Drinks?”

And maybe it’s the ache in your chest, or the lingering alcohol in your system, or the soulmate words that burn and tug at you to say yes, yes, I’m here, you found me—

Or maybe it’s the way he watches you. With shameless, naked want and you are so much more than a slab of meat for some arrogant bastard to drool over. More than a subject of desire for some egotistical man who believes that the sun shines out of his ass.

“Call me that again and I’ll slit your throat.”

The words slip out before you can control them. Tumble and trash from deep within you and terror locks your muscles.

Shit, shit—

Santino’s face goes slack with shock, with raw disbelief. His lips part and you stare at him wide-eyed, horrified by your own slip-up.  

“You.”

He exhales it from somewhere deep inside his chest and your heart seizes for a second. Your own words are warm—a bond completed, both sets of words spoken and shared at last, and the feeling is so warm, right.

You feel like you’re going to be sick.

Jerking back, you rise from your seat hurriedly, your chair scrapping back and a few people glance over at the commotion.

“You,” he says again; soft, frenzied, his eyes drilling into you. “It’s you.”

It might as well be a prayer.

He might as well be damning you.

You don’t run from him, but it’s a close thing.

…

The knock comes only twenty minutes later.

Longer than you expected.

Staring at the door, you breathe deeply, laboured.

Don’t let him in.

(let him in. let him in. let him in.)

You swallow weakly.

The knock comes again—harder this time, more insistent.

Something tells you that he will not let this go. Will camp outside your damn door all night if that’s what it takes. You saw that look in his eyes when he realised what you were—are—to him.

The amazement, the wonder, the longing, the need—

You’ve never been needed before.

Soulmate bond is not some fairytale love-at-first-sight bullshit. It’s hard work just like any other relationship. But it’s the tug, the rightness and the knowledge that this person—this one person is yours as you are theirs. That they’re supposed to be that final puzzle piece that will help you find your best self.

Your fingers tremble around the handle.

Straightening your spine, you force your expression into neutrality before opening the door.

Santino stills from his restless fidgeting once the door swings open and stares.

And stares.

Like he’s appreciating and cataloguing every inch of you through new eyes. You, reluctantly, find yourself doing the same.

His suit is more crumpled but still fits him far too well. The dip in his round chin, the length of his eyelashes framing those bright green eyes, the curve of his mouth—

His hair is messier. You wonder if he ran his fingers through it as he tried to figure out what to do.

(what would it be like? to run your fingers through those curls, feel him close, to taste him—)

“We…can’t.”

That memory chills you, forces you back into the present.

Santino takes a step forward and your arm flies up, stopping him in his tracks.

“You’re my soulmate,” he whispers, his voice hoarse, as he peers at you. He speaks those words as if they’re supposed to explain everything. For him, maybe, they do. But not for you. “May I come in, cara—”

He falters as if realising his mistake and waits for you to say something.

Your gaze lowers but you step aside, allowing him the space to enter.

No guards.

You wonder if the reason it took him so long to come up is because he had to convince them he was to go alone.

He looks around the room curiously.

“My name—”

“I know who you are,” you cut him off, and cringe at the defensive note in your voice. “I know.”

His eyes sweep over you again. “And you?”

Folding your arms over your chest, you wonder coolly, “What about me?”

He clicks his tongue and wanders a step closer, wisely cautious. “May I know the name of my soulmate?”

“I don’t want it,” you force out instead, and see his expression—the almost boyish lightness in his eyes—crack and crumble. “The bond between us. I love someone else.”

The haughty, proud gleam you’re so used to seeing gutters out. Like a candle being blown out.

“That’s why—that’s why I didn’t want you to know,” you continue you, even if those words taste like crushed glass in your mouth. “It’s pointless.”

His features are drawn, rigid, as he listens and you see the coldness taking over his demeanour. The hope you haven’t noticed till that moment fading bit by bit.

“But you’re my soulmate.”

He speaks those words with such obvious longing.

“You don’t even know me,” he insists firmly, taking another step closer. “Let me at least try.”

Shaking your head, you scoff. “I know enough.”

His lips purse and perhaps it’s a cruel thing to say and with such a dismissive, almost repulsed tone.

“Then let me prove you right,” he says instead, his chin tilting upwards with that cool arrogance. He’s stubborn, you realise. Stubborn and hotheaded. And… “At least get to know my awful self, yes? Then you can walk away, cara.”

“And you will let me? No strings attached?”

Because you don’t trust him—not even a little bit. But he seems to understand that if he lets you go now, he will never get another opportunity like this again.

He hesitates and that’s how you know that he’s at least serious about this.

“Yes.”

Reluctant, almost petulant.

You have a flight to catch—

(hello, you found me, hello, you, you, you—)    

“You have till dawn.”

…

There isn’t much to do in the early hours of the morning.

But Santino is money and power.

You expect something lavish, extravagant. He surprises you again.

He takes you to Central Park and you don’t question how you are able to get inside even though the park closes at 1am.

He walks with you.

He asks you questions.

Some you answer, some you don’t. He doesn’t linger on the latter, seemingly aware of his time constraint.

You ask him questions back, bold and unflinching. Some catch him off guard.

“Ever had shower sex?”

A sharp inhale. Did he really think that he’s the only one capable of playing this game? Besides, this is all about monitoring his reactions, his honesty.  

“…Yes. You?”

A slow, mischievous smile blooms across your face. “Won’t you like to know?”

He chuckles and relaxes just slightly, growing bolder with his own line of inquiry.

It’s chilly outside, and noting your shivering, he offers you his overcoat but you refuse him.

Instead, you take him to a diner not too far from the park.

Another test.

It’s a dingy place and the Italian before you looks comically out of place when you both sit down.

Santino’s guards stay outside, though you can feel them tracking your every move. It’s a pity the woman seems to be absent.

You ask him about her.

His grin stretches wide. “She likes you, bella,” he hums, sly and knowing. “It’s rare for us to agree on such things. She has, ah, peculiar taste.”

“Have you slept with her?”

He shifts in the cheap plastic chair. “No,” he tells you, and you examine him closely, looking for any sign of deception. “Ares is my friend. One of the very few. Our relationship is strictly platonic.”

You believe him. For some reason.

“And what about this…individual…I will be stealing you from?”

Taking another spoonful of your ice cream, you let his question hang between you.

“Confident, are we?”  

His mouth twists and he leans closer. There is determination—practically a burning flame—dancing in his eyes and if he wasn’t attractive before, he certainly is now. That lethal focus and grim determination.

“You will find that once I put my mind to something, bella,” he purrs, low and gentle; a lover’s caress, and your words tickle again. Suddenly, the only thing you do want to know is where your words are on him. “I never fail.”

Meeting your soulmate is not a love-at-first-sight type of affair, but it is an attraction. Pure and simple and intense.

You lean closer too, lowering your spoon and his breaths slow at the proximity. “Did you suspect? Before I spoke?”

He’s silent for a length of time and that surprises you. The city skyline is already bleeding delicate pink. Sunrise is only minutes away.

Santino blinks a few times, glancing away briefly before turning back at you. There is hesitation, and you wonder why. “I think I dreamt of you,” he utters quietly, guarded, cautious. “Just glimpses. Nothing that could help me find you quicker. Brief flashes. A laugh. A smile. Sunlight. I think I could have recognised you blind. Not your face, or name, or even where you lived, cara mia. Just you.”

You’ve heard about it. How some bonds are so powerful that there are…transferences. Usually in dreams just like he said. Ability to simply feel your other half.  

“So to answer your question, yes,” he admits and swallows, his eyes roaming over your features. “You attract me in a way no one else ever has. You did from the moment I first laid eyes on you, bella. Now,” he chuckles, but it sounds harsh. “Now, it certainly makes sense as to why.”

You haven’t expected him to bare such a fact before you so easily.

His lips part, as if to say something else, but you cut him off before he can. “Time’s up.”

Above New York, a new day dawns.

You sit in silence for a few minutes. He watches you watch him, but the silence is not awkward. Surprisingly.

“Did I—”

“No.”

You can’t lie now. He’s been honest with you.

His head dips, his gaze serious, no doubt already calculating what course of action to take next.

“My name is (Name).”

His features crease with confusion.

You stand and stare at him for a moment, considering. “I’ll see you around, Santi.”

A grin blooms across your face at the way his serious expression crumbles to pieces.

You turn to leave but his voice gives you a pause.

“Have dinner with me,” he calls out hurriedly, but you only wave at him over your shoulder without turning around, a brief laugh slipping free.

“Maybe next time.”

…

You miss your flight to Tokyo but can’t find it in yourself to care much.

That day is also the first time a present arrives at the Continental reception addressed to you.

A beautiful golden bracelet with green gems gleaming in the light.

Fitting scales for a mighty viper, won’t you agree? I look forward to seeing you soon—Santi

Your eyes roll, but a reluctant grin appears despite your attempt to smother it.

You close the box and give it back to clearly curious Charon. “Send it back.”

It’s the first present.

Over the next week, at least a dozen more follow.

You send every single one of them back.

…

Her name is Helen.

Her name is Helen and she’s beautiful.

Her name is Helen, she’s beautiful, and she’s John’s soulmate.

It’s like a punch.

Right in the heart.

Quick and brutal.

They met at a library, he tells you, and like in a fairytale they bumped into each other and she caught a glimpse of the book in his hands. Opened her pretty little mouth and spoke the words stretching over the wide, powerful expanse of John’s shoulders.

Fortis Fortuna Adiuvat.

A part of you wants to scream while another part of you remains cold, calm.

“I’m sorry.”

You know he is.

It still stings.

You always thought that it will be him—soulmate mark or not.

You wanted it to be him so badly.

Pressing your fingers under your left breast, you inhale and wait.

Wait for the pain, the rage, to hit you but…

(you, it’s you, you, you, you.)

Something does glimmer but it doesn’t feel like rage and more like disappointment. Sadness.

How can you be angry at him for finding his soulmate? Finding happiness?

He’s half in love with her already and he doesn’t even realise it. But you do because you know him.

Her name is Helen.

But you are not Helen.

And maybe, one day, you will learn to live with that fact.

Maybe, one day, it will not hurt at all.  

Perhaps sooner than you think.

…

Your phone keeps ringing, ringing, ringing.

Balancing the measuring cup in your hand, you finally pick up.

“What?”

“Good morning to you too,” a wry but highly amused voice greets; a voice you haven’t heard since the diner, since those shadowy hours where you exchanged a part of your soul for his. “I like the sound of your voice, bella. Have I told you that yet?”

“Where did you get this number?”

“Is there something wrong with my presents?”

“Yes,” you mutter, irritated. “It’s your belief that you can buy my favour with money.”

You hang up.

A text follows only a minute later. Grinding your teeth, you glare at the phone before picking it up and opening the text.

I’m not trying to buy your favour with money. I simply believe that you deserve beautiful things—Santi

Your finger finds the Block option and you hesitate over it.

You’ll regret it, a voice that sounds suspiciously like Winston drones in your ear.

Groaning, you drop the phone on your bed instead.

You don’t block the number, but you don’t answer him either.

The following week makes you regret that decision.

…

I have not seen you today, but I bet you look beautiful—Santi

…

Have you eaten yet? There is a wonderful Italian place I would like to take you to in Lower Manhattan—Santi

…

What’s your favourite colour? Mine is either blue or green—Santi

…

‘The woman I have heard so much about’. I think as far as first words go, I did pretty well, no?—Santi

…

Why Vipress? Not many vipers are venomous—Santi  

Stop bothering me.

We are conversing—Santi

No. You’re being annoying.

Are you flirting with me? How shameless of you—Santi

(middle finger emoji)

;)—Santi

…

“Help him.”

“Hello, cara mia, you look beautiful today,” Santino greets as he swivels the glass of wine in his hand. The red colour is as dark as blood and you stare at it. “So wonderful to see you again.”

He means that.

The words etched into your skin warm under the weight of his steady stare.

He looks unfairly handsome today.

Green looks best on him, you want to tell him. Brings out his eyes even more.

Almost two months of this back and forth between you. Of flirty texts and phone calls and brief meetings. Meetings that leave you smiling and breathless and aching. He knows how to get under your skin. But it’s a sentiment shared. 

You destroy him with nothing but a smile.

But things are different now.

Now, John’s life hangs in the balance.

“Help him,” you repeat, harsher this time. “Please.”

His eyes snap to yours, hard, and he studies you for a prolonged moment. His eyes gleam and the light in them is dangerous, dark. “It’s him, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

What would be the point of lying?

He rises to his feet and stalks closer. You stand your ground and he stops a breath away, gazing at you raptly, intently.

“And what would you give me in return?”

That part of you that whispers his name in your dreams withers at his words.

Perhaps—

No—it was foolish to think that maybe he would be different. Everyone always wants something from you. That’s the way it’s always been.

You try to swallow over the lump in your throat, over your bitter disappointment, “Anything.”

He smiles but it’s not quite a smile. It’s something bleaker, more frayed and torn around the edges. You feel a pinch against the skin where your words lay and you shift slightly in discomfort.

“Then consider it done.”

He lingers briefly before turning away and heading back towards the table as you stare at his retreating back in confusion.

“What do you want in return?” you wonder, uncomprehending.

He glances at you over his shoulder. “Nothing, cara mia,” he states calmly, flatly. “I want nothing you can give me because the one thing I do want is the one thing I cannot demand.”

But he could.

He could.  

And the fact that he doesn’t—

It warms something deep down.

It would be so easy to claim power over you now. So easy to bind you, chain you, demand everything.

“Thank you.”

He doesn’t acknowledge your words, instead, he goes back to his wine.

That image of him—shoulders curved, eyes empty, a glass of wine in hand like a shield—stays with you long after you leave.

It haunts your sleep for weeks.

…

The wedding is beautiful.

You sit through the entire thing and marvel at how well they just fit.

There is still an ache in your heart when you look at them—a part of you will likely always love John to some degree, it’s hard not to.

But they fit, Helen and him.

A harmony of cold and warm, of light and dark.

Soulmates.

You clap loudly when they kiss and find your smile surprisingly genuine. It’s easier than you thought it would be.

Easier, perhaps, because you—

Someone else has been occupying your thoughts.  

His texts stopped after your meeting and haven’t returned for a month now.

Last you heard, he went back to Italy.

Santino D’Antonio. Your soulmate.

John is not yours—was never meant to be yours.

But maybe someone else could be. If only you dared.

You slip away quietly, unnoticed.

But it really shouldn’t surprise you that John—Baba Yaga, the best assassin in the world—catches up with you easily.

Even when Helen finds you both talking, you don’t feel any bitterness towards either.

“Let’s stay in touch,” John suggests, his voice subdued but hopeful. “There are secure channels we can use.”

Looking towards the sky, you grin, almost cheekily. “Sure,” you say. “But don’t complain if I turn up at your doorstep at 2am covered in the blood of my enemies one day.”

Much to your surprise, it’s Helen that laughs at your morbid joke. Loud and genuine.  

Yeah, you might just like her after all.

…

Have dinner with me?

…

A week passes. Nothing.

…

Have dinner with me?

…

A reply comes another week later.

I’ll be in the city tomorrow. My driver will pick you up at 7pm—Santi

Demanding.

He doesn’t reply, and that night you sleep with your palm pressed against your—his—words.

…

His eyes devour you.

Good. You certainly made an effort.

A simple, well-cut black dress can do wonders.

He looks good as well, it would be a lie to say he doesn’t.

He’s wearing black as well and your mouth curves.

“A matching set.”

He grins, despite the fact that you can see him trying to fight it back. It looks good on him because it’s less arrogant and more him.

It surprises you yet again. The pang you feel at seeing him. You’ve missed him, you realise suddenly, and it startles you more than you would care to admit.

You’ve missed him and his irritating texts at all hours of day and night. You’ve missed the teasing and the tension and the flirting. The way you gravitate towards each other like magnets but never quite touch despite few lingering grazes.

“Thank you,” you say while you wait for food to arrive. “For helping him.”

Santino’s lips thin into a stiff line but he manages to keep his composure. “I didn’t do it for him.”

You know he didn’t.

But you could still kiss him for saying that with such quiet steel in his voice.

“He’s gotten married,” you divulge, watching the way he goes rigid in his seat. “She’s his soulmate. That’s why he wanted to get out.”

Candlelight dances over his features as he digests this information. You figured that would explain everything but Santino still looks furious, restless.

“He left you—just like that,” he states and bitter sort of iciness lingers in his soft words. “To have his fairytale life. Forgive me, cara mia, if I am not jumping at the opportunity to send him a celebratory bouquet of flowers.”

You peer at him over your glass for a long time, risking an equally soft, “Won’t you do the same?”

For me.

His eyes flash, his jaw clenching as his long fingers curl into loose fists. His Camorra ring gleams. A mark of who he is. Of what he might be one day.

“I would do anything. Anything at all.”

You believe him. Curse your silly, foolish, too-hopeful human heart but you do.

(it’s you, it’s you, it’s you—)

“Do you still—” his voice cracks.

But you know what he wants. Understand without him having to voice it what he cares to know.

“There will always be love between us,” you tell him, frank and direct, so he understands that John will always be a part of you. “But…no. Not that kind of love. Not anymore. He’s happy and I’m happy for him.”

It’s true.

You’ve spent months convincing yourself of that truth. A truth that has been a part of you for a long time now without you even realising it.

But it feels good. Good to say it and mean it.

A lightness shines bright and fierce in your chest and you feel a sense of freedom in that confession—in the acceptance of it.

Santino knows you mean it too.

Because you don’t think you have ever seen him look quite so happy.

…

The penthouse apartment is as magnificent, as him, as you expected it to be.

This is your first time inside his space. He’s invited you before—many times—but you have always refused him.

You’ve been missing out. The view is breathtaking.

He’s been staring at you for at least ten minutes now, not saying a word.

Loosening your crossed arms, you turn away from the view and move your eyes in his direction. He sits sprawled on the sofa, legs crossed loosely, a glass of wine in hand as he scrutinises you.

“What is it?” you wonder, curious and open.

He licks his lips and swallows heavily—both actions seem to give him trouble. “Just admiring the sight of you in my home.”

“And do you imagine me inside your home often?” you can’t help but tease with a slight grin.

He lowers his glass, stands, turns in your direction, and you distantly wonder if you made a mistake prompting him like this.  

He cuts across the room smoothly, easily, and comes to stand right in front of you.

This is another reason why you have never accepted his offers in the past.

This is intimate, this is dangerous, and the air between you is suffocating already. Neither of you has said a word or even touched the other but your soulmate words tingle and ache. That tug that always wants him closer, demands his touch, his mouth—

Your head turns but he grips your chin between his fingers, tilting your face back towards him.

“Every day,” he admits shamelessly while his hungry eyes journey over the planes of your face. “I see you everywhere. And if I don’t see you, then I feel you,” he whispers and leans closer, the sweet tang of wine still on his breath. “Tell me, (Name), do you ever touch your words and imagine it’s me as I do?”

Your heartbeat spikes at the use of your real name. It’s always ‘cara mia’ this and ‘bella’ that.

“If you want to know where they are,” you breathe and lean into his touch for a moment before gripping his hand and guiding it away from your face. “Then you only need to ask nicely.”

Something wild burns between you at your open challenge.

Suppressing a smirk, you guide those long, slender fingers lower and lower.

His breaths grow shallow when his fingertips ghost over the curve of your breast.

“Just a bit lower,” you promise; a teasing, hushed thing that only strains his self-control further.

You still your hand just beneath your left breast, and use your fingers to move his index finger across the curve of the words beneath your dress.

He lets out a sharp hiss of air and flattens his fingers across the space. You wonder if even with the material of the dress separating him from your skin, he can feel them. You certainly can.

It’s a whirlwind of longing and desire and need—

“It is…not a bad place…for my words,” he admits with great difficulty, his words a wrecked mess that only makes you grin wider. “Would you like to know where your words are, hm?”

(yes. yes. yes.)

You only dip your head in a nod.

He takes your hand and moves it down.

And down.

For a moment you think he’s going to place your hand right against his groin but he doesn’t.

His hand stops on the lowest dip of his inner thigh and he traces your fingers up and over his hip bone. His hand stills, your fingers still interlocked and you hum.

“It is not a bad place for my words.”

Prompt and simple.

Your eyes lift to his.

And you can pinpoint the exact moment the last of his self-control shreds itself into nothing.

You meet him halfway when he leans down and devours your mouth with his.

…

He takes his time with your soulmate words.

Or his words.

Santino traces them with his fingertips, over and over again; featherlight and delicate. Then worships them with his lips and teeth and tongue. Less gentle and more hungry, pleased, content.

There is such light in his eyes as he learns and explores. Traces and kisses and claims.

“That tickles,” you mumble sleepily, pressing your cheek deeper into the silk pillow. “I might kick you.”

He chuckles breathlessly, and when his head lifts from the expanse of your bare stomach, he looks half-drunk on you but his grin is unguarded, genuine. It makes you hungry for him again. Makes you ache for him again.

He moves up slowly, hot mouth ghosting over your skin. Over the dips and curves and patches of skin that he takes time to linger on.

He lingers the longest on the elegant curve of his handwriting curling under your breast, then your collarbone and finally your mouth.

Santino leans into you when you touch his face. Your other hand sweeping over the mess that is his curls and he tuts.

“Who could have thought you would be so impatient, amore,” he teases, sounding smugger than you’ve ever heard him. “I am shocked that I still have hair at all.”

You spin a lazy curl between your fingers. “Then stop making those noises whenever I pull on your hair.”

His eyebrows arch and his thumb brushes over your parted lips. “Hm, what’s this? Are we comparing notes on who moaned louder? Oh, amore, I do believe I have you beat.”

You sit up at his tone and find that his self-satisfied smirk is far, far too attractive. Your hand trails away from his hair and down his face, neck, chest. Your nails track down gently, playfully, and the lean muscle ripples under your touch.

“Careful.”

You ignore his strained warning.

Your fingers scratch against the familiar words on his smooth, tanned skin and it’s hard to control that part of you that’s full of feminine satisfaction.

A compliment and a threat. You wonder if it says something about you both as people that your soulmate words are what they are.

Your fingers press against his burning skin—the touch gentle and needy and greedy all at once.

(mine, you found me, mine, you found me, mine—)

It’s not about possession but it is about belonging. About happiness and this wild, untameable man that has blown into your life.

He kisses the corner of your mouth. “Found you.”

You freeze as if struck by lightning.

“What did you say?”

His eyes find yours and he takes your face in his hands.

“When I dreamt of you,” he murmurs carefully in the centimetres separating you. “You always asked me to find you. Find me, you always pleaded. I tried. Oh, how I tried, cara mia. For years. But here you are. Finally, eh? Found you.”

Your eyes burn.

“Oh.”

He lowers your back onto the pillow and kisses you.

Over and over again until you forget the world outside.

Until you forget every hurt and every sadness.

Until you forget the taste of your own name.

Until—under his strong, burning touch—you are remade anew.

…

When you wake up, it’s to the sensation of him tracing the naked skin of your back.

“Ah, good morning, soulmate.”

A slow kiss against your spine. Then a lighter peck, higher. And another.

Your eyes crack open and your toes curl.

His mouth is stretched into that grin you now think is your favourite. A crooked, slightly devious thing that makes his eyes gleam in the morning light.

“Don’t look so smug,” you grouse tiredly. “Or I might have to kick you.”

“So violent.”

His grin widens as his eyes drag slowly over your still naked body, just barely covered by his silken sheets.

“Shower sex?”

You throw a pillow at his face.

And learn that he has a very nice laugh.

…

He doesn’t get his shower sex.

He pouts about it for two days straight.

…

“Perfezione.”

“Smooth.”

Deflection is easier than admitting how nice it feels to have him look at you like that.

Like you are something special and beautiful. Like he can’t bear to look away from you.

Your lips press against the vicious slash of Call me that again and I’ll slit your throat.

“Did it ever bother you?” you question mildly, a distant worry gnawing on your nerves. “That it was a threat?”

Your voice sounds meeker that you’ve heard in a while but you need to know.  

Santino sits up, and wraps his arm around your waist so he could pull you closer to him.

He’s like a furnace of heat and safety, and your body instinctively curls further in his hold.

“Never,” he admits easily. “I loved my words. From the first moment they appeared on my skin. Hm, I knew they belonged to someone strong, and smart, and beautiful. Someone who would no doubt drive me crazy,” he mumbles, now in Italian, against the curve of your jaw. “And you do.”

“And did I meet them? Your expectations?”

He kisses your neck leisurely, nibbles on your earlobe and your nails sink into his back, steadying yourself with a shallow sigh.

“Better,” he breathes hotly into your ear. “So much better.”

You try, and fail, to hide your smile from him.

…

“Is he…you know?” the woman in front of you wiggles her eyebrows. “Well?”

Your own eyebrows rise slowly. “Is he what?”

Helen grins knowingly. “C’mon. You know what they say about Italian lovers. Is he any good?”

Smothering a cough, you give her a flat look. “Is John any good?”

The brunette sitting in front of you goes pink and you don’t bother hiding your biting grin. There’s no viciousness in it though. You’re happy to visit your old partner and friend. Even happier to get to know Helen who—much to your surprise—is both brilliant and delightfully witty. You can understand why John loves her. You can understand why she’s his soulmate. They compliment each other beautifully.

There is that energy between them.

Energy so similar but also vastly different to one you and Santino share.

The smug bastard finally got his shower sex this morning, and had spent the entire day strutting around the apartment like Cheshire Cat.

Brilliant, insufferable bastard.

“John is…fine.”

You almost choke on your drink. “Fine? Ouch.”

Helen splutters, flustered. “I just mean he’s amazing but I don’t want to brag—”

Practically cackling, you bend over your drink, wiping at the tears gathering in your eyes. “Oh man,” you wheeze out. “Poor John. I mean…Santino is…adequate, then.”

Helen’s eyes gleam with mirth even if she cringes. “Uh-oh. Don’t let him hear that. I don’t think his male pride can take such a beating.”

Your fingernails scrape against the rim of your cup and you give her a secretive smile. “Oh, putting a dent in his ego is one of my favourite hobbies now, I assure you.”

Staring at each other for a second, you both lose it at the exact same time.

That’s when John decides to make himself known, his eyes going from you to Helen and then back again.

“Should I be worried?” he wonders quietly.

Helen looks at you and you towards her.

You both grin at the same time and devilish is the only way you can describe it.

“Most certainly,” Helen says sweetly to her husband.

The world’s best assassin has the good sense to look spooked.

…

“Retirements suits you.”

“Certainly helps with the wrinkles,” comes John’s wry reply and you crack a smile.

He lowers himself on the seat beside you. Helen is back in the apartment, chatting happily on the phone with her friend who rang only minutes earlier.

“She likes you, you know,” he says, though sounds cautious about it. “She looks forward to your visits every time.”

Your smile softens and you can just see a glimpse of the beautiful woman inside as she moves around the kitchen with her phone pressed to her ear.

“I like her too. She’s wonderful, John, really,” you tell him, and mean it. “And I’m very glad that you found each other. Name your firstborn after me, will you?”

John chuckles under his breath, but you see the way his eyes soften at the thought. “Duly noted.”

For a few minutes, you both sit in silence, soaking in each other’s quiet presence and the setting sun. Helen’s voice filters through the closed patio doors and you breathe deeply.

“I found him,” you confess to him quietly. “My soulmate.”

John’s head snaps in your direction. “You did?”

“Yeah. A while back. Even before Helen.”

That surprises him, you can tell. “Why didn’t you—”

Shooting a bland stare his way, you shrug, “You know why. And it was complicated. He’s not exactly someone I considered a fitting match at first.”

Curiosity burns in his dark eyes, but when you remain tight-lipped, he speaks, “Do I know him?”

Your laugh is sharp, almost shrill but you nod your head, venturing a look in his direction. “It’s Santino.”

John goes so still you fear he’s turned into a statue beside you. “Santino?” he echoes, at last. “Santino D’Antonio?”

You almost roll your eyes.

“Do you know many Santinos, John?”

A flutter of emotions flickers across his face but his lips remain a flat line, his eyes scrutinising you. And you know what he’s thinking, what’s going through his head. Santino’s reputation, all that he knows about him personally, the wild possibilities in regards to your future and Santino’s.

How dangerous and malicious he can be.

How ruthless and charismatic and manipulative.

But because John is John, he asks you only one question, “Does he make you happy?”

And you adore him so much at that moment. Even if it’s not love like it once was, you adore the fact that he understands and knows you better than anyone. Adore the fact that he doesn’t judge you or condemn you or think less of you. Doesn’t try to preach to you how it’s unwise to tie yourself to a man like Santino.

He’s just John with his patient dark eyes and silent strength. He is comfort and sanctuary and that’s never going to change. Not ever.

But his question remains.

Does Santino make you happy?

You think about it. Think about him and consider his flaws. Consider the fact that he hasn’t magically changed in the last few months. He’s still the Camorra heir. He’s still a sharpened blade. He’s still a cruel man. A ruthless businessman. He’s not good.

But neither are you.

The physical closeness is nice and fulfilling, but being with him is so much more. It’s the ease; the knowing that around him you can breathe and grow, that he will never smother you. That he trusts you and adores you and respects you. That when he touches you, he does so like he’s marvelling at every touch—like he’s lucky to do so, like he’s counting every instance your skin meets his, no matter how innocently. How he makes you laugh and fills your chest with a reluctant sort of fondness and affection. How he challenges and supports you. How stepping into his embrace feels like warmth and comfort and safety—more so than even John’s embrace ever did. 

“Yes,” you breathe faintly, your voice wobbly. “Yes. The happiest I’ve ever been.”

John smiles slightly and his fingers wrap around yours, squeezing once.

“Good.”

And that’s that.

The sun is almost set when Helen joins you on the balcony. She sits beside you, and you reach for her hand, too. She looks pleasantly surprised by the gesture but holds your hand like she can understand the need without a word.

“Thank you.”

Neither reply.

But they don’t need to.

…

“Join my family.”

Your heart skips a beat, or two.  

“What?”

He’s only just stepped through the door. He cut through the apartment the moment he caught sight of you and made a beeline straight for you.

The arms around your waist tighten, his hot breath tickling the sensitive skin of your neck.

“Join my family,” he repeats, breathless, his eyes raging when they find yours. “You are a part of me, as I am of you, cara mia. My father could never deny you joining. You belong with my family—you are my family.”

The quiet intensity of the last sentences shreds your heart. Makes blood in your ears roar.

“Santi—”

His gaze is imploring as he presses your foreheads together, his fingers gentle but firm against the side of your face.

“Be with me, (Name),” he whispers tightly. “I don’t care about rules or waiting. I just need you.”

Need, not want.

“But Tarasov…”

Tarasov who has been too busy building and reaping the benefits of the slaughter John has unleashed to get out. Tarasov who will never let you go now that John is gone. The High Table values soulmate bonds—it’s a part of their sacred rule set—but not enough to wipe your debt away.

Even if you want to—and you do, so very much—it’s not that simple. You’ve thought about it, haven’t you? What it would be like to belong to such a family? To be a part of something ancient and powerful. Feared.

Santino’s arms tighten around you—like he can keep you here and away from everything that exists outside the safety of this home—and you see the ruthlessness in him, then. More so than ever before.

“How many died during the Impossible Task, hm?” he poses sharply, shrewdly, and you know he’s already thought about this. Planned for this. “How many got buried by Tarasov’s order? Who is to stop anyone from retaliating?”

You suck in a breath, your gaze wide, searching. You know exactly what he’s saying.

Blood for blood.

His family’s words.

Tarasov took your family, took your freedom and now—

Now.

“You reckless, unbelievable—”

He kisses you.

“I can’t believe you—”

And again, except this time it’s hungrier, more intense.

He could kiss you a million more times and you would never grow bored of it.

(found you, found you, found you—)

Your heart beats with those words, and as if he can feel them too, his fingers settle over them.

“Yes,” you choke out, your eyes burning and chest tight from…happiness. “Yes, yes, yes.”

He kisses the tears that fall down your cheeks; careful and slow.

And maybe this can be love.

If it isn’t already.

…

Viggo and Iosef Tarasov die a week later.

You mourn by letting the world know exactly who you are.

The Vipress. The soulmate of Santino D’Antonio.  

Part of Camorra by oath and soul bond.

Willingly given.

You are your own master.  

Finally free of your chain.  

…

an: actually anon, soulmate!au is one of the few instances where everyone gets a happy ending. ahhh. sometimes we can have nice things :) writing V that’s not haunted by Tokyo was a damn joy, let me tell you. thank you so much for reading this. i did bare minimum editing so if this is riddled with mistakes rip me, i guess. 

[davidcxrenswet]

“ i can feel you staring at me . ”

It wasn’t the first time he’d been caught just staring at her, and in his defense it wasn’t like it was easy not to stare at her. Something about Mariana Diaz kind of just drew you in — You were forced to watch her as she just crossed a room. That pull was like a force of nature, something beyond Harvey’s control. A gravitational pull. She was the hot and molten core of his earth and he was just a pebble unable to push away from her. She wasn’t easy to ignore and Harvey just couldn’t help but gaze at her every chance he could. It wasn’t like it was a lewd stare — He wasn’t like the other boys in Barton Hollow. He’d made a promise, an internal pact, to never treat her like some object for his own personal pleasure. He would respect her as a woman, and furthermore a woman he cared deeply about. That meant being respectful and decent except in the few scenarios where it allowed for some coy, sensual flirtation. So yes, he did find himself unconsciously staring at her but it was only ever with a look of pure adoration. Most of the time he didn’t even realize he was doing it, not until she commented on it or looked directly back at him and questioned what he was looking at. It was just some unconscious reflex he couldn’t control. When there was a lull in whatever movie they were watching, or if he was reading a boring passage in a book, no matter what the situation Harvey would find his mind —and eye— wandering directly to Mariana, looking gorgeous and completely oblivious to the wonderment and awe in his warm gaze.

That very afternoon they were doing their usual “chill” post-school hang out. It started out with him picking her up from school with a coffee in hand and ended back in his bedroom, close in company while doing something separate. Mariana lounged back against the pillows on his queen sized bed wearing one of his old Lacrosse jerseys and not much else, idly flipping through a magazine while Harvey sat at the foot of the bed with his iPad and a dozen various google search tabs opened on safari. Research… for how to break centuries old blood pacts with demons. The usual stuff. They were mostly silent, not really interacting. Mariana occasionally stopped reading to pull out her phone and respond to messages, messages Harvey pretended to know nothing about. Every time she shifted, the collar of his shirt would move with her, sometimes sliding down over her shoulder so it peaked out from beneath the fabric, teasing him from where he sat at the foot of the bed. Another day he might have taken the moment to crawl over and divert her attention from her phone to his lips, to seize the opportunity and cuddle closer to her. Today was different. He wasn’t thinking about the way her body would feel pressed into his — he did his best not to dwell too hard on that anyway. He wasn’t really thinking much at all. He was going off some other instinct he couldn’t quite name, focusing on her and clearing his mind save for the weird way he was feeling at that moment. In his head it was her and only her, nothing else was really registering. It was almost like an out of body experience, he wasn't really aware of what he was doing or how he was moving. So when Mariana had spoken up, not even bothering to look away from her phone, he was caught completely off guard. How long had he been out of it?

“Oh… sorry, baby,” he’d said dumbly. The grin that followed was small but sheepish, barely enough to form shallow dimples in his cheeks. He almost turned his attention away from her, chastened by being caught observing her, but he didn’t. Instead Harvey just kept his gaze locked onto her, the sheepish grin changing into something softer and unknown as he just watched her some more. Evidently, Mariana knew he was still looking. Soon enough her eyes were on him, a questioning glance in the way she looked back at him. It would normally be enough to cause him to blush and look away, fumbling with his words for a second before recovering with some flirty little something to make the moment seem less awkward. He’d recover with a compliment on her beauty, which was always sincere given that even sitting there in one of his shirts she was still somehow the most gorgeous girl he’d ever seen. Or he’d make a joke about her “adorable resting bitch face” or inquire on what she was thinking because he was just burning with curiosity over what her microexpressions meant. Anything. He’d recover with just about anything… But today he was completely lost for words. “It’s just...”

He couldn’t quite describe what was going through his mind as he sat there looking at her; observing the lines of her face, counting the different shades of gold and green and brown that made up her hazel eyes, following the slope of her lips. Committing her face to memory though he’d already known it so well. It had almost felt like he was looking at it for the first time ever, really just looking at it. The more he stared at her, the more he felt this cloudy and heavy feeling inside his mind and chest, one that overwhelmed his every sense. He’d felt dizzy and light and dreamy and soft and nervous and excited all at once. It caused a laugh to bubble up his throat, a low vibrating chuckle that came from deep in his chest. The laugh didn’t quite catch either of them off guard… but the words that accompanied it did. He had no idea what he was about to blurt out, completely lost in that moment and the odd new feelings swirling within him that he had no idea what he was going to say. If he’d had any control in that moment, he’d have stopped it from coming out. This wasn’t how he wanted to present it, this wasn’t how he imagined it happening. And yet, nothing could stop the words from falling out with that soft laughter, low and gentle and yet very much loud enough for them both to hear.

“I love you.”

The moment he’d said those three small words, everything around him seemed to change. Whatever light and airy feeling had possessed him had suddenly lost its fight to gravity. He’d felt literally as if his body had been slammed back down to earth, much like coming down from a daydream. His own words gave him whiplash, left him winded and terrified of the response. His heart had gone from a slow and steady pace to galloping madly within his chest, and suddenly his throat was clenched with anxiety. All at once, the soft and sickly sweet, loving, grin that had formed on his lips had vanished as the inclination of his outburst settled between them. He’d not even given himself much of a chance to decipher her reaction. In the split second between realization and finally tearing his gaze away from her, Harvey could have sworn he saw Mariana’s face blanche in response. Whether it was true or a trick of his mind, that’s not the kind of reaction you hope for after such a reveal.

“That… that wasn’t… that’s not how I wanted to say that,” Harvey sputtered out, burying his face in his hands. He was on his knees at the foot of the bed, just a couple feet away from her and yet he felt miles away. Or perhaps he wished he was. He groaned against the rough skin of his palms before freeing himself from his hiding spot, angling a bright pink face in her direction though not meeting her eyes as he rambled on. “I had a whole thing planned out. I was going to take you somewhere nice, on a proper date, and - and I’ve been taking these Spanish classes, practicing my accent, and I wrote down a whole thing and I was going to surprise you with it, I swear and I-I,” he swallowed, his cheeks dusted in a crimson sheen. Harvey was flustered and embarrassed, shy and insecure. He’d wanted to create a romantic swoon worthy moment of the day he’d declare his feelings for her. Something she could look back on and remember fondly. Not like this. Not while wearing sweatpants and a v neck t-shirt with a light mustard stain on it he had yet to notice. He wanted to give her something she could always look back on with no regrets. But it was too late. He’d said it and he couldn’t take it back.

“What’s it matter anyway? If it was in English or Spanish or at some fancy special place?” He’d finally said. Slowly he crawled towards her, closing the space between them. He’d finally looked at her again and he wasn’t entirely sure what her expression meant. Or maybe he just refused to acknowledge what was plain across her face. “You had to have known how deeply I’ve come to feel for you. I’ve never been good at hiding my feelings, at least not from you. But if it isn’t obvious…. I’m crazy about you. I cherish you and adore you, and I... I feel like I can truly be myself around you. I mean look at us — we’ve been sitting here quietly for hours, barely talking and yet… I feel so happy and comfortable just being near you. You.. you mean the world to me. You came to me during what felt like the darkest time of my life, from something I never imagined I could survive from, and you helped me see that my life isn’t over. Just by giving me something new to be excited about. You make me feel alive. And I… I don’t know, I just…” His breath stuttered around his words, his hands moving up to cup either side of her face. He searched her gaze momentarily, hoping she’d stop his mad rambling with a kiss and a return of the feelings. Something. But she didn’t. Maybe she was in shock. Was this the first time a boy clumsily revealed his heart to her? He didn’t think so… but maybe this was the first time a boyfriend did. Wasn’t he the first?

Thumbs sliding over her cheek bones, he clenched his jaw for a second before giving her that special dimpled grin that seemed to be reserved for her. That special smile which initially disappeared in the Devil’s Cavern all those months ago with his friends until the fateful day a cute blonde came jogging down his lane and ushered them back into his life. Now his every smile belonged to her and her only. “Te amo, Mariana,” Harvey tested the phrase with a voice that was soft but full of conviction. It was a phrase he’d worked on for weeks, which he’d quietly rehearsed to the mirror or deep in the night when she was fast asleep in the crook of his arms and the only audience he had was the moon peeking through the mountains outside. He’d said it many times to her when she wasn’t able to hear, and yet it felt so exhilarating and new saying it now directly to her face. Now she knew, she knew the extent of his heart and how it yearned for her. He couldn’t take it back, it was already being laid on a silver platter and offered to her for the taking. He could only hope she’d accept what he was giving… And maybe return the sentiment. Oh how he hoped she’s come to feel the same for him. As he tilted her face back so he could see clearly into her eyes, he swallowed down his nerves as he added, “Please tell me I said that right and I didn’t just tell you to, like, fuck off or something. And please… Please tell me you feel the same.”

@karolinadeanwrites

[starry-knight-skies]

Continuing from this little snippet about Virgil being bullied All these obsessed Logan oneshots about this universe is parts of a bigger story I plan on working on Warnings for blood and character death Pairings: Analogical and one-sided Logicality Word count: 1342

Logan had promised that he would have dropped the issue about who had dared to punch Virgil in the face, but the longer he went without knowing who it was, the more it drove him crazy. So while he would pretend like he wasn’t going to pursue the issue, he did a little digging until he found the information he needed. It was almost laughably easy to get, a few probing questions to Patton, a gentle tone and a carefully placed hand on his shoulder had the boy spilling the whole situation. 

A flattering compliment had Patton giving him the address of the assailant, and Logan had to marvel at how much a petty thing like having a crush could cloud one’s judgement like that. He was, of course, above all that, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t use Patton’s feelings for him when the need arises. He idly wondered how else he could use this kind of power in the future, letting his thoughts wander as he made his way down the street.

The address he was given brought him to a rather run down part of town, several houses with boarded up windows. He couldn’t be sure, but he was almost certain that he passed at least two drug dealers tucked into the back alleys. He kept his head down, not wanting to cause any problems. Dying on a filthy street like one of these isn’t in his plans for tonight.

It was easy to find the right house, and a peek through the windows showed that his target was home alone. He hummed thoughtfully, testing the give on the windows and finding one that was easy to open in the back. There was a high fence blocking the view from the neighbors, so he didn’t have to worry about anyone seeing. 

Getting into the house was easy, and he carefully slid the window shut behind him to help muffle any noise. The television was on in the other room and he silently made his way over, anticipation twisting in his stomach. He wasn’t going to screw this up this time. The last time he tried to get rid of an obstacle, all that ended with was Roman in a coma. It was no problem though, if he ever did wake up, Logan would have to take care of him then. All that mistake taught him was that poison wasn’t quite as effective as he would have liked, so he would have to resort to other means.

Logan paused in the doorway to the living room, gaze flickering to the football game playing on the television idly before looking over towards the figure on the couch. Dorian Richards. Known asshole and bully who always seemed to worm his way out of any sort of consequence. Someone who’s been picking on and bullying Virgil for the last ten years. He would be thrilled to do this even if the prick hadn’t laid a hand on his beloved. “Knock knock.” He tapped on the wall loudly, taking pleasure in the way the other jumped.

“The hell?!” Dorian jumped up, spinning around to glare at him. “What the fuck are you doing in my house?” He seemed surprised, a little tense, but otherwise didn’t seem to be on the defensive, which suited Logan nicely.

“Sorry for coming in through the window. Horrible etiquette, I know.” Logan gave a casual shrug, keeping himself appearing aloof. “I just knew you wouldn’t let me in if I came to the door, so I had to take measures to ensure you would listen to what I had to say.”

Dorian scoffed, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms. “Why should I care about anything you have to say?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. 

“You’re right, you shouldn’t care about what I have to say.” The corner of Logan’s mouth tugged up and he took a step forward. “We both know you won’t listen anyway, so it would just be a waste of time trying to talk to you.”

Dorian frowned, unconsciously taking a step back. “Then why...”

“See! Here’s the thing!” Logan cut him off, taking another step forward. “I was going to tell you off and warn you about hurting Virgil, but your obsession with him has been going on for far too long.”

“Obsession?” Dorian scoffed, rolling his eyes. “As if I’d be obsessed with that tiny little fucker. The only one here with an obsession here is you. It’s clear as day to everyone! You trying to intimidate others in his name isn’t going to make him fall in love with you. It’s clear that he’s just tolerating being around you.”

Logan clenched his jaw, feeling a muscle tense. Any apprehension he had about what he had planned vanished at that, and he pushed down the anger those words provoked. “Which is why I decided that because words won’t work, you require a more.... permanent solution, to your little issue with him.” He reached back behind him, gloved fingers curling around the handle of the gun he picked up off a homeless man on the way over here. He pulled it up and aiming it at Dorian, taking pleasure in the way his eyes widened and his face went white.

“Hey man! Let’s just calm down here!” He didn’t know if the gun was real or not, but he really didn’t want to risk it. His eyes flickered over to where his phone was sitting on the windowsill, plugged into the charger in the wall. Maybe he could lunge and call the police if this escalates any further?

“Don’t even think about it.” Logan stepped further into the room, aim steady as he stepped between Dorian and his phone. “See, I could have just shot you in the back of the head, you didn’t even know I was in your house. But! I wanted you to realize what was happening, understand that what’s about to happen is because of your actions.” He took another step forward, taking enjoyment as Dorian stumbled back. “People like you don’t change and the world is better off without you in it. I’m doing the world a favor.”

He didn’t hesitate to pull the trigger, once, twice, three times, Dorian’s body falling back with a satisfying thump. He grimaced slightly at the blood that splattered on his body, but it would be easy enough to wash off. He tossed the gun to the side, giving the body one last pitying look before leaving the house the way he came. Once he was several streets over, he slowed in an alley and pulled the gloves off his hands, shoving them into his pocket and pulling out his phone. Something Dorian said did bother him and he wanted, needed to do something about it.

[Me] Hey V [Me] I’ve been thinking...

[Virge <3] Always a dangerous thing :p

[Me] I’m being serious here [Me] Would you perhaps wanted to get dinner with me tonight

[Virge <3] We get dinner all the time [Virge <3] What’s different about this time?

[Me] Well, I was hoping this could maybe be like a date? [Me] If you want of course!

Logan watched Virgil start and stop replying, over and over, a feeling of dread twisting in his stomach. Had he just ruined everything between them?

[Virge <3] Yeah...  [Virge <3] Yeah, okay. That sounds nice

Relief twisted immediately in his stomach and Logan’s knees felt weak. He leaned back against the brick wall beside him, needing a moment to ground himself.

[Me] Good! I’ll come pick you up in an hour?

[Virge <3] Sounds good. See you then

Logan grinned, heart thumping pleasantly in his chest. Dorian clearly didn’t know what he was talking about, he really shouldn’t have let his words get to him like that. But if it ended up like this... He slipped his phone back into his pocket, straightening up and starting towards his house. He had a date to get ready for and it was going to be perfect.

---- Tag list: @emeraldmelody @alexander546g @samuel-the-gay @nerdycupcake559 @escalatingtoofast @fanatic-kay @fanderrawr @kaykayblogs

[skvaderarts]

Chapter Eleven: Rumination

You can check out the Masterlist Here for more links to places to read!

Note: As per usual, I want to extend a warm thank you to Aureux, HunterJamie, BeansWithBones, RubixaSeraph, Random Reader Nothing Special, and He Who Wanters for their wonderful comments. I smiled like an idiot when I was reading your feedback. In fact, I wasn’t originally planning on writing out this part of the story, but I was so happy that I did. This intermission dinner chapter is for you guys! Enjoy it before things… change a bit. Thank you once again for your continued support. Means the world to me!

-~-

A bay window that spanned the entire outward-facing wall that overlooked the street below was all that separated the cozy dining room from the raging torrent of stormwater just outside the stone rowhouse. As the windows whipped and churned outside, the interior remained dry, even as the window rattled slightly in an earnest effort to not open in response to the prodding storm that it held at bay. The well-built structure served its purpose gallantly, those that dwelled within its walls not needing to worry if their home was going to come crashing down on top of them at any moment. And considering the fact that it was now time for dinner, that was a welcome relief.

In the center of the room sat an oblong table with seven chairs around it. Although generously sized, the eating space had originally been designed with six people in mind. This was clearly illustrated by the presence of the seventh chair at the table. Although it matched relatively well (I mean, what doesn’t match a white table?) The seat clearly originated from an alternate source; the custom stitched patchwork cushions in each seat being the only thing that tied everything together. And it was all very charming in a rather arts and crafts farmhouse sort of way.  

Various eating apparatuses were carefully positioned around the table, the placements having been set by the children while Kyrie was busy importing food front the kitchen into the eating space. As a result, several things on the table were crooked, but no one honestly minded. The little ones had tried their best, and that was all that really mattered at the end of the day.

While Kyle, Carlo, and Julio clambered into their seats, their adoptive mother opened the curtains to allow what meager light there was outside to shine into the room. While the space was not claustrophobic, at this given moment in time, it was a bit crowded. Four adults and three young children made for quite the dining experience, especially when everyone present was so vastly different than everyone else. Or, at least they were at first glance. It was true that their personalities were quite different, but they were all united by common goals and the care that they showed for one another. Even when that care was thrown for a loop as the children bickered with one another, causing a bit of a ruckus before Kyrie shushed them gently. They had a guest, after all. This was no time to be rowdy. 

“Now now,” She said with a happy but stern tone,” were at the table. No fighting.”

Just as Kyrie was in the process of setting down the ceramic bowls she had ladled hot soup into, Nero emerged from the living room with V in tow. A moment later, Nico joined them. She came down from the second floor of the house and slipped into the dining room, eager to experience whatever culinary delights Kyrie had prepared for them today. To say that she was a wonderful cook would be an understatement, and Nico was not a picky eater. She would eat just about anything that the brunette woman put in a plate in front of her, as long as she had cooked it.

Nico sat down between the two oldest boys, prepared to pester them senseless if the need should arise. V, almost predictably, sat nearest to the corner of the room, his back facing the doorway as if he were poised to take flight should the need arise. This entire situation was entirely foreign to him. In his entire life, he had never been invited to or subsequently experienced a family dinner. That was most certainly due to the fact that he hadn’t any family to speak of until now. In the blink of an eye, he had died, returned from the brink of damnation, and then awakened as if it were all an unpleasant dream, only to find out that he had quite the extended family. It was all a bit much to take in all at once, but he was trying. As much as he hated to admit it to himself, he longed for Griffon’s familiar -if not antagonizing-  voice within the confines of his mind. He had grown used to the wisecracking bird’s little jabs and jests, as they had always provided ample entertainment and distraction from the concept of actually having to socialize with those around him. As much as he wanted to get to know everyone, his social battery was rapidly depleting and he would be remiss to not acknowledge that being alone in his new room was a tempting venture.

In his current state, he felt very exposed and vulnerable, and that was not a sensation that he generally enjoyed. V couldn’t pinpoint what it was but, in a way, he felt like he was missing something. Yes, obviously he was missing much at the moment. Namely his loyal summons and their accompanying tattoos, but this was born of something more than that. When his mind wandered, his hands normally stopped that from occurring by turning his attention to something else entirely. But that something had been misplaced, and V was just now realizing what it was that was amiss. As he combed over the remnants of his still marginally fragmented memory, it occurred to him that he hadn’t the slightest idea where his beloved book had gone. Or his cane for the matter. While he didn’t require it to walk, it most certainly made him feel more secure in his person, as it reduced the risk of him falling flat on his face and breaking every bone in his body, or something else equally tragic and dramatic. And his book served a similar purpose, only for his mind instead of his body. He desperately craved a distraction despite not having a clear reason to need one.

As his subconscious drifted into idly thought, he was suddenly made aware of his surroundings again when a small hand tugged on him. He snapped out of his delirium only to find that Carlo had clambered into the seat beside him. While Nero, Nico, and Kyrie were engaged in some sort of conversation with one another about the dinner that he had yet to taste, the small child had seen fit to take his bowl of soup and relocate. No one seemed to notice except for V, as their current conversation proved a formidable distraction.

The young child smiled shyly at him before reaching for the nearest spoon with the intention of eating his soup. V felt a wave of silent panic hit him as the thought of the young child tipping the bowl by mistake and scalding himself crossed his mind. He was on the taller side for a child his age, but not quite at the height required to reach the table safely. V held his hands out and gently stopped the child, garnering a curious look from him as he scooped him up and sat him down next to the table. V then took the cushion out from underneath himself and sat it on top of the existing one in the child’s chair before ushering for him to climb back up. After noticing the child’s hesitation, it occurred to him that he might not be able to do so, so he lifted him up under the arms and plopped him back down into his again.

Carlo smiled and then turned back to his soup, ready and eager to finally eat his dinner. V internally sighed, unnaturally relieved that the sweet child before him hadn’t managed to harm himself. While the liquid wasn’t hot enough to do any notable harm to an adult, it was to a child his age, and he felt compelled to prevent that. V then turned his attention to his own bowl of soup and somewhat hesitantly ate a spoonful himself. Admittedly, he hadn’t been that hungry before now, which was uncommon for him. But now that he had tried it, he was beginning to warm up to the concept. There were descriptor words that he could use to describe how good this soup was, but he had made the decision a lifetime ago to only use those specific words under special circumstances. This wasn’t quite what he had in mind when he had set those restrictions. Regardless, this soup was delicious.

After eating several spoons of the soup, it occurred to V that he hadn’t thanked Kyrie for dinner. He glanced up from his bowl and was slightly startled when he noticed that Nico and Nero were both staring at him like he’d grown a second head while Kyrie giggled happily. V mentally kicked himself. Why was his spatial awareness and concentration so bad today? Sure, he had plenty of reasons to not be feeling quite himself, but this still. Concentrating wasn’t something he had ever had an issue with. This was... unsettling.

V stared back at them, his eyebrow raised. What had he done this time? See this, this was why V was bad at small talk. The eye contact made his skin crawl, even when it came from people he actually liked. He could physically feel himself recoil in discomfort the longer they looked at him like this. After a moment he glanced back down at the bowl and continued eating. “... This is delicious. Thank you.”

If it was possible for a smile to physically render a person blind, then Kyrie succeeded. V stared at her and in surprise as she smiled, practically radiating actual light from her happiness. “Oh, thank you! I’m glad you like it! I noticed the weather, so I thought this would be a perfect time to make soup. And then you Nero brought you home and you seemed sick, so my mind was made up!”

Nico smirked and folded her arms as she gestured towards him. “I didn’t think you even ate food, V! Wow, it’s weird seeing you do… normal stuff, ya know?”

Nero nodded in agreement. Obviously, V ate food. He was a living, breathing being. But there was just something so oddly unnatural about having him over to eat with them. V was too mysterious and subtle to bother with petty normal people things like eating over with family. Or so Nero had figured for some reason that he couldn’t pinpoint. He didn’t really know what to say about it. In a way, he had been so wrapped in mystery and suspicion when they had first met that nothing he did or didn’t do didn’t seem unnatural or suspicious, but now he knew him much better than he had before. And yet somehow this was still just so surreal to him.

V shrugged as he finished eating his food, unsure of what to really say to that. “I would imagine that’s because I’m not exactly normal.” 

That all too familiar smirk returned as he put down the empty bowl, not at all noticing that he was the first person to finish eating by a longshot. He hadn’t exactly eaten the food quickly so much as he had simply not stopped eating it for even a moment from the second he tasted it. Part of him wanted to ask for more of it, but he decided against it. He had felt quite queasy earlier that day. It was best not to push it for now. He would sleep on this and see how he felt tomorrow.

Nero shook his head before going back to his food. “You got that right, V.”

-~-

When Kyrie had asked Nico to throw the clothes in the laundry while she put the kids to be, she didn’t hesitate. It was a better idea than allowing her to try and get them to calm down and actually go to bed. A much better idea. The last time that she had tried to do that, they had been up until three in the morning, and she had fallen asleep only to wake up the next morning to a catastrophic mess in the kitchen. No one wanted that.

Nero had volunteered to do the dishes in an act that had led to no small amount of friendly teasing from Nico before they had all gone their separate ways. And in an act that actually took every adult at the table by surprise, V volunteered to help him. Kyrie had insisted that he didn’t need to help since he was a guest, but he had politely insisted, partially from an incessant need to feel less useless, and because he had literally nothing better to do. And that was how they had ended up alone in the kitchen.

As Nero finished washing one of the dishes, he passed it to V who then dried it and placed it effortlessly in the overhead cabinet. Nero shrugged as if to ask his brother a question, testing the limits of how far he could push V in regards to jokes. 

“So what the hell,” He said as he handed him another cup. He accepted it nonchalantly as he leaned against the counter,” Have you always been this freakishly tall?”

V scoffed at the comment, idly drying the plastic drinking cup,” Absolutely. Walking with a cane simply makes that less apparent.”

Nero nodded. That made sense. “Then… why didn’t you just get a longer cane?”

V seemed to consider the question for a moment. Or rather, he debated if he should go into that right now. “I… wasn’t afforded the opportunity to pick in the situation I was in. I needed to act fast, or I wouldn’t have lived long enough to think about it later.”

An eyebrow went up at the answer. What the hell was he going on about? Had he been under attack? Nero knew just by the way that he answered that question that he wasn’t going to elaborate any further, at least not right now. But he still couldn’t help but wonder what he was referring to. His life before they had met seemed to be just as chaotic as ever. Would he ever tell him about where he came from? One thing at a time.

He gestured towards Nero’s arm almost lazily.” So, how did your arm grow back?” There was genuine curiosity in his tone, masked under a thick layer of sarcasm. He asked the question so bluntly that it nearly gave Nero whiplash. He stopped washing the dishes for a moment and gave V a sideways look. He didn’t sound like he didn’t care so much as he sounded totally unimpressed, almost like he already had an idea what had happened. Nero briefly considered showing him his Devil Trigger instead of just telling him about it and then came to his senses. If he triggered in the kitchen, he'd probably break everything in here. That, and he’d probably give V a protracted stroke, and he already had enough problems right now.

“I got some new powers and they just kinda fixed it. It’s complicated. I don’t know how to make it make sense,” Nero shrugged, unsure of how to really explain what happened. He wasn’t honestly one hundred percent sure himself. Just grateful.” It works like a normal arm and everything, but Nico modified the Devilbreakers so I can still use them. It’s pretty sweet.”

V nodded to himself, taking in what Nero had just told him. “So it didn’t grow back so much as it replaced itself, then.”

Nero paused for a moment to hand him the last dish before nodding to himself. “Yea, basically,” Nero turned the tap off and wiped his hands on the dish towel,” Why, you planning to cut something off and taking notes? I don’t recommend it. It’s fucking painful.”

He dried the dish and placed it in the cabinet, pausing for a moment. V gave Nero a subtle yet sympathetic look, nodding slowly. “Yes… I imagine that it did,” he reached over his head and closed the cabinet door,” And no, I don’t plan on losing any parts of my body. Dying again isn’t on my agenda as of yet.”

Nero stared at him for a moment in disbelief at the deadpan way he had just said that before bursting out into genuine laughter. Seriously, what the absolute fuck was wrong with him. He leaned on the counter for support for a moment as he tried to stop laughing, slightly lightheaded. V let slip a brief snicker before going totally silent again, trying not to let Nero’s stupidity get to him. When Nero finally stopped laughing, he shook his head and just rolled his eyes. “

“You’re the darkest asshole I’ve ever met in my entire life, you know that right,” Nero folded his arms and shook his head, suppressing a final laugh,” I and saw you fucking laugh.”

V shook his head once, his serious facial expression remaining. “No, I didn’t. I don’t laugh.”

Nero rolled his eyes again. Uh-huh. I’m sure.”

V scoffed, smirking wickedly. “That wasn’t a laugh. You’d be able to tell the difference.”

Nero turned in the direction of the doorway, en route to the stairs. “Whatever, V. Just-” Nero stopped for a moment, something occurring to him for the first time since they’d first met,” Actually what the fuck is your name anyway?”

He folded his arm, blinking a few times quickly. The totally calm look that he had on his face never wavered. V figured he’d ask that at some point, but it still didn’t change his answer. At least for right now. “No. Go to bed.”

Nero just looked at him for a second before. He had never thought that V actually had a sense of humor until now. Well, at least more of one than Vergil had. That wasn’t a very high bar to meet. Nero practically shuttered at the thought of Vergil ever trying to tell a joke. No, Dante had inherited all the funny genes. He utterly refused to believe that Vergil could be funny. And he never wanted to hear him laugh. EVER. He had just developed a phobia he didn’t even know existed.

As Nero took a step towards the bottom stair, he glanced back at V. For a moment the gravity of everything that had happened in the last two days hit him all at once and he couldn’t help but feel slightly emotional. He liked V. He didn’t know if he would ever tell him that straight to his face, but he did. And he was glad that he was back. Maybe they could start over. After he’d lost Credo, he didn’t think he had it in him to be close to anyone like that again. Not with that kind of relationship. But he was a different person now, so he could only hope, even if hope was a dangerous and foolish thing.

“... I’ll see you in the morning, V.”

V smirked, quietly pleased with himself. He turned towards the guest room, glancing back at him as he headed down the hall. “Yes,” he stopped for a moment, turning back to face him,”... Goodnight, Nero.

-~-

Finally, some wholesome family time for V! It only took his entire life, but here we are! As always, thank you guys for reading! The next chapter will be out on Friday, June 5th between Noon and 6 pm, depending on what’s going on. And also, how do you feel about these slower chapters. Obviously, we’re working towards something with some ACTION, but I hope I’m not boring you with the pacing. Let me know! And thanks for the kudos, everyone! Yes, you too, anons! This is the most read fic I’ve ever written. Amazing. Just wow. I couldn’t be happier!

P.S.I don’t know if I’ve ever mentioned this, but I made a website just for reading my fics. It’s free if you want to check it out. I hope you like it. I made sure everything was really easy to navigate. Here’s the link: https://skvaderarts.wixsite.com/skvaderarts

[roman-writing]

two, across (3/?)

Fandom: Fire Emblem Three Houses

Pairing: Hilda Valentine Goneril / Lysithea von Ordelia

Rating: T

Wordcount: 6,415

Summary: Lysithea can barely keep afloat under the workload of giving undergrad lectures and finishing off her PhD thesis. Meanwhile Dr. Hilda V. Goneril is somehow both the laziest person as well as the most successful young professor she has ever known. It’s absolutely aggravating.

Read it here on AO3 or read it below the cut

Lysithea forgets to bring her mug back. She had even seen it at Hilda’s that morning, hidden behind a stack of cups and sauce pans, when she had gone hunting for where Hilda kept her plates. The urge to tidy everything in the cupboards into an orderly fashion had been so strong, that Lysithea had instead channeled her energy into trying to figure out the logic behind where Hilda kept everything in her kitchen. And by that point, she had completely forgotten about grabbing her mug and bringing it home with her. 

So it is that at two in the afternoon, Lysithea arrives back at her own apartment, because Hilda had engaged her in lively conversation about new reference material she could use in her thesis, which made Lysithea miss two trains. By the time she fishes the keys from her bag, it has begun to rain. The sky above is a cloudbank of iron grey. Lysithea rushes to stick the key into the lock and get the door open. 

The apartment inside is partially obscured by shadow. It's messy, but it's a far cry from Hilda's apartment. And Lysithea is comforted by the fact that none of this is her own mess. Indeed, it would have looked a great deal messier had it also included the usual football gear heaped into the entryway corner, but Raphael is out at practice on Sundays until five.

At the sound of Lysithea shutting the door behind her, Marianne drifts into the living room from the kitchen. She is holding a cup of something warm, and wearing her faded blue scrubs. "Oh, Lysithea. I was wondering what had happened to you."

"Sorry," Lysithea toes off her shoes and lines them up neatly on the rack by the door. Numerous other pairs are propped against the wire shoe rack as well, belonging to the various flatmates she shares the apartment with. "I spent the night at a friend's house."

Marianne leans against the kitchen doorway, looking as though she is on the verge of falling asleep where she stands. It’s her perennial state of being, as far as Lysithea can tell. A product of her ungodly work hours as a resident at the local hospital. “Is Edelgard in town?” 

“No,” Lysithea slips her bag off her shoulder as an excuse to not meet Marianne’s questioning gaze. “It’s - It’s a different friend. Her name is Hilda.” 

“Oh,” Marianne says. “Okay.”

“It isn’t like that. She’s a colleague at the university. We’re not - We’re not dating or anything.”

Marianne blinks, slow and languid. “I never said that. I’m just glad you’re alright. You usually tell one of us when you’re not going to come home. That’s all.”

Lysithea’s stomach sinks. “Sorry.”

“That’s alright.”

“I’ll be sure to text you next time.” 

The words pop out before Lysithea can even comprehend that she has thought them. She had not intended for there to be a next time at all, but clearly that is not the case. 

Marianne doesn’t seem to notice Lysithea’s moment of aporetic self-reflection. “Okay. Do you want some cocoa? I made a bit extra here, thinking Ignatz was still around but he’s gone to the studio for the afternoon.” 

“Thanks. Cocoa sounds great.”

--

Hilda sends her the notes on the latest thesis draft the next week, and Lysithea returns the favour with her own laborious notes on Hilda’s article. Whereas her notes are typed and colour-coded, Hilda's are scrawled across margins with whole sections circled and arrows pointed to other pages.

It's early morning before Hilda's first class. The two of them are crowded over the newspaper. They sit so closely that their knees are pressed together, and Lysithea can feel the jitter of Hilda’s foot against her ankle. It had stopped bothering her ages ago. She doesn’t even notice it now.  

Lysithea points to a section of her thesis that Hilda has scrawled across, trying to decipher the notes there. "What's this one here say?" 

"AMATEUR," Hilda says.

Lysithea jerks her head up. "What?"

"Fifteen down. It's 'AMATEUR'." Hilda pens in the answer to the crossword.

Relief sweeps through Lysithea, and her shoulders relax. "Oh, that."

When Hilda has finished writing in the word, she sets the pen down and leans closer to look over Lysithea's shoulder. She reads her own notes, then points to the arrow in question. "This means you should move this whole section to the beginning of the chapter. You have a bad habit of waiting to tell the reader the point. Probably because you like the drama of the big reveal."

"I do not!"

"Listen. I'm into it. Like, a lot."

Lysithea can feel her cheeks warm, and then Hilda continues.

"But -" Hilda taps the circled section with her finger. "You gotta tell the audience this stuff way earlier. It's the right wording. You've just put it in the wrong place. Rearrange some stuff where I've indicated, and it'll flow way better. Trust me."

Lysithea deflates. "Thanks."

Hilda taps the underside of Lysithea's chin. "Hey, now. Chin up! You just know so much about this topic you forget that the audience isn't clued in yet. You're going to smash this last draft out of the park."

"Mmm," Lysithea says, unconvinced.

"Thesis notes away," Hilda scolds, prising the pages from Lysithea's grasp and setting them aside. 

"But -!"

"Do the crossword with me." Hilda replaces the pages with the pen she had been wielding earlier, pressing Lysithea's fingers around it. "It will make you feel better. And if you don't do it, I know you'll have a bad day. So, c'mon."

With a huff of irritation at the fact that Hilda is right -- for nothing is so aggravating as Hilda being smug in her knowledge of anything -- Lysithea takes the pen and sets herself to task on the crossword. 

"FASCINATOR," she writes in the word for fourteen across.

"Nice one! That's what I'm talking about!" Hilda bumps their shoulders together. 

They are still wearing their coats. Outside, autumn has well and truly settled in, and the air is crisp as a good apple. Hilda has begun to dress in stylish black peacoats with gold buttons and pink scarves, while Lysithea stashes extra hand warming packets into her bag in anticipation for the coming winter. 

As they steadily work their way through the crossword, Hilda's phone alarm begins to beep at her. Groaning in dismay, Hilda turns it off. 

“This sucks,” Hilda leans her elbows on the table and props her chin in her hands. “I have to stay after hours today, too. They have a big assignment due at the end of the week, and I told them I’d be in my office this afternoon to answer any last minute questions. Who actually takes up professors like me on office hours?” 

There’s a pause while they both think about the answer to that question, and then in unison they say, “Flayn.” 

“She is my best student, though,” Lysithea adds.

Hilda is running her hands down her face. “I know. I know. And I like the little runt, but she asks way too many questions, and I just want to go home.”

“How many grandmothers have you killed this term?” Lysithea asks idly. She taps her ballpoint against the newspaper margin and chews on her lower lip until the answer for fifteen across comes to her. 

“So so many. I am the bane of octogenarians everywhere. I haunt rest homes.” Hilda angles herself so that she’s facing Lysithea instead of the desk. “Wanna bet I’ve killed more than you?” 

At that, Lysithea glances up from the crossword. “What are the stakes?”

A triumphant grin has already spread across Hilda’s face. “Loser takes the winner out to dinner next Friday.” 

“Deal. How many of your students have claimed a grandparent died this term?” 

“Four,” Hilda announces, as though she’s won.

Lysithea smiles. “Five.” 

Hilda’s face falls. “What? Bullshit. What?” 

In answer, Lysithea only shrugs. 

“Okay, backup, backup. What kind of hardass assignments have you been giving out that killed five grandmothers?” Hilda cuts herself off with a gasp of realisation. “Oh, you’re one of those professors.”

“Because I’m nice,” Lysithea says pointedly, returning to the crossword, “I’ll let you take me to my favourite gelato place instead of a full dinner. We can get takeaway at your place after.” 

“Pfft. ‘Nice’. Thank god I’m not one of your students, and you actually like me.” 

Lysithea doesn’t debate that. She simply gestures to Hilda’s phone. “You’re going to be even later than usual.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m going.” Hilda stands up, then points to fourteen across. “ASPIRANTS.”

--

Lysithea finishes the crossword that morning, and she’s only mildly irritated that Hilda was right. Her day goes far better having ticked off one of the steps in her routine. Plus, she gets free gelato, dinner, and another evening spent at Hilda’s apartment, which is starting to become a regular occurrence. 

This time she makes sure to text Marianne. She receives a thumbs-up emoji in response, and nothing else. Marianne has probably only managed to send that in between patients. 

It's not weird, Lysithea tells herself the next Friday when she's unwinding her scarf in Hilda's messy living room. It's an opportunity to work on her thesis some more. She even brings her laptop with every intention to do just that. And she does manage to get some extra work done despite Hilda's best efforts to derail her progress, which means that it is definitely alright for her to put her laptop away at seven in the evening and finish off the serving of takeaway she had left in the fridge. 

"Lysithea," Hilda calls, her voice drifting from the bedroom. "Hurry up! I wanna put on the next season!" 

"Just a minute!" 

Lysithea is searching for a fork to no avail. Her carton of takeaway sits on the counter. She begins to systematically open up every drawer in Hilda's kitchen in her efforts. She hadn’t seen Hilda pull out their forks earlier that evening, and has no idea where they might be kept. No matter how much Lysithea understands that Hilda has a System, she cannot shake the feeling that things seem to be stored completely at random. She nearly has a crisis of faith when she opens up a cupboard to find a three piece bamboo steamer stowed alongside the cutting boards. 

Finally -- after opening and closing nearly every drawer in the kitchen -- she finds what she's looking for.

"Hilda, who puts cutlery in the second to last drawer by the refrigerator?"

"Legends and kings."

Exasperated, Lysithea heads back to the bedroom. She nearly trips on the step down from the kitchen to the living room. The long hems of the black-branded sweatpants she is wearing are still too long even after rolling up the waistband. Hilda had lent her a set of clothes to sleep in, and Lysithea couldn't even pretend that she did not want to use them since she had forgone bringing her own set of pajamas to Hilda's apartment.

Bringing her own pajamas would be admitting that this was far more than what she was willing to label it. Not that she thought Hilda would have minded. Indeed, Hilda had made a show of handing Lysithea a brand new toothbrush still in its packaging, when they had entered the apartment earlier that evening. 

Using one hand to tug at the waistband of the sweatpants, Lysithea plods into Hilda's bedroom and sits on the bed. Hilda already has another episode ready on the laptop screen. 

"No spilling on the bed, please." Hilda says without looking up from where she's fiddling with her tablet. 

"Your sheets are safe from me."

"Shame," Hilda sighs.

Shooting her an unimpressed glare, Lysithea hits the spacebar to play the episode. She defiantly ignores Hilda's smirk, and focuses instead on finishing her dinner and enjoying the show.

The evening occurs much like the last time she had spent the night, except this time when they fall asleep Hilda steals most of the blankets, and Lysithea is forced to wrestle them back. Hilda whines and mumbles something, but is clearly still fast asleep even as her back presses up against Lysithea's side. 

Lysithea doesn't push Hilda away. She is, after all, cold.

She wakes to rain lashing the window overshadowing the side of Hilda's bed that Lysithea has begun to frequent. The sky is dark enough that she cannot determine what time it is. Lysithea clambers from the end of the bed so as not to disturb a slumbering Hilda, and grabs her bag from where it sits in a corner. 

When she enters the bathroom and locks the door, she notices two things. One: Hilda owns a washing and drying machine, which she had not noticed on her first visit because they had been hidden under a mountain of laundry. Two: Hilda's bathroom is probably the tidiest room in the apartment, in terms of actual clear floor space.

Lysithea performs the same morning routine as ever. She takes out her hard-lined med case. She lines up all her pill bottles on the ledge of the sink. She twists off the first cap. She shakes a small round white pill into the centre of her palm. This time however, when she reaches for the sink tap, prepared to cup the water in one hand, she pauses. 

Blinking, she has to rub at one of her eyes, thinking that she is seeing things. And yet there, clear as day, nestled alongside Hilda's various makeup and hair products on the sink sits her travel mug. Gingerly, Lysithea reaches out and picks it up. The mug has been cleaned. Its pastel purples and whites and cartoon kittens stand out among a sea of vibrantly coloured bottles and jars. 

She sticks it under the tap and uses it to take her meds. She leaves it where she had found it. She does not put it into her bag to take it away. 

There is the muted shuffle of bare footsteps through the door. Lysithea emerges from the bathroom, clutching her bag, to discover that the bed is empty and Hilda is nowhere in sight. Something clatters in the kitchen. Lysithea sets her bag down in the same corner as before, and wanders into the hallway.

Hilda is making breakfast, and Lysithea watches in bewildered fascination as the event unfolds. Just by walking from one side of the kitchen to the other, Hilda is somehow miraculously able to do everything needed to cook breakfast without ever needing to retrace her steps. What Lysithea had initially assumed was completely random turns out to have alien logic when Hilda does it. Indeed, the placement of everything is because that’s what is the most efficient layout for her to save time when doing set tasks, so that she can perform actions with as little effort as possible.

Hilda notices her presence, and yawns around one hand while maneuvering a frying pan with the other. “Morning. Sleep well?” 

“Yeah,” Lysithea says. 

She continues to watch Hilda move about the kitchen, arrested by how easily she seems to be able to move from one action to another until, finally, Hilda is seated atop one of the counters with a plate of scrambled eggs on toast in her lap, drumming her heels lightly against one of the cupboards that has been strategically draped with a soft towel to cushion the blows. Another plate of food has already been set aside for her, without Lysithea needing to ask for it. 

Hilda is -- much to her absolute horror -- beginning to make sense. 

--

Despite the increased time spent in one another’s company, it remains a mystery how Hilda can do so much in her day. Slowly, Lysithea incorporates all of Hanneman's and Hilda's latest notes on her thesis. And at the same time she does her best to uncover the secret behind Hilda's System. 

She has never met a person so dedicated to being lazy, that it means she is that much more efficient with every task. Nobody else Lysithea knows can automate their routine troubles the way Hilda can. Lysithea has known marketers and sales people of the highest calibre -- thanks to El's vast family network -- and none of them compare to Hilda, whose powers extend to the realm of uncanny. She can convince anyone of doing things for her so that she doesn't have to do them herself. Most bizarrely, they always seem to be pleased that they are doing it.

Case and point: she often sees Hilda's TA, a beleaguered young man who doesn't seem to actually have a name and whose face is as forgettable as his personality, running amok doing Hilda's grocery shopping and dry cleaning, on top of grading the papers turned in by her undergrad students. 

Which isn’t to say that he doesn’t seem absolutely thrilled at the prospect of pleasing his professorial overlord, because he does. And which also isn’t to say that Hilda never does work, because she must. 

Not that Lysithea has ever actually seen Hilda doing work -- thesis notes and lectures notwithstanding. The woman avoids work like it’s out of fashion. 

It’s a further mystery how Hilda manages to have time to go to the gym when Lysithea knows her schedule must be crazy. But sure enough, she sees Hilda walk by her office one day in her gym clothes looking sweaty and wearing nothing but black tights and a pink sports bra with a small black towel draped around her neck like a stole. Her long pink-dyed hair is pulled back; it's damp at the temples.

She pauses in the doorway to Lysithea’s office, tilting her head back to drink from a water bottle, then says, “You doing anything tomorrow?” 

Lysithea takes a moment to answer. Her finger is pressed down on the ‘J’ key of her laptop, sending a spiral of letters down the email she had been penning to Hanneman. Jerking her hands from the keyboard, she clears her throat. “Actually, I’m - uh - going out with my flatmates tomorrow for my birthday.” 

“Oh, nice! Happy birthday!” Hilda glances around the floor for a moment, then gestures to the office with her water bottle. “No live pony as a gift from your mystery millionaire?”

In answer, Lysithea pushes her chair slightly out of the way to reveal the enormous box that had been shipped in earlier that afternoon, and which she had stashed under her desk to keep out of the way. 

“Of course.” Hilda snorts with laughter, but it sounds genuinely amused. Had it been anyone else, Lysithea might have worried she was resentful, but not Hilda. “Want to come over tonight, then? We can bake you an early birthday cake, and then I can leave you alone tomorrow to hang out with your other friends."

Cake is a more than adequate method of bribery for Lysithea on any occasion, and these days she doesn't require much convincing to go to Hilda's apartment.

“You can come along if you -?” Lysithea begins to offer, but Hilda shakes her head. 

“Nah. I’m a terrible third wheel. And you should chill with them.” 

Lysithea thinks about her workload for the week. “I can do tonight.”

Hilda’s smile blinds like the midmorning sun. “Great! Just swing by anytime after four.”

She turns and walks into her own office before Lysithea can even respond. Lysithea watches, half twisted around atop her chair, as Hilda hums to herself while she rifles around her office. Hilda finds whatever she had been looking for, then turns off the lights and locks the door, and as she starts off back down the hallway, she waves in Lysithea’s direction with a parting wink.

Lysithea cranes her neck to watch Hilda swan away. It takes her a whole minute to remember that she had been writing an email.

-- 

Lysithea is digging into a sack of flour when her phone rings in her bag. “Can you get that for me?”

Behind her she can hear the zipper of her bag being opened. Hilda doesn’t mention the medicine case, and puts the bag down once she’s found the phone. 

“Sure thing. It’s -” Hilda turns over Lysithea’s phone to check the name. “- ‘Mom’.” 

“Oh, it’s not actually my mother. That’s Edelgard. It’s a joke,” Lysithea explains. “Just text her that -”

But Hilda has already pressed the green answer button, and is lifting the phone to her ear. “Hi, Mom!! Lysithea can’t come to the phone right now. How can I help?”

Lysithea hisses Hilda’s name, and puts down the sack of flour and measuring cup she had been holding. She tries to jump up and take the phone, but can’t reach it when Hilda straightens to her full height.

There is silence on the other line, and then Edelgard’s distinct, cultured voice. “You must be Hilda. I’ve heard so much about you.”

A wide grin splits Hilda’s face. “Oh, you have, have you? Tell me more.”

“No, no, no, no, no.” Lysithea holds up her flour-smeared hands in a threatening manner. “I will put handprints on everything in your closet.”

Hilda makes a face at her. “Booo!”

“We’re making a cake,” Lysithea raises her voice so that Edelgard can hear through the mic. “Actually, I’m making a cake. Someone -” she aims a pointed glare at Hilda, “- isn’t helping very much.”

“It’s called ‘supervising,’” Hilda interrupts in her defense. “And let it be known that I got everything down from the high shelves for you.”

"Just -! Put her on speaker phone please."

“Fine, fine.” Hilda hits a button on the phone, and puts it down on the counter between them.

Edelgard’s voice issues from the speakers. “Is this a bad time?”

“No.” Lysithea continues to sift in flour to a large steel-brushed bowl, raising her voice a little for the phone’s mic to pick up. "My hands have stuff all over them because someone doesn't own a mixer."

"I own a perfectly good mixer! It's right here!" Hilda opens up a ground level cupboard with her foot and gestures to, admittedly, a very nice mixer.

"For which I can't find the paddle attachment," Lysithea counters.

"That's what -"

"Do not say: 'That's what she said.' Do not!"

“- the spatula is for,” Hilda finishes, trying and failing to look innocent. “You see? I didn’t say anything of the sort. Now what must your friend think of me?”

“Nothing that wasn’t true, I imagine,” is Edelgard’s dry response. 

Lysithea wipes off her hands and snatches up her phone. “Hilda, can you -?” she gestures to the beginnings of the cake batter.

Hilda waves her off. “I’m on it. Shoo.”

Hitting the button to turn off speaker, Lysithea moves out of the kitchen. The only place that has a door between her and the kitchen is either outside or Hilda’s bedroom, so Lysithea wanders into Hilda’s bedroom and closes the door behind her. It feels odd being in this space without Hilda there, like she’s wandered into the forbidden temple of an ancient fashion deity. 

“Sorry about that,” Lysithea says once the door is shut behind her.

“Well, I’m relieved to hear you two actually get along.”

“Yeah. We do. She’s - ” Sitting on the edge of the bed, the mattress sinks beneath Lysithea’s weight. “- nice.”

“I didn’t think you’d like her if she wasn’t. You’re awfully sensible about things like that.” In the background, Lysithea can hear Hubert’s low voice murmur something unintelligible. Edelgard pulls the phone away from her ear momentarily, before relaying the message. “Hubert says he can’t say much for your taste, but that Dr. Goneril does not pose a significant threat on your life unless you happen to be a clay pigeon. Hubert, I don’t know what that means.”

Lysithea screws up her face in bewilderment, but all she says is, “Tell Hubert to keep his nose out of my business.”

“A futile effort, Lys. You know that.” Edelgard switches topics, and there’s the sound of footsteps, as though she too is leaving for another room. “I have meetings all day tomorrow, so I figured I would ring to wish you an early happy birthday, rather than a belated one. Did you get my package?”

“Thank you. And yes. It’s too much, as usual.” 

There’s a huff of amusement down the line. “Nonsense.” 

“You really do spoil me, you know. You don’t have to -”

“Lysithea,” Edelgard interrupts, her tone firm. “We’ve already had this discussion.”

Lysithea bites her tongue, but she can’t stop the guilty squirm in her gut at being unable to properly reciprocate Edelgard’s lavish generosity. For years, Edelgard had insisted her kindness and friendship was enough in return, but it had never sat well with her. 

“Yeah, I know,” Lysithea relents. 

“Don’t go eating everything in the box all at once.”

“That,” Lysithea says primly, “would be physically impossible.”

“No, not you. That message was for Raphael.”

At that, Lysithea laughs softly. “I’ll be sure to tell him to keep his paws off my birthday haul. He and the rest of the flat are taking me out to dinner tomorrow.”

“The usual place?” 

“Mmm,” Lysithea’s answer is a wordless hum of affirmation. Then she frowns. “Hang on. What time is it over there?”

“Not that late,” Edelgard says, but she sounds cagey, like an animal that has been cornered. 

“When you have meetings all day tomorrow, too,” Lysithea scolds. 

“I always have meetings.”

“Go to sleep, El.”

A sigh crackles through the speakers. “Has anyone told you you’re rather bossy?” Edelgard says not unkindly.

“Hilda does. All the time.”

“She really does know you, then.”

“Good night, El,” Lysithea says in a warning tone. 

She can almost see the smile down the line when Edelgard says, “Good night. And again -- happy birthday.”

Lysithea lingers on the bed for a moment after the phone call ends. The bed has an extra mattress stacked beneath it, and she is too short for her feet to touch the ground. For a long moment, she looks down at the phone in her hands, before hopping off the bed and making her way back to the kitchen. 

Hilda is finishing up the cake batter, when Lysithea walks in. "Is she gone already? I didn't get to tell her how much I admire her for trying to dress you in Valentino, and also maybe if she could send a few things in some bigger sizes."

“Good luck with that. She doesn’t trust easy.” Lysithea checks that the oven has been preheated, and then takes over from Hilda.

Hilda gives up control of the cake batter without complaint. "How did you meet mystery millionaire, anyway?"

"We were admitted at the same hospital when we were kids. Turns out having the same rare disease since childhood is a bonding experience."

Hilda hums a contemplative note at the back of her throat, but does not pry. Even so Lysithea can feel Hilda's eyes upon her. She can't bring herself to meet Hilda's gaze.

"It's -" Lysithea scrapes the cake mix into the baking tin, and levels it out with the spatula. "It's manageable. I'm managing it. I just don't like to talk about it much, because then it becomes the only thing people ever talk about. And I like talking to you about other things, so we should just -"

Hilda places a hand over hers, stopping Lysithea's fiddling. She takes the spatula from Lysithea's fingers, and sets it aside on the counter. "Lysithea, I need to ask you something."

Swallowing past a nervous lump in her throat, Lysithea looks anywhere but at Hilda, who has stepped closer, trapping her against the counter. "Wh-What?"

Hilda turns their clasped hands over so that she can run her thumb over the back of Lysithea's knuckles. She seems to take an age to inspect Lysithea's fingers before she says, "Will you let me do your nails while the cake is in the oven?"

Lysithea’s answering laugh is relieved. She puts the cake into the oven, sets a timer on her phone, and then allows herself to be led into Hilda’s room. There, Hilda starts excitedly rummaging through a drawer of her workstation. She sets out a plethora of colour options on the bed, and allows Lysithea to pick one. No sooner has Lysithea pointed at a pale lilac colour, than she is on Hilda’s bed, and one of her hands has been pulled into Hilda’s lap.

Hilda bows over Lysithea’s wrist, directing Lysithea’s fingers this way and that while she first files her nails back. Her own fingernails are perfectly shaped, blunt half-moons of bold red polish. On anyone else, they might have clashed with pink, but Hilda somehow makes it work.

Hilda fills the silence with chatter, pausing at one point to put on some music from her tablet on the bedside table. She crosses her legs atop the bed and shuffles closer so that she can get a better angle on Lysithea’s nails. Her hands are warm yet calloused, as though she had spent years wielding a woodman’s axe. 

“Do you play sports?” Lysithea wonders aloud.

Hilda dips the tiny polish brush back into its bottle -- this is the second coat of colour after a clear coat, which Lysithea had never known was a necessary step until now. “Okay this is going to sound a little weird, but you know skeet shooting? The sport with shotguns where you shoot clay targets that are flung into the air?”

“Yes?” 

Hilda shrugs. “My family’s kinda famous for it. My brother’s an Olympian. He got bronze a few years ago or something, and now he’s, like, a hometown hero or whatever. I used to compete until I was, like, fifteen and then decided that it really wasn’t for me, thanks.”

“That is,” Lysithea thinks back to her phone call with Edelgard, which suddenly makes sense, “probably not the strangest thing I could have learned about you. Though I can’t imagine holding up a shotgun requires you to do much lifting at the gym.”  

“I would make a ‘guns’ joke, but I know you’d yell at me.”

“Has that ever stopped you before?”

“No, but in the past I wasn’t doing your nails, and I have priorities. Besides,” Hilda finishes the final coat and takes a moment to blow on Lysithea’s nails. “If I’m very very good, you might let me show you how to apply makeup, too.”

Lysithea leans over to glance at her phone on the bedside table. “Only if it takes less than fifteen minutes.”

Immediately, Hilda bounds off the bed, and goes racing to the bathroom, from which she emerges clutching a small velvet bag. Her eyes are alight. When she jumps back onto the bed, she says in excitement, “I’ve been dreaming of this moment.”

Lysithea eyes the bag warily. “I’m suddenly nervous for some reason.” 

“I just have that effect on people.” 

Hilda starts pulling out various bottles and brushes, and gets to work. She explains each and every step of what she’s doing with the familiarity of someone who has worn makeup nearly every day since the age of fourteen. She directs Lysithea with soft touches to her jaw and cheek, and it does not take long for Lysithea to become utterly distracted. 

She is saved by the timer going off, and Hilda pronouncing her nails and makeup finished just in time to pull the cake from the oven. While Lysithea starts on the frosting, Hilda puts together a separate makeup case for her, stuffing it into Lysithea’s bag beside her laptop with specific instructions to use it. 

They barely wait for the frosting to be applied before pulling out forks and digging in. They don’t bother with cutting slices. It isn’t the worst cake Lysithea has ever made, but it certainly isn’t the best. And yet, she is hard pressed the remember the last time she had enjoyed a cake as much. 

Eventually, Lysithea leans to one side to get a better look out the window. “It’s getting late.”

Licking the frosting off her fork, Hilda shrugs, as unflappable as ever. “You can stay the night again, if you want.”

For a moment, Lysithea pauses. She cannot tell if Hilda seems almost too nonchalant, or if that is just how Hilda always was. 

“I should head back to my apartment,” Lysithea says slowly.

Hilda smiles around the fork before removing it from her mouth and saying, “Next time, then.”

“Next time.” 

--

When Lysithea returns to her own apartment later that evening, Ignatz looks up from where he's reading on the couch. "Oh! Lysithea, you look nice!"

Her hand tightens around the strap of her bag digging into her shoulder. "Thanks."

She stays up later than she normally would. She tells herself it’s because she wants to hang out with her flatmates, and not because she knows that when she goes to bed she’ll have to wash her face. 

--

Lysithea has been twenty-five for three weeks, and still the oddest thing about living to be a quarter of a century is that she has miraculously finished a final draft of her doctoral thesis. Twelve years ago, she might have said living to be twenty-five was the miracle, but those days are long behind her.  

It’s Friday, and it’s the first day of snowfall after a week of crisp autumnal weather. Lysithea reads and re-reads her thesis document for any changes she might need to make, even though Hanneman has already responded to her email saying that if he were an examiner he would be more than pleased to pass it. 

For all intents and purposes, it is ready to submit. Subject to Tomas’ approval. 

Her fingers tremble slightly with adrenaline as she types up the email to Tomas. She goes back multiple times to re-word sections of the email, even though the end result is functionally the same. Finally, Lysithea closes her laptop in triumph, and then immediately pulls out her phone, brimming with excitement. Her fingers fly across the screen, dialing the first person she can think of. 

She wants to tell someone. She wants someone to know and share in this feeling. She wants -

“Hey there, short stack! How’d it go with Professor Handyman? He give you the all clear?” Hilda’s voice comes through the receiver, clear and bright as day. 

Lysithea feels her mouth curve into a smile despite herself. “You know he hates it when you call him that.”

“Then he should pay the eighty six dollars to get a legal name change. I’ve given him the paperwork before.” 

Lysithea snorts in amusement. “He thinks my updated draft is great, by the way.”

“And -?” Hilda drawls, waiting for more. 

“And -” Lysithea bites her lower lip. “I’ve given the final version to Tomas for approval. I just need to wait for his sign off, and I’m done.”

Hilda crows down the line, and Lysithea has to hold the phone away from her ear. “Now that’s what I like to hear right before the weekend! You still at the office?” 

“Just packing up now.” Lysithea pushes at the floor with her feet so that her office chair spins slowly. She stops herself after one rotation. 

“Good.” There’s the distinct sound of a breeze cutting across Hilda’s phone, as though she has just stepped outside. “Meet me downstairs in five minutes. This calls for victory ice cream at that favourite gelato bar of yours downtown.”

“Hilda, it’s negative two degrees outside.” 

“Yeah, and I want an ice cream sundae with warm brownies and an espresso. Get with the program!”

Lysithea shakes her head, but she can’t keep the grin from her face. She hasn’t been able to ever since she had hit the send button on that email. “Alright. Five minutes.” She stands up to pack her laptop away.

“Maybe make it ten.”

Lysithea rolls her eyes, and sits back down. “Just text me when you’re a block away from campus.” 

“You got it.”

The text arrives eleven minutes later, and Lysithea has been sitting with her bag in her lap, ready to depart for four minutes. A quick elevator ride downstairs, and Hilda is striding towards her on the ground floor. As if to spite the light dusting of snow on the pavement, Hilda is wearing black high-heeled shoes with blood red undersides, like she’d walked across a valley of dead men to arrive at her destination.

It shouldn’t send a thrill skittering up Lysithea’s spine, but it does anyway. 

Where Lysithea is wearing woolen gloves that Ignatz had knitted for her birthday, Hilda rubs her hands together and blows on them for warmth when they step outside. 

“Fuck. It’s freezing.”

“Here.” Lysithea reaches into her bag, and pulls out a pocket hand warmer. 

“Oh, thank you, thank you, thankyou.” 

“I can’t believe you still want ice cream.” 

“This won’t be a problem once we’re done with the sundaes and back at my place with a hot toddy.” 

“I shouldn’t have to explain to a molecular biologist the reason why drinking alcohol in freezing weather is a bad idea.”

“Unless you’re planning on abandoning me on the bleak wasteland that is high street, I think I’ll take my chances.” Hilda walks in such a way that Lysithea’s shoulder brushes up against her arm. “Thanks for the handwarmer.” 

“Don’t mention it. Really. Don’t.”

Vaguely, Lysithea wonders if she is turning into one of those patsies that Hilda unloads all of her work onto, but in that moment Hilda is smiling softly down at her, and she can’t bring herself to care. She has only a mind for the promise of a warm brownie and Hilda’s company. Together they walk down the street to the nearby train station while fresh snow gathers at their footsteps. 

--

NOTES

I swear the Olympic skeet shooting thing didn’t just come out of nowhere. Hilda’s relic is called “Freikugel” which is from a medieval German legend about a Freischütz. A Freischütz makes a contract with the devil, and in return receives seven magic bullets (called “Freikugeln”). Six of these bullets will hit their target without fail, whereas the seventh bullet belongs to the devil, and which he can use at his discretion.

Now, I went back and forth about making Hilda’s family a military one because of Holst, but then after doing a bit of digging I decided to run with the Freischütz legend and make it a joke about Hilda’s guns instead.  

Also I can’t be bothered to try to work out what season Lysithea’s birthday actually falls in, so it’s late autumn now. Because reasons.

[sethrine-writes]

Smile, Light of the World

Fandom:  Devil May Cry 5

Pairing:  V x Reader

Words:  2335

Warnings:  Mild sexual tension, Mildly suggestive

Commission Request:  900 words, set within their fic’s universe, some sexual tension between V and the Reader that is built up without touch until the very end, where a small gesture unravels the tension into a tasteful fade-to-black.

A/N:  This was a commission by the positively lovely @fivetail/@one-equal-temper It was such a delight to delve into the world of One Equal Temper! Thank you so very much for commissioning me! As you can see, I got carried away in the best of ways.

------

Thankfully, the day was clear and bright with the sun’s rays beating down upon the ruined, upturned city that was Redgrave. It was a beautiful early afternoon to what might as well have been considered the tail-end start to the end of the world, but a beautiful day, nonetheless.

Already, the plants on your balcony were looking a bit perkier than normal. With the days tending to be on the dreary end, courtesy of the massive demon tree growing toward the sky some distance away, you were beginning to worry over a few that really needed the sunlight. By whatever graces above, perhaps a farce of luck from below, they were getting exactly that, thriving through the impending-apocalyptic state of the city you called home.

The thought of it had you grinning as you carefully snipped away a few dead leaves from some of the smaller greenery. All those tall plants were greedy little things, soaking up the most light – you would have to move some things around to ensure they all had a chance to flourish in the warmth of the day.

“There is a Smile of Love, and there is a Smile of Deceit-”

You paused in your pruning, turning from your crouched position to find V leaning against the opened balcony door, eyes roving the page of his poetry book as he held it before him.

“-And there is a Smile of Smiles, in which these two Smiles meet.”

“I don’t think I’ve heard you recite that one, before,” you spoke almost wistfully. V’s voice had a way of making you feel like that when he read to you, spoke to you, wistful and longing and soothed to the very soul.

“The moment felt adequate,” he mused, eyes continuing where he left off from the poem. He must have been keen on just saying those few lines, and that was fine. He had a tendency of doing that, and whatever words were said usually had some sort of significance to them.

It was a rather sweet gesture that he let you in on his inner thoughts through those very poems he so loved; at least, you assumed it was.

What did he mean by those particular words, exactly?

“So, which one is mine?”

Your question must have caught the mysterious man off-guard, because he looked a tad on the surprised side at your inquiry, nearly confused.

“Which one is your…?”

“My smile,” you iterated, “which one is it? Loving, deceitful, maybe somewhere in the middle? Maybe it’s none of those. Huh, never really thought about it, until now.”

You watched V’s expression change to that of thoughtfulness, and you wondered briefly if he hadn’t quite thought of it, either. No, that didn’t seem right – V wouldn’t have recited such an obvious thing that eluded to something more if he didn’t have any intent behind it. It may have been presumptuous of you to think he was referring to your smile, in general.

The question, then, was why had he said anything, to begin with?

The prompt snap of V’s book had you almost jumping out of your own thoughts. He was smiling, plush lips lilting to one side and green eyes holding the twinkle of something you couldn’t quite place, like a little secret, one you were privy to, but hadn’t realized you knew of, yet.

“Perhaps that is a question better answered another time.”

He held your gaze for a moment longer, and the contact felt exposing, electrifying. You waited until he finally turned away to let out a semi-shaky breath, blinking a few times to compose yourself.

That was…that was definitely strange, but in a good way.

The sun was getting a tad too warm against your neck and your face, you decided, and the ache in your head was becoming more pronounced. It was time to go inside.

It was an apt excuse to the warmth in your cheeks, at least.

---

Something had changed during that bright, sunny day, something you couldn’t quite put your finger on, not at first.

Whatever it was, it was subtle, if not maddening.

V still went out during the day, doing his best to rid the surrounding area of any lingering demons while venturing further to eliminate what he could. He would come back, always a bit haggard, casting a lingering, lilting smile your way as Griffon squawked his praises and tribulations of the day and pestered you for the hell of it, if not just to get a rise out of you. Shadow would come out to soothe you, sometimes even growling out at Griffon for being too wordy, hilariously enough, and then you would head to bed with a little wave and a small smile, only to start the day over again come morning.

It was the same routine, but things had shifted. The dynamic between you and V had changed yet again to something just a bit more.

And neither of you were acting on it.

Not only was it excruciating, but it was also damn near driving you crazy. You were both playing by rules you didn’t even know had been set out. Nothing was necessarily different, but it was, and the tension between you both would drive even the most mundane of fools insane, you were sure of it.

For some reason, one of the unwritten, unspoken rules was to avoid physical contact. Not even a tap of fingers, and it was something you didn’t even realize was a thing until you very nearly dropped V’s mug of hot chocolate as you passed it to him at even the promise of a lingering touch.

The motion hadn’t gone unnoticed, nor had V made any inclination that he would broach the subject of whatever it was that was happening.

How utterly maddening, indeed.

In an effort to ease your tremulous thoughts one evening, you had taken to fiddling with the hospital band around your wrist, having already read your personal information on it over and over again. Surely, you were doomed to read it a few hundred times more, especially with the odd way you were feeling at that moment, fidgety and all too aware of the closeness between you and V.

He had taken it upon himself to rest right beside you on the couch that evening, the day’s events having worn him out more than usual. You hadn’t moved, lest you accidentally woke him, and found yourself gazing about and losing yourself in thought for all of barely half an hour. He had woken up from his rather brief nap some time ago, gracing you with yet another small smile, then promptly pulled out his book of poems to read over idly in the quiet.

V didn’t seem at all interested or even worried by your close proximity to him, neither commenting on the matter nor moving away. In fact, when you attempted to move, he simply stopped you with that soothing voice of his, looking up from his book to fix you with an intense, imploring stare.

“I rather enjoy the company, if you don’t mind indulging me,” he admitted quietly, and you were damned if you didn’t feel that admittance in your very heart.

So you stayed upon the couch as he read in the quiet of the room, nothing but the sound of the wind picking up outside from time to time as well as the beat of your heart pounding away in your eardrums and very nearly causing an uncomfortable headache, in the process. He didn’t seem at all concerned with your fidgeting fingers, either, or the light smack of your lips as you attempted to ignore the small distance between you, but unable to figure out exactly what to do with yourself besides remaining in his company, as if doing so satisfied both you and him equally.

It did, but it wasn’t something you were willing to dwell on for long.

“Geez, kid, you look wrung out! Didn’t take you for the kind to be on that crazy stuff, but, y’know, end of the line, and all that.”

Griffon’s voice had startled you something fierce, not having expected the avian demon to appear like that upon the pushed back coffee table. You jumped, feeling your heart nearly skip a beat as your hand pushed down hard beside you, fingers just grazing smooth leather-

“I’ll be right back,” you all but said in a rush as you nearly flew upward in your attempt to stand, nearly tripping yourself in your haste to move away, at least far enough where you couldn’t feel the tension as strongly.

You could hear Griffon making a ruckus about having said the wrong thing for all of a moment before the apartment was quiet again. You waited out a few minutes in the bedroom, taking in deep breaths and attempting to will your heart back into a semi-steady rhythm.

Something was there, but neither of you had been willing to breach the pull, to break the tension that seemed to hold you both suspended in…something or other. At the rate you were going, the tension was going to kill you.

It made you nervous, not knowing what to expect. It made you want to make whatever was being left out in the open happen, just to rid yourself of the anxious feeling and finally get somewhere.

When you turned to move back into the living room, you very nearly ran right into V, barely avoiding colliding against his towering form with a sharp gasp.

In the dim, fading light of the sunset through the bedroom window, his expression almost looked worried.

“I’m okay,” you murmured, but even your quiet words sounded far too loud in the silence that surrounded you.

You made to take a step back, but V followed you with his own step forward, and you were suddenly even closer to the man than you were before. You could very nearly feel the heat that emanated from his form, comforting as it was tempting, devastatingly so.

Whatever concern had been within his gaze had disappeared with the shift in the atmosphere, and once more, you were being suffocated in the cloying energy that had created tension between you several days ago. Speaking was out of the question; you were barely able to keep your breathing in check, let alone question exactly what was happening, if what was happening was even allowed, at that point.

V raised his hand slowly, allowing you to track the movement with your own eyes. The glint of silver against his skin caught your attention, the elongated ring that adorned him and made his long fingers look even more elegant by proxy glinting in the fading light. You followed the glossy metal’s closeness until you could no longer see it as his hand passed your face, nearly out of sight of your peripheral.

The tickling sensation of barely-there fingertips against your jawline was a startling, liberating feeling.

V was walking a thin line, apparently, teetering on the edge of breaking the tension that was coming to a head right at that moment. He was playing coy, perhaps under the pretense of not wanting to spook you away, after all that build-up.

That was what you wanted, wasn’t it, though? You wanted the tension to stop, for whatever silly game you were both playing to just end so you could finally breathe in his presence without feeling like your heart was ready to jump out of your throat.

Was it possible that, given the moment, given his current actions, he felt the same way?

You reached out hesitantly towards him, fingers brushing against what felt like thin strings, though you were unable to look away from V’s intense gaze to rightfully say so. You tugged, regardless, and felt the leathery, twine-like string loosen with the motion until the small knotted bow had been effectively unraveled.

V made no move to stop you. You were in no mood to stop.

With slow, careful movements, your fingers unraveled the string corseting V’s coat together, the dark leather coming apart in slow increments until there was nothing hindering you from parting the material and revealing the inked skin of his abdomen to the slight coolness of the room.

There was hesitation in your next move, as it was new territory, a line in the sand you had yet to cross with V. Any worries were quickly being deemed unnecessary by the way V was looking at you, intense and eager for whatever lay ahead.

You inhaled sharply at the feeling of his skin against your palm but a moment later, and the quiet groan of satisfaction that parted his lips was downright sinful.

The following kiss was expected, a natural progression to the tension finally snapping. Even so, you weren’t sure who had succumbed first to the need to be close, closer, closer still, bodies pressing against each other and clumsy hands roaming with quick swipes and rougher-than-necessary squeezes before easing into soothing caresses that spanned limbs and torsos and faces.

When you finally pulled away for air, you were laughing, breathless and delirious on the high that was V.

“Are you alright, my Starlight?”

V was faring no better, pale face slightly flushed and lips looking even plumper from your brash kisses. It was a look you found you rather liked on him, one you wouldn’t mind seeing again and again, as long as you still had on earth.

You smiled at him, full and sincere.

There was a look in his eyes, the one you noticed from before on that oddly sunny day but only just then recognized, thoughtful and contemplative and heated.

“And no Smile that ever was smild, but only one Smile alone, that betwixt the Cradle & Grave-”

“Shut up, and kiss me again,” you mumbled, stepping up on tiptoes to reach those poetic lips of his. All he could do in that moment was comply, and he did so without preamble.

[starlight-drive-in]

All My Life, for You - Ch. 9: Sons of Shame

Fandom: Mystic Messenger 

Fic Description:

Mi-Cha and Saeyoung have been happily married for 5 years and their lives have never been happier. The same could be said for Saeran who is now in a much healthier place than he was a few years ago. The twins are close once again, their lives are healthy and normal for the most part. It would seem the picture perfect happily ever after, if it weren’t for the fact that someone who has been looking for them for a long time is about to make an unwelcome appearance.

Saeyoung has two things in this world he has sworn to protect, and nothing is going to stop him from keeping his promise this time.

(Check AO3 Link for Tags)

Relationships: Saeyoung Choi/MC (named), Saeran Choi/OC

Chapter Description:

Saeyoung learns more about what's going on at his childhood home. Unknown makes a unexpected appearance, falling into his old anger and blame at Saeyoung and in turn, gains some perspective from Mi-Cha.

Notes:

I had some time off this week due to being sick (Please ignore any cold medicine induced mistakes) and was finally able to crank this baby out. Writing all the parody names for things from the game was a lot of fun. On the other hand, a lot of the chapter was very emotional to write- so heads up for mentions of childhood trauma, cursing, and familial arguments I suppose?

AO3 Link | First Chapter

Mi-Cha sits idly on the bed in the room she shares with her husband, staring at the screen of her laptop, trying to catch up on emails from clients she missed while on vacation. Try as she may each word she reads is forgotten in an instant, drowned out by her anxiety. There has to be something she can do to help her husband and brother-in-law. Something to help them all stay safe, they’re both always working so hard, it’s hard not to feel a tad useless at times like this.

Of course, if she asked them they would tell her that she was helping in just the way she had for so long. That emotional support was just as important as all their expertise in computers, or as Saeyoung’s gun training or Saeran’s ability to be neither seen nor heard, but it never felt that way to her.

She clicks another email, not even getting through the greeting line before her mind drifts again. Sometimes she forgets how much hidden discourse followed the twins, how truly controversial their existence was. But the truth was no matter how dangerous Saeyoung was, and how many times he had tried to make her realize this, no one else had ever made her feel safer. They lived in a bulletproof, undetectable-by-satellite bunker, and were armed to the teeth for god’s sake. So why was she still so damned worried? Well, the man threatening them was the Prime Minister after-all and as of right now he was looking like a top candidate for the presidency, which would make him even more powerful. It was logical to be worried at a time like this, she reasons.

But this felt different, it felt bad in a way nothing ever has to her before. She wasn’t even this scared when they went to Mint Eye all those years ago. Sure, she had a level of fear but she had a good feeling everything would work out, which had been right for the most part, at least she thinks, as a pang of guilt washes over her in V’s memory mostly, but not completely.

She was being ridiculous, the twins were practically reality’s equivalent to superheroes. Nothing had stopped them in 26 years, not even each other. With them working together? Their father didn’t stand a chance. Right?

She drops her head into her hands with a defeated sigh.

“Uh-oh.” Saeyoung’s voice pierces the silence, having just entered the room. “I know that sigh.”

Mi-Cha peaks out at him through her fingers.

“That’s my MC’s Trademark Defeated Sign of Ultimate Stress,” He says with a worried smile.

She drops her hands and looks at him with a weak smile. “I may be slightly concerned, yes”

He plops down on the bed, wrapping his arms around her shoulders as she sits cross-legged in the middle of their bed and nestles her against his chest.

“Hey, don’t worry. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you.”

She gently pushes off of him and looks him closely in the eyes, “I’m not worried about me Sae, I’m worried about you.”

“Oh.” He blinks, looking almost surprised. “You don’t have to worry about me, I’m used to this kind of stuff.”

“Saeyoung.”

“Hmm?”

“That doesn't make it any better”

“Yea, I know.”

“I’d be lost without you Sae, I-” She stops to take a breath and push back a tear “I can’t lose you. I could lose anything else in my life and I’d learn how to deal with it but I can’t lose you.” Her voice cracks at the end of her sentence as he pulls her back into him and rubs her back soothingly.

Tears pool up in his eyes but he says nothing. She’s a strong woman, the strongest he knows. He knows she’d be able to live without him if it came down to that even if she doesn’t believe that right now. He kisses the top of her head. “I love you.” He mummers in a broken voice.

“I love you too.” She pauses “Even if you do have a Superman complex”

He chuckles through the tears. “I don't have a Superman complex!”

She snorts incredulously. “Uh-huh sure, and Jumin’s poor.”

He huffs into her hair, defeated. His wife wasn’t exactly wrong.

They sit for a few minutes, relishing the closeness of each other until a short knock at their open bedroom door grabs their attention.

“Hey uh, I think I’m going to go to bed” Saeran notifies the pair “My head hurts pretty bad and I think I need to lie down for a while. Unless you need me for something?” he prompts Saeyoung.

“Nah, you head to bed bro. I’ll hold down the fort. There’s Tiaranol in the bathroom if you need it,” Saeyoung lets him know.

“Thanks, I’ll be ok,” Saeran nods before heading down the hall to his bedroom.

When she hears the bedroom door shut Mi-Cha speaks up, “So I assume that means you won’t be coming to bed?”

“Mmmmm no I’m sorry, baby.” He says getting up from his spot on the bed.

“It’s ok.” She says, trying to hide her disappointment, “Evildoers don’t exactly wait for their victims to get don’t with restful night’s sleep. Even if their wives will be left all alone in a cold bed.” She pouts playfully.

He chuckles, “But this way you get all the blankets you want!”

“Oh true.” She answers, smirking and sinking in between the covers, cuddling them up to her face. “Ok, good luck with your work!” “Hey!” He pouts.

“I’m just messing with you Sae. I love you, please stay safe while you work.” She sits back up pressing a kiss so desperate to his lips that he can feel the urgency in it. She quickly deepens it, their tongues mingling together for a brief moment before she pulls away bashfully, realizing this wasn’t exactly the time for such things. “If I even can work after that.” He says rubbing his thumbs over her cheeks as he holds her face close to his.

“I have faith in you, God Seven.” She says with one more quick peck to his lips.

He groans “You know that doesn’t make things any easier” nuzzling her nose.

“Oops.” She says, getting back under the covers.

He kisses her forehead. “Goodnight My One and Only Life’s Main Character.” She giggles, “Goodnight My Adorably Too-Cheesy-For-His-Own-Good Husband.”

He gives her one last adoring smile before leaving the room. As he rounds the corner, the smile drops completely from his face and turns into one of complete determination as he heads back to the workroom.

-----

Some people say those who talk to themselves are geniuses, others say they’re crazy. Saeyoung Choi was likely both. The hammering of his keyboard and his own voice had been his soundtrack of the night for hours now. He wonders aloud how he used to do this every day, all alone in this house all by himself without seeing anyone for weeks except Vanderwood. It hadn’t even been very long and the loneliness was already setting in.

He picks up his phone and taps his wife’s contact info on impulse “She’s sleeping, she needs her sleep. Don’t wake her up.” He tells himself as he puts his phone back down, pushing it away. “Five years and I still haven’t learned how to focus on my work without trying to call her” He smiles affectionately.

It had been so long since he pulled an all-nighter alone like this. Usually, while he was working his freelance jobs from home and she was working out of her office in the city as an event planner, they’d be messaging throughout the day. So it made sense that he would have the urge to text her while working now also.

“Damnit me, focus!” he says to himself. “I have to see if I can override the shut down on one of those cameras, whatever they’re using that place for it can’t be good.” He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, recentering himself before continuing his quest.

Although proving harder than he had originally bargained for Saeyoung does eventually hack into one of the CCTV’s near his childhood home and get a feed going, all without alerting himself to whoever originally triggered the block through government portals. He presses the final key and waits for the feed to start up. Throwing himself a two-second victory party in the meantime, he finger guns at the screen and then blows of each “gun” as if he were some type of cowboy in an old western and he just won some type of duel.

As the live feed loads in, Saeyoung cringes. “Yea, that's definitely our old house,” he says to no one. Right now there are no signs of activity but in his head, he’s right there again, He remembers that street like the back of his hand. Remembers walking down it and feeling scared out his mind that someone his father sent was going to murder him as soon as he passed the corner. He remembers leaving once every few days with a shopping list in his head and a couple thousand Won he had to figure out how to stretch enough to cover everything his mother needed. Wanted he tells himself, she never needed 3 bottles of hard liquor a day. The things they really needed were never on the list, like medicine or decent food.

He remembers being shoved out that very door he can see right now in the feed accompanied by shrieks and Saeran’s cries, him begging Saeyoung not to go, followed by a loud slam. But he had to go. If he didn’t go, if he didn't get her what she wanted what would she do to him? More importantly, what would she do Saeran?

He always had to go, to protect his brother. And then he had to go for good, and that should have protected him.

Saeyoung shakes his head, not wanting to go down that path of blame right now. His brother was here now, and he was safe. Well, mostly safe. And in order to make sure he stays that way Saeyoung has to stay focused.

And so his remote stake-out began. Just him, his computer chair and a live feed of the place that had been the stage to his childhood trauma for 15 years.

He pops open a bag of Honey Buddha Chips and a Ph.D. Pepper from the mini-fridge under his desk and sits back, placing his socked feet up on his desk. “A regular ol’ party up in here!” He exclaims to no one, again. He places a chip in his mouth and mutters in between chewing, “Seriously, how did I used to live like this?!

47 minutes and 36 seconds later something catches his eye on the feed. A car pulls up, more specifically a Bercedes-Bentz S-Class (W222), A car he immediately recognizes as the same model the current president is typically transported in.

“Getting a bit ahead of yourself there aren't ya pops?” He says, saving the image of the vehicle that no doubt was ordered fully loaded, and with all the same safety and security features as the State Car.

“You wouldn't hack a car.” He says dramatically. “Oh wait! Yes, I would! Not now though, later”

He enters a search on the plate number in the meantime.

Two men get out of the front of the car and meet at the back passenger door, opening it in true royal fashion.

Saeyoung scoffs at the sight of the man who fathered him. Saejoong goes around back and opens the trunk of the car, stepping back so that his two underlings can get in there. Saeyoung can’t see around the back of the vehicle from his vantage point but from the way the two men's heads keep cresting the top of the car and then lowering again he can infer they must be unloading something or some things.

Saeyoung is so absorbed in watching the feed he doesn’t even notice someone else enter the workroom. He watches as the two men carry in a crate of bottles of something he can’t quite place.

“What a smug motherfucker.” He hears a voice say.

Saeyoung immediately jumps up from where he was sitting leisurely on his chair, his bag of chips and soda can crash unceremoniously to the floor.. “SHIT!” Saeyoung exclaims, “You scared the shit out of me, Saeran.”

The other person in the room smirks. “Try again.”

“Shit,” Saeyoung repeats quieter this time, stunned at the fact Unknown had willingly come into the room where he knew Saeyoung was. “Um, hi?”

“Look I don't want to be here as much as you don’t want me here but I have to check up on things if I want to make sure things are getting done correctly around here.”

Saeyoung can’t help but feel insulted at the insinuation but bites his tongue and tries not to upset the man. “Thanks for the warning, by the way, it was really helpful.” Unknown nods curtly before looking up at the screen, a look of disgust Saeyoung is used to being directed at him on his face, “What the fuck are they doing there?”

“We’re not sure yet,” Saeyoung says softly.

“Ugh.” Unknown groans, dispelling a trail of thought he’d rather not address as he watches the two men return from the house and pick up another crate before heading back toward the house again.

“Wait.” Unknown says urgently rushing closer to Saeyoung’s console, promptly shoving him out of the way. “Move.”

Saeyoung obeys without argument as the man occupying his brother’s body zooms in on what the men are carrying.

Saeyoung jumps and winces and Unknown slams his fist onto Saeyoung’s keyboard. “FUCK!” Unknown exclaims.

“What?!” Saeyoung asks in a hasty tone.

Unknown whirls around on him. “Are you fucking stupid?! Do you have any idea what that shit is?!”

Saeyoung balks at him, feeling pretty clueless as he shakes his head in the negative.

“That’s the Elixir of Salvation.” Unknown states.

Saeyoung’s eyes lock onto the screen again “What? H-how?!” He exclaims remembering the few stories hs brother had told him about the vile liquid.

Unknown throws his hands out wildly. “How should I know dipshit?! I haven't exactly been around to make sure the shit was gotten rid of properly.”

Saeyoung’s eyes widen at the accusation “If I remember correctly you weren’t very interested in disposing of it at all. If it was up to you, you’d probably have a bottle in the fridge right now.”

Unknown grits his teeth “Don’t turn this around on me! That shit fucked me up too! Did you ever think about that? Hmm? Sure it was great that it kept him out of the way but don’t you think for one minute that you know anything about me or what she used to do to me with that shit.” His voice becoming more hysterical.

“Saeran was right.” Saeyoung realizes.

Unknown scoffs “About what?”

“You have changed.”

“Fuck you.” Unknown spits.

Just then another voice pierces the air. “Saeyoung? S-Saeran?” Mi-Cha asks timidly, already knowing she’s wrong about the second one.

Unknown turns to look at her. “Oh hey Princess, long time no see.”

Mi-Cha ignores the pet name and looks at him pointedly “Is it true?” She asks him, approaching the two men, “Have you changed?” making it obvious she had heard them.

He sighs frustratedly in response. “Look I don’t know much about that, I don't have a lot of time to soul search as you might imagine. All I do know is that if your precious Brother-in-law touches that shit it's over for him, and if it's over for him, it's over for me. So here’s what you are going to do for me" he says, turning to Saeyoung, "You’re going to make sure he sees none of this. You’re going to make sure he has no idea the Elixir is involved and you are under no circumstances, to let him go there.” he takes another few steps towards Saeyoung, who is now backed up against the wall. "And if you do, I will be back with such a vengeance and just enough time to make sure you never see the light of day again and don't worry because I will be at death's door so I will have no issue taking you with me."

"At that point, I wouldn't try to stop you," Saeyoung says somberly. "I'd deserve it."

Mi-Cha frowns listening to the defeatist tone her husband seems to take on whenever Saeran’s alter makes an appearance.

Unknown backs off of Saeyoung "Good, so we're on the same page for once." He smirks.

“I think I get it,” Saeyoung says once he’s gained some of his personal space back.

“Do you?” Unknown questions, raising his eyebrow doubtfully.

Saeyoung nods, “You were created to keep Saeran safe during, well during everything that happened to him. You were created to protect him from the things he couldn't protect himself from and that's why you’re here now, he told me as much. I was doubtful at first but now it is obvious, I think we have a lot more in common than you think.” Saeyoung tries.

Unknown recoils as if burned, “I’m nothing like you. I saved him when you left. I kept us safe when you abandoned him. I took over to shield him from years of torture in the name of salvation the best I possibly could and you were nowhere to be found! I’m not like you, I’m much, much better.”

“That isn’t fair,” Mi-Cha interjects.

Unknown turns to her incredulously “Not fair?”

‘What happened to all of you wasn't Saeyoung’s fault.”

“Mi-Cha it’s ok” Saeyoung tries to tell her.

“No Saeyoung, it’s not ok. What happened to the two of you- the three of you. It wasn’t your fault. It was your mother’s ,and your father’s, and Rika’s, hell even V is more to blame than you were but you did the only thing you thought you could do. You thought you were protecting him, you could have never fathomed what was to come.”

She motions to Unknown now, “And you! Have you ever actually listened to his story? If the roles were reversed, how do you know Saeran wouldn't have done the same? Listen to Saeyoung, and if you can’t do that, then at least listen to Saeran because I know he’d have some choice words for you if he were here right now.”

“You don’t know what I’ve been through!” Unknown screams hysterically, not taking his eyes off her, behind him she can see Saeyoung quietly remove a taser - a leftover of Vanderwood’s - from his desk drawer. He could beat Saeyoung up as much as he wanted, but if even laid a finger on Mi-Cha he was going down.

Mi-Cha nods reassuringly “You’re right. You’re completely right, I don't know what you’ve been through. All I know is that it was extremely hard and long and that neither you nor Saeran deserved it and for that, I am so, so sorry but please, try to take another look at everything. I can tell you’re a different person than you were five years ago, people grow and change, they learn to process their past and recover but first, you need to give yourself a chance. Give us a chance too, we’re not as bad as you think.”

Unknown scoffs “You’re fine.” He mumbles, “It’s him I can’t stand.” He says a bit more venomously.

“Have you ever thought your anger may be a bit displaced?” She says in the softest one she can manage. “Just think about it ok? Do some of that soul searching you haven't had time for.”

Unknown looks down, folding his arms and doesn’t respond for a while. He rubs the bridge of his nose with one hand and then groans. “I’m going to bed.” He mumbles stepping carefully around Mi-Cha and walking down the hall.

When the door shuts Saeyoung stares at her stunned. “How do you do that?”

Mi-Cha breathes a sigh of relief “Do what?” “Take the fight out people like that?”

“Just some good ol’ psychoanalyzation I suppose.” She shrugs awkwardly.

“You’re amazing,” He says closing the gap between them and hugging her.

“It’s not that impressive.” She says trying to brush it off.

“It really is though.” He responds with finality. “It seems you’ve saved me again.”

“You would have been fine.” She assures him.

“Alive maybe, but I prefer my face free from black eyes,” he says, going over to the console to rewind the video, ensuring he didn't miss anything after things had started to get heated.

Usually, she’d have a witty response for him but right now she’s feeling emotionally and physically exhausted, both from the previous exchange and lack of sleep.

Saeyoung confirms the car on screen drove away shortly after what he saw and sets up the feed to record onto his hard drive as well as a motion detection program linked to an app on his phone in case anything happens before morning. He acts with purpose but Mi-Cha doesn't miss the slight tremble in his fingertips, or the worried crease on his usually smooth forehead.

When he’s done he puts his computer on sleep mode and wraps an arm around his wife’s shoulders, pulling her with him out of the room, “Come on, let’s get some rest.”

“Do you think he’ll be ok in there?” She asks looking down the hall at Saeran’s room as they cross the hallway.

Saeyoung follows her eyes “I think you’ve given him something to think about.”

_________________

Annnnd that's where we'll leave off! I was a little nervous about this chapter. Hopefully you've enjoyed the new developments!

[dragon-temeraire]

The Hunter-Jumper Connection

Summary: Stiles is not expecting a male model in tall boots and breeches to emerge, smiling at him a little hesitantly, and he has to take half a second to remind himself to keep cool.

Notes: According to @smowkie, there are not enough sterek fics with horses. And since horses are one of my great passions, I figured I’d write a little something. There is a lot of English riding jargon in this fic, but you don’t really need to know it to understand the story. I’m just using it to set Stiles up as competent. But if you’d like to see the difference between hunter and jumper, I’m providing links below. (Fic on AO3)

Hunter: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kOT6a3ax37M&t=466s (this video is really long, sorry! Just watch a round or two to get the idea)

Jumper: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zFoEkASQNu0 (this is a jump-off, so it’s even more aggressive and fast than regular jumper rounds)

“Hey,” Erica says, just as Stiles is tugging off his boot. “You have a lesson trailering in, he should be here soon.”

“What?” Stiles says, pausing. “No, I don’t. I checked the schedule yesterday, and—”

“It was a last-minute add, but I knew you were free all afternoon,” Erica says sweetly. “I also know you’re trying to save money for a new hay shed, so.”

“You’re right,” Stiles sighs, looking at his sneakers longingly. He’d been planning to extensively groom Baxter and Mayor, his newest horses, to strengthen his bond with them. But if he wears his shoes into the arena, they’ll be full of dirt in no time. He shoves his foot back into his hot boot, starts lacing it up again. He loves being around horses, but he does not love wearing boots all day. “What’s the name?”

“Derek Hale. And it looks like he’s here,” Erica says, glancing out the window. “At least he’s parking in the right place.”

“Small mercies,” Stiles says, standing up and heading out the office door.

He walks around the little two-horse trailer to the driver’s side of the truck, and the door promptly swings open. Stiles is not expecting a male model in tall boots and breeches to emerge, smiling at him a little hesitantly, and he has to take half a second to remind himself to keep cool.

“Hi, you must be Derek,” he says, and the guy nods. “Can I see a negative Coggins?”

“Oh, of course,” Derek says, ducking back in the truck and handing Stiles the paperwork.

He looks over it carefully, then hands it back. “Thanks. Erica didn’t say much about you, so what are you wanting to work on today?”

“I’m a show-jumper,” Derek says, lowering the tailgate of the trailer. “And I get clear rounds pretty often, but my times are never that great. I want to improve my speed.”

“That can probably be achieved just by smoothing out your flatwork,” Stiles says, watching Derek carefully back a well-built bay warmblood out of the trailer. “But I won’t know until I see you ride.”

Derek just nods, ties his horse up to the side of the trailer. He’s clearly not a man of many words.

“Well, go ahead and get tacked up, and then you can head out to the covered arena to warm up. I’ll be out there in a minute,” Stiles says, then heads back to the office.

“Well,” Erica says, as soon as the door is shut behind him, “How is he? He sounded nice on the phone.”

“He sounds nice in person, too,” Stiles says, and realizes Erica couldn’t really see him from the office window. “He’s also super hot.”

Erica, terrible friend that she is, just laughs.

“Seriously, he looks like he stepped out of a riding-wear catalog. His breeches are really tight,” Stiles grumbles.

“I thought they were supposed to be?” Erica asks mildly, but Stiles can see her smirk.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” he says irritably, and heads back outside.

Derek’s already in the arena, trotting along the rail at an easy pace. Stiles heads for the center, watching Derek idly as he does. He seems like he knows what he’s doing, which is nice. It’s easier to work on refinement when someone’s already got the basics down.

“You ready?” he asks when Derek halts next to him.

“Warm enough for flatwork,” Derek says, shrugging.

“Okay, do a nice big figure-eight at a canter, with flying changes in between,” Stiles says, and watches Derek’s smooth transition from walk to canter.

He’s a little distracted by the muscling in Derek’s thighs, by the breadth of his shoulders, but more than anything he’s distracted by Derek’s riding ability. He’s comfortable in the saddle without being sloppy; he has good posture without being stiff. He keeps his horse’s pace even and steady, not too heavy on the forehand.

He does have a few issues Stiles thinks he can work on, though.

“Bring it down to a trot, but keep circling,” Stiles says, and Derek promptly complies. He watches critically, just to make sure, then says, “Your horse is not a bicycle, Derek. You can’t steer with just your hands. Stop gripping so much with your knee, let your weight flow down to your lower leg and then use it.”

Derek’s mouth flattens, and Stiles wonders if he’s angry at the critique, but quickly realizes that’s just Derek’s concentration-face.

“Okay, good,” Stiles says encouragingly. He has a reputation for being blunt, but he tries to provide praise when it’s due, too. “If you want the circle to be wider, don’t pull his head to the outside, push with your leg. And try to get him to actually bend with the curve. You’ll be faster on course if your horse doesn’t turn like a brick.”

He has Derek change direction, and he’s definitely getting better, but. “Come over here.” He waits until Derek is halted next to him before saying, “You gotta trust your horse, Derek. He’s well trained and responsive to your aids, but you keep trying to strong-arm him.” He taps Derek’s elbow without actually meaning to, and covers it by moving to pat the horse’s neck. “What’s his name, anyway?” He usually asks that question a lot sooner, but he’d been distracted at the time.

“Cooper,” Derek says.

“Well, Cooper’s a good one,” Stiles says, and steps back. “Okay, start walking.” Once Derek does, he says, “Now, loosen your reins. No, all the way to the buckle,” he adds when Derek looks at him hesitantly. “You’re going to weave between all of these jumps, steering with just your legs. And no breaking into a trot!” he warns. “Keep your contact light.”

He sits down on the mounting block to watch, because at a walk this is going to take a little while. He smiles when Derek automatically lifts his hands to make a turn, then immediately puts them back down. He’s clearly making an effort to do as Stiles asks, and Stiles appreciates that.

They get smoother toward the end, both horse and rider figuring out what they’re doing, and it’s not long before Derek is riding back up to him.

“See?” Stiles says, grinning. “That was great!”

Derek smiles back, broadly, and Stiles is pretty sure his heart trips over itself in his chest. He clears his throat, trying to cover his reaction, and glances away. “You’re a jumper, so we might as well do a little jumping. Start with that crossrail,” he says, pointing over to the little jump set up for beginners. “Don’t give me that look,” he says when he catches Derek’s expression. “We’re not working on your jumping skills, we’re working on your turning. So do the crossrail, then take a nice curving line to that oxer. Okay?”

Derek nods, comes around to take the little jump on a straight line. As Stiles expected, Derek’s horse pays it no mind, barely lifting his feet to get over it. But Derek’s leg is on a stride after they clear it, his hand gently guiding, and Cooper makes a neat turn and locks onto the oxer early, meaning Derek can adjust his stride to meet it confidently.

Stiles can’t help bouncing a little in excitement as they sail over it. He’s always loved seeing great riding in action.

“Awesome,” he says when Derek trots back over. “Now, let’s add a few more jumps to that.”

He has Derek do an entire course of bending lines and serpentines, and he nails it, with only one near-miss when he accidentally overcorrects Cooper with a too-aggressive hand.  

“Still gotta work on those stiff elbows,” Stiles says when Derek’s slowing down after the last fence. “But otherwise, you’re doing great. Just don’t forget to keep practicing, okay?”

“Of course,” Derek says, looking pleased. “You’ve been a great help.”

Stiles walks with him as he rides over to his trailer, and watches him efficiently untack Cooper. Once Derek’s traded the bridle for a halter, he turns to Stiles and asks, “You have a wash rack?”

“Yeah, down at the end of the aisle. I’ll show you,” Stiles says, leading him toward the barn.

Once he’s got Derek headed in the right direction, he steps into the tack room for his lesson horses. He makes sure no one put a sweaty saddle pad on the stack, straightens the brushes in the grooming kits, hangs the bridles more evenly on their hooks. He’s ostensibly neatening up, but really he’s just waiting for Derek to get back.

Soon enough there’s the clip clop of hooves down the aisle, and steps out to see Cooper, freshly hosed off, and Derek, only a little damp, heading his way.

“You can graze him over here,” Stiles says, leading the way. “If you have a little time to let him dry in the sun.”

“I was hoping to,” Derek says, letting out some of the lead line, and Cooper eagerly starts eating. He pulls him up after a few moments, leads him a few steps further before letting him tear into the grass again. “You’re not a jumper, are you? What kind of riding do you do?”

Stiles laughs. “You don’t know? Usually people who come for lessons with me know what I ride.”

Derek shrugs, looking a little embarrassed. “You came highly recommended, and I needed help quick, since I have a show in two days.” He shrugs. “So I didn’t ask too many questions.”

“Hey, it’s cool, I was just surprised. I do have jumpers come for lessons every now and again,” Stiles says easily. “But it’s usually hunter riders that want my help, since that’s what I ride.” He catches Derek’s look, grins. “I know, I don’t seem like hunter material.”

“Just seems a bit slow and steady for you,” Derek says.

“Well, I used to do jumper. I was pretty wild when I was a kid, untrained but too brave, and I did a lot of reckless seat-of-my-pants riding. And it just got worse, after—my dad eventually got tired of it, and hired a trainer to teach me hunter. Made me focus on my form, on control, on a steady and well-paced ride. He wouldn’t let me compete in anything except hunter. And at first I was terrible. Sloppy and undisciplined. And for a long while, I hated hunter and everything about it. But eventually I began to appreciate the value of being a solid, reliable rider. Someone who could get the exact number of strides they wanted between fences. Someone with good form, that made it easier for the horse to carry them. Someone who used the lightest aids possible to get the response they wanted. And I became very competitive.”

Derek grins. “I could see that.”

Stiles grins back. “I won the Maclay before I aged out. Won a bunch of other things, too. And I did it all while looking impeccable,” he says, elbowing Derek playfully.

“Yeah, not so much a thing in the jumper ring,” Derek says, laughing. “Except maybe at grand prix level.”

All of them, including Cooper, are startled when Derek’s phone goes off. “Sorry,” Derek says, silencing it. He takes another look at the screen. “Shoot, I didn’t realize the time. I better get going. Thank you again for all your help,” he says, extending his hand.

Stiles shakes it cheerfully. “Anytime,” he says, meaning it. He’d really love to see Derek again, even if it’s just for another lesson.

He watches Derek load up and make his way down the long driveway, then heads back inside the office. “Not a word,” he says to Erica, who simply mocks him with facial expressions instead.

He sits down in his part of the office, clicks through his emails, and pointedly reminds himself that he probably won’t see Derek again.

 *

 He’s in the crossties, trying to untangle Jake’s mane, when there’s a soft sound behind him.

When he turns, he sees Derek standing in the aisle, a little smile on his face.

“Shit, do you have another lesson I didn’t know about?” he blurts, because he wouldn’t put that past Erica.

“No, don’t worry,” Derek says, laughing. “I just didn’t have a chance to really see the place last time I was here.” He glances around at the stalls. “It seems nice.”

Stiles shakes his head. “You don’t have to be polite, I know it’s kind of run down. It was my mom’s dream to have a stable, and even though he never really got that into horses, my dad did his best to keep it running. Now I mostly handle things, though he still comes around to help out, sometimes. And comes to see me ride, when I have the chance to actually do that,” he says wryly, going back to Jake’s mane.

“The stable looks pretty great to me,” Derek says softly, moving around to his other side.

When Stiles glances over, he sees Derek’s grabbed a comb, and is neatly unknotting a section of mane. “I used to be a groom,” he says when he catches Stiles watching. “Don’t be too impressed. I was a kid, I had nimble hands. Of course they were going to have me braiding and detangling.”  

“You still have the knack,” Stiles says, pulling leaves and twigs out of another clump of mane. “And I appreciate it, because I was considering roaching it if I couldn’t get it combed out. This old boy likes rolling too much, and the tangles get pretty bad.”

He ends up leaving the mane to Derek, since he’s making great progress, and brushes out Jake’s tail, which isn’t nearly so snarled up.

When they’re done, he says, “I’m going to turn him out in the back pasture, want to come?”

“Sure,” Derek says, stepping out of the way as Stiles unclips Jake and leads him out.

“He’s retired,” Stiles explains as they head behind the barn and pass the hay shed. “So he mostly spends his days with the other old folks out in the pasture, living the dream.”

“It’s nice that you keep them,” Derek says, patting Jake’s neck fondly.

“Can’t quite bear to let them go,” Stiles says, shrugging. “Besides, it gives the younger riders some gentle horses to dote on. Jake here is happy to be brushed for hours.”

“Can’t say I blame him,” Derek says. “Horses like affection as much as people do.”

Stiles nods. “Hey, before I forget to ask—how’d you and Cooper do at the show?”

“Got third place,” Derek says, looking pleased. “Better than we’ve done for a while. Our jump-off round wasn’t that fast, but it was smooth, and that made a big difference.” He shrugs. “Still got some work to do, though.”  

“That’s great, I’m glad you placed,” Stiles says, unlatching the pasture gate and leading Jake in. Derek helpfully swings it shut behind him. “Are you thinking about coming back for another lesson?”

“That depends,” Derek says.

Stiles lets Jake loose, steps back out of the pasture and latches the gate behind him. “Depends on what?” he asks, searching Derek’s face.

“On whether or not you’ll date a student,” Derek says, his smile suddenly looking nervous.

“What? My policy is—oh. You want to date me?”

“If that’s okay,” Derek says tentatively. “Can I take you out tonight?”

“I’d love to,” Stiles says, smiling what is probably an absurd amount. “But I have lessons until five, and then I have to feed everyone after that, so. Is that going to be too late?”

“How about I pick something up, and we can eat here?” Derek says easily, looking pleased by the prospect. “Then you don’t have to feel rushed.”

“That’d be great,” Stiles says, and can’t resist brushing a hand across Derek’s shoulder before they head back to the stable. “I’m looking forward to it.”

 *

 It’s probably not the most romantic first date, eating pizza in the empty breakroom of his stable’s office, the sound of horses stomping and whinnying in the background, and, despite Stiles’ best efforts, the whole place smelling faintly of hay and grain. But despite all that, he thinks it’s pretty perfect. And judging by the smile on Derek’s face, he thinks so, too.

[whispersafterdusk]

The Master’s Apprentice - ch 7

Having seen the crown for himself gave him a clear understanding of why Kestrel's offer to him had been so black and white, and he found that any remaining anger or misgivings he had about her had been swept away by an underlying fear of what was buried under his feet. And now he understood too that until they figured out how to deal with the crown that it WAS in fact too dangerous to leave - they were dealing with a Daedric Prince...if someone wanted that information it wasn't going to matter if Onmund wanted to tell anyone or not because there were an alarming number of ways it could be forced out of him.

He couldn't help but notice that in the following days Kestrel seemed worried...somewhat distracted as she took him through his lessons; it could only be because of the crown, but was she worried about him trying to do as her last apprentice had?  Surely not...she'd seen how it had effected him and he had zero desire to even go near the damned thing. ((continued below cut))

But did she suddenly suspect him?  Had that lessened her trust in him?

That morning when he placed his tally mark (eleven months, twelve days - had it really been so long?) and waited for Kestrel to knock he couldn't stop dwelling on it...worrying that she'd now see him as untrustworthy, or a liability.  When the knock came and he opened his door he just barely caught the worried look disappear under a mask of pleasant politeness; he sighed heavily and she raised an eyebrow at him questioningly.

"What is it, apprentice?"

"You've not been acting like yourself ever since you showed me that crown.  Why?"

She blinked at him, looking surprised.  "Oh?"

"You've been distracted, I see how you look when you think I'm not looking at you.  I saw it just now.  Something's wrong, isn't it?  Or do you not trust me anymore?"

Kestrel rubbed her hands together idly, scratching her own knuckles; it was a fidgety movement and seemed out of place on her - she'd always seemed so confident and prim.  For a time she didn't reply and chewed on her lower lip, then huffed a small sigh through her nose.  "You are not as attuned to the magical flows of this place as I am - not yet.  You cannot sense the defenses, or notice if something is awry."

A pit of ice formed in his stomach.  "What do you mean?  Has someone found us?"

"Yes, and no.  Do you remember me saying there should have been no way for you to fall down here?"

"Well, yes."

"To me that meant that I had been found, without my knowing.  Someone or something was trying to get down here and had opened the way...a way I'd thought sealed and obscured, and that I thought I would notice if it suddenly wasn't."

"So...someone knows we, and the crown, are down here?"

She nodded, looking grim.  "That's what I suspect.  I've felt someone testing my wards - not the ones around the crown," she added quickly.   "The protective measures laid around this little compound.  No one should know I'm here.  There were NO natural caverns below Saarthal - what ones that existed in this particular part of the mountain were dug out and that is what Saarthal was built within...and yet so slowly that I never detected it someone managed to open enough of a way here for you to slip down."

The pit of ice turned into a sharp spike of fear as he looked at her.  "Master, I promise - I wasn't sent down here by anyone, I-"

"No, no, I believe you," she interrupted.  "Your coming here was by accident.  It is a benefit to us both that I do not need sleep as I've been awake and aware each time something taps against my defenses...but I haven't been quick enough to catch the damned skeever that's poking around."

Onmund swallowed hard as a terrible thought came to him.  "...this didn't start until you showed me the crown, did it?"

"Correct.  Or, well...the testing of the wards began then - I obviously never noticed someone burrowing in my direction.  The poking is... It's very subtle but I am always especially wary after showing someone the crown."

"So, it's possible someone sensed it in the instant you dropped your defenses to show me?"

"Yes and no.  I WAS hiding beneath the Eye's magical presence and that's now gone...ordinarily I'd say the odds are nigh impossible that someone would be looking this way at the perfect time but we're dealing with a Daedric Prince and I've no doubt he wants his artifact found and put to use, whatever its actual use IS.  My own power is leaps and bounds ahead of any mortal but I'm a single speck of sand on a shoreline against Molag Bal's tidal wave."

"...what do we do, then?" he asked carefully.  The thought that Molag Bal was scheming to open the way down here for someone to take that crown...it was deeply terrifying, especially considering that the way was already open ENOUGH if he was able to fall down here.

Still rubbing fingers across her knuckles Kestrel began to pace.  "-I am hopeful that the fact he hasn't directly intervened to retrieve the crown means that he is somehow unable to, as we'd both be easily crushed under his power...but his agents are certainly looking for a way in.   It seems a shift in your education is now required -- what do you know of battle?"

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

Thirteen months, five days.  Day after day of combat instruction and practice, ward strengthening, mental exercises, and tense evenings where Onmund's imagination liked to picture horrible, nightmarish things crawling about on his ceiling just out of his view.  There were some days that the fear made him angry more than anything - no sane person welcomed fear even if it was a handy survival instinct, and Onmund found he hated this...this formless, unknown fear more than anything else.   It would be different, he felt, if he knew exactly what was coming for him (for THEM) but not knowing left a gnawing anxiety at the edges of his focus.

Kestrel didn't speak much about further attempts to find gaps in her defenses; he knew it was still happening as she was still on edge, no matter how much she tried to hide it from him.  She tried to keep them on as normal a schedule as possible but there were scattered mornings where she was late coming to get him and he would meet her hurrying down the hall.

This was another one of those mornings; Onmund was already at the door to the Hall of Mirrors when she emerged from her room, and she followed him inside without a word.

These combat lessons - old battlemage techniques, she'd called them - had him utterly sick of this room; there were scorch marks, shattered places, melted places, uneven spots in the floor...so many signs of the rigorous training she was putting him through, day after day.  In their earliest lessons if he'd damaged anything in the room she'd fixed it without hesitation...she hadn't bothered with that in nearly two weeks.

"Good morning," was all he said as he walked out into the middle of the room, ducking between two monoliths.

He heard a mumbled greeting in return as he took his place and turned to her, ready to start the day with a spar as usual; Kestrel's image across the room was blurred - sort of like looking through a fogged glass.  At first he wondered if this was some new defensive technique that would be the center of today's lesson but...no - the whole room was sort of blurry.  

Glancing down to his hands he found he was blurry even to himself -- his outline was a swirling fog, a thin smoke rising from his skin and, as he watched, it was spreading out to coat his entire body.

"-what is this?" he asked - his voice echoed in his own head and an instant later he staggered at the sensation of something impaling through his chest...nothing was there that he could see but there was a distinct feeling of something lodged there.

And it was pulling.

His body was turning transparent as the hook-like sensation around his sternum intensified, and Onmund felt more than saw his feet leave the floor before his vision went dark; there was a rushing, roaring noise in his ears and the pressure in his chest became unbearable as he was ripped upward in total darkness.

It was over quickly; a blinding light filled his eyes as he struck stone hard enough that he bounced and rolled, all of the air blasted out of him and struggling to breathe.  Through the roaring in his ears he heard a faint "Onmund?  He- he's alive?!" and then there was nothing as the light went away, and so did he.

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

Beneath him was a straw mattress - it was poking him in several places - and over him was a light coverlet, and somewhere beyond the darkness of his closed eyelids he could hear voices talking.

"Are you certain?"  That voice was definitely Tolfdir's.

A woman's voice - soft and sympathetic, and unfamiliar - answered him. "Unfortunately I am, Master Mage.  He bears a mark - it's a common type of spell among those who keep slaves.  Given time I could free him of it."

"To think he's been someone's prisoner all this time...poor boy."

"Let's give him time to rest and come around, and see what he has to say for himself.  It might help determine just how ensnared he is."

How ensnared...?  His mind was very groggily processing what he'd heard but from what he understood...whoever that woman was who was speaking could tell he had a spell on him.  Kestrel's spell?  It could only be that.  How had she sensed it though?  Onmund had yet to reach a point where he could sense it and it was ON him - maybe that was purposeful...obviously Kestrel wouldn't want him figuring out how to remove it on his own.

But whoever that woman was COULD sense it, and she meant to remove it.

No, no no no... He couldn't let her do that - it was highly likely Kestrel could kill him with the spell at any distance and if she felt someone tampering with it...well, it would only make sense for her to kill him to keep the crown's secret safe.  He certainly wouldn't blame her but he definitely would rather remain alive.

Though at the moment he had to admit that death seemed rather attractive -- his head both spun and throbbed at every little movement, he swore he could feel his own pulse in his eyeballs, there was a very deep ache in his chest where the pulling sensation had been, and all over his skin felt...tight, or burnt; he didn't think it was possible to feel worse than he had after Kestrel had tried to kill him, but well...here he was.  However they'd managed to rip him out of Kestrel's care had really done a number on him and if he stopped existing for a little while he didn't think that would be such a bad thing.

He eventually drifted asleep and woke up later feeling only slightly better; the burning, tight feeling across his body had faded and the pain in his chest lessened, though the throbbing in his head was still just as terrible as it'd been earlier.  Very carefully he opened his eyes and, without moving his head, looked around as much as he could at a room he hadn't seen in over a year.

Everything he could see seemed to be exactly where he'd left it; very slowly, very carefully, he rolled to his side and leveraged himself up on an elbow, making a few feeble attempts to free his feet from the covers.  They'd only removed his boots but the sleeves to his shirt were rolled up - he definitely didn't remember doing that himself, and knowing that the runes of Kestrel's spell were visible across his chest and down his arms he had a feeling he knew why his sleeves were rolled.

The more he (carefully) moved the easier it became and finally he sat up on the edge of the bed with his bare toes just barely brushing against the cold stone floor; it was so strange to be back in this room again - bittersweet and a touch ironic, he thought.  He could still remember a time where he'd wanted, more than anything, to come back here...and now that he was, all he wanted now was to return to where he'd been.

How was he going to explain himself?  What could he safely tell them?  Would they leave him alone if he asked, or believe his explanation that it would kill him if they tried to take Kestrel's spell off him?

Movement at the door caught his attention; looking up Onmund found Tolfdir, Faralda, and another Altmer woman he'd never seen before peering in at him.

The woman was tall - much taller than Faralda next to her - and had shining black hair that hung freely to her shoulders; she wore a forest green, knee-length leather vest over cream colored robes, tied with a brown sash hemmed with gold thread.  Her face was softer, rounder - not as angular as Faralda's and definitely not like Kestrel's - and bright amber eyes were looking at him in a mixture of curiosity and something like pity.

Toldfir wore a similar expression though his was tinged with excitement and relief - in a way it was sort of...heartwarming, Onmund supposed, that the elder looked genuinely pleased to see him.  "Onmund, my boy...words cannot express how glad we all are to find you alive, after so much time."

"How are you feeling?" the Altmer (that wasn't Faralda) asked, wringing her hands.  "I'm relieved I didn't accidentally kill you...that spell isn't meant for living creatures," she added under her breath.

"I've felt better," Onmund replied, gaze moving between the three.  "How did you bring me back here?  Why?"

"Well," Tolfdir started, sighing.  "Your parents were adamant we return your remains, and - with the assistance of our guest here - we aimed to do just that."  

Tolfdir nodded to the tall Altmer who then politely bowed toward Onmund.  "Indeed... I wasn't expecting to be seeking a living man, only calling a lifeless object to myself.  If I'd even suspected you were alive there were many different precautions I would have taken, and you wouldn't be feeling as poorly as you do now."

He shrugged and stood, swaying a bit but finding his balance fairly quickly; his head pounded at the change in posture but he grit his teeth and carefully padded barefoot over toward the door, only to walk into something both solid and invisible right before he reached the doorway. "-ow, what-"

The tall Altmer woman rubbed a hand against her neck, looking guilty as she hurried to step back behind Tolfdir.  Onmund reached out a hand and again hit something solid but unseen - he knocked his knuckles against it experimentally and could just barely see a tiny ripple spreading from where he struck...whatever it was in front of him.  "What is this?  Why have you trapped me in my room?"

"That's, ah..." Tolfdir started, blowing out a long, slow sigh. "That's a precaution, is all."

"For what?  You can't honestly think I'd hurt anyone."  Onmund honestly wasn't certain if it was more worrying or insulting.

Tolfdir glanced to Faralda and then the nameless Altmer before looking back to him.  "It would seem you have some kind of magical mark upon you - a sign that you have been claimed by something or another.   We're not entirely sure about its true function just yet, but in the name of caution we would rather you remain contained for now."

Onmund frowned, fighting to keep his expression and voice even.  "I won't hurt anyone and I'm not under anyone's control.  I know what spell you mean, and uh-" he looked up at the black-haired Altmer woman -- he was fairly certain it had been her voice he'd heard before, talking about wanting to remove the spell on him.  "-trust me, the spell is the only reason I'm alive.  I will absolutely die if you take it off me."

The woman pressed her lips into a thin line, giving Tolfdir a knowing look; Toldfir nodded to her and looked back to Onmund.  "I'm afraid we aren't inclined to take your word for it."

He felt a little chill go down his spine.  "Wait, you mean you'd actually risk killing me outright?"

"I've seen these sorts of spells before, young man-"

"No, you haven't," Onmund interrupted the Altmer woman before he could stop himself.  It was the bare truth - she couldn't have possibly seen a spell Kestrel created in isolation - but he knew he couldn't explain it further than that...not without telling them far more than he knew he or Kestrel would want them to know.  "And I know you haven't because this spell is unique."

Again the woman gave him a pitying look before resting a hand on Tolfdir's shoulder.  "I think this only confirms my suspicions, Master Mage.  When he is recovered we can start our attempts."

"No, please - you have to believe me," Onmund insisted.  He pressed his hands against the invisible wall that kept him barricaded in his room.  "Please, if you remove it I'm going to die.  How do you think I survived the fall?"

"You tell us," Faralda replied flatly.  "You didn't have such a spell on you prior to your fall, and you would have needed to survive in the first place for anyone ELSE to have placed it on you.  Speaking of, WHO placed it on you?"

Onmund paused, gnawing on his lower lip.  "...there's another mage trapped down there," he said slowly.  It wasn't technically a lie, and it didn't give them more than they needed to know.  "She found me, and placed the spell on me to save my life.  I am going to die if you remove it."

Again the Altmer woman gave Tolfdir a knowing look, then sighed and walked away muttering under her breath.  Tolfdir echoed the sigh and gave Onmund a strained smile.

"We will do what we can, Onmund.  I just hope you can understand our need for caution.  Get yourself back into bed and rest up - we'll have a meal sent up soon, and then we can all talk when you're feeling better."

With a quiet growl Onmund banged the heel of his palm against the invisible barrier.  "Tolfdir, please - you have to believe me.  I really, really do not want to die.  You can set me free, I'm not under anyone's control and I'm not going to hurt anyone, but please, just leave the spell alone."

Tolfdir nodded idly and turned to leave without another word; Faralda's look was one of mistrust and unease, but there was an underlying concern there as well.

"Do you feel injured?" she asked.

"I... I feel like someone tried ripping my ribcage out in one piece, then threw me into a too-hot bath."

Faralda frowned, rubbing at her chin.  "I'm sorry... I'll fetch a few things to help with the pain.  I can't cast through the barrier on your room so we'll have to make do with potions and teas for now."

"Please tell me YOU believe me?  Or at least don't want to kill me?   Hey - wait!  Faralda!" He smashed his face up against the barrier, struggling to keep Faralda in view as she walked away, ignoring his shouted questions.

"Oh so happy to see me one moment, eager to murder me the next," he muttered into the silence that followed.

The longer he stood the more his head throbbed, and he was beginning to feel lightheaded and dizzy.  He padded back over to his bed and climbed into it; it was like sleeping on stone compared to his bed back-

...back home.  That's really what that place had become: home.  He lived there, studied and learned there, and had a purpose there too...moreso than he'd had when he'd been here at the College, and now he was endangering all of that.

He didn't for a moment think Tolfdir or the others would stoop to...to torture, or anything like that, to drag the truth out of him about where he'd been the past year -- but who was the black-haired Altmer woman?  She seemed like someone important; with a sinking feeling he suddenly wondered if she was the new Arch-Mage...no, that was stupid.  She hadn't been here before he'd fallen down to Kestrel, and there's no way a stranger would have climbed the ranks in such a short period of time.  And yet...with how she and Tolfdir had interacted she was clearly more than another apprentice or initiate, and she didn't dress like a Thalmor either.

Who was she?  What was her purpose?

And...how strong was she?  Would he have a chance to escape while she was trying to pry Kestrel's spell off him?

[imagineclaireandjamie]

The Getaway - The Runaway Wedding.

meggie-aisling asked:

Will the fic “external forces” be continued? I really love it and am anxiously waiting to read any new parts!

anonymous asked:

Hello girls!!! I was wondering if any of you wrote that fic about Claire getting pregnant on their wedding and that’s why Jamie doesn’t beat her in 1x09? I don’t remember if you wrote but I just wanted to say that I loved it so so so much and if you’re planning on continue it? Thank you!

--

‘External Forces’ is marked as completed for now, lovelies. So I hope you don’t mind me putting the next chapter of ‘The Getaway’ here instead. I hope you enjoy - Mod MBD.

--

Watching as her head lolled against the window in the rear passenger side, Jamie eyed Claire lovingly as him and Rupert shared the driving from Beauly to Gretna. Rupert, one of Jamie’s oldest school friends, had happily agreed to come along and bear witness for the love-sick pair. He was eager to get away *anywhere* for the moment. With their exams now over, school was finished and it was nice to do something adventurous.

“So, ye didna tell me about yer wee sassenach lassie!” Rupert jested, his eyes alight with glee as he glanced backwards in his seat. She was a canty one for sure, he thought, his heart swelling with pride for his best friend. It was strange, envisioning Jamie with a family so soon after completing his high school career. But Rupert had to admit that it suited the lad.

“Nay, I couldna,” Jamie replied, a small smile tugging at his lips, “for a start I didna ken if I’d see her again after we parted for the airport. And when she re-appeared I didna ha’ much time, ken?”

“Aye, I do,” Rupert quipped, “too busy wi’ yer—“

“...wi’ my mind on the bairn and Claire…” Jamie interjected quickly, “I hope those are the words about to leave yer mouth.” He continued, his eyebrow raising in challenge.

“Ha. Aye, of course. I wouldna dare say anything besides.” Rupert said, his voice almost cracking on the words as he tried to hold in his laughter. “So...we’re yer parents no’ fair fashed about the whole thing then? Wi’ the two of ye being so young?” Rupert asked, almost shyly.

“They didna seem disappointed,” Jamie replied, shrugging his shoulders as the scenery sped by them, “my mam seemed quite upbeat about the whole thing - truth be told.”

“Lucky sod,” Rupert quipped, “I think my mother would hunt me down and skin me alive if I got a lass pregnant wi’out being at least out of university.”

Smiling, Claire brushed her hair from her eyes and sat up in her seat. She’d been enjoying the steady hum of the car as it raced down the motorway as well as the fluttering of the bairn in her belly. The baby had become way more active recently, bumping and rolling against the underside of her stomach and today was no different. Claire was already excited about the day ahead and the baby was reacting to her quiet frenzy.

Jamie and Rupert’s conversation had her feeling a little guilty as they left the safety of the highlands. Their parents had been utterly brilliant, taking care of them and making sure neither of them felt ashamed of the pregnancy. But here they were, running away to get married.

“It’s alright, Claire,” Jamie said, watching in the rearview mirror as her sleepy smile faded slightly, “I love ye, that’s why we’re doing this, aye?”

“But don’t you think it’s a bit cruel? You know how excited our mum’s were at the thought of our wedding, and we’re taking that away from them.”

Grinning conspiratively, Jamie winked at Claire and indicated to turn off the M74 at the Gretna slip road. “I have the feeling that they willna be far behind us,” he said, reaching his hand back to twin with Claire’s as they slowed down and drove steadily towards the chapel. “Once they ken where we’ve gone I dinna think that they’ll want to miss out on it.”

“...and what if they don’t cotton on?” Claire asked, her fingers gripping Jamie’s as he held onto her tightly.

“Ye have to give them some credit, Claire,” Rupert interrupted, “they’re our parents. They ken more than we know. I think Jamie might be right.”

Flopping back against the seat, Claire inhaled deeply.

“Either way, a ghraidh, I get to marry ye - the woman I love - and that’s all I want.”

Pulling into the car park, Jamie pulled his hand free of Claire’s for just a moment as he brought the car to a halt and turned the engine off. Leaving Rupert in the front watching the birds in the bushes beyond the fence in front of them, he climbed into the back and pulled Claire into his arms.

“I want to marry you so badly, Jamie,” she said, taking Jamie’s hand and placing it over her belly gently. “The baby feels the same, I think.” She said, her cheeks heating as she placed Jamie’s hand over her bump and rubbed soothingly.

“That that’s all that matters, Claire, aye?” He returned nuzzling his nose softly against hers.

Smoothing down the silky fabric, Claire eyed herself cautiously. She was wearing a maternity style off-cream dress that billowed around her ever expanding waistline and down to just below her knees. It covered her stomach enough but it couldn’t hide the reason for their quick elopement. Not that she was embarrassed. Claire had long since become accustomed to the strange looks passers by gave her as she wandered around the town and had learned how to brush them off without much thought.

“Ye look stunning lass!” Rupert said from the doorway to the back room of the small chapel.

Twisting to glance across the small space, Claire licked her lips and held her hands beneath her tummy delicately. “Is there any sign of them?” She asked calmly.

“Nothing as yet, lassie, but there’s still time, aye?”

Nodding, Claire took Rupert’s outstretched arm and walked slowly towards the now open door. “Do you really think they’ll come...in time?”

“Do ye want to wait? Jamie wouldn’t encourage ye to go through wi’ this if you wanted -seriously- to make sure yer parents were here to witness is. Ye ken that, right?”

“I really wish they were here,” she confessed lowly, “but I don’t want to wait to be married. That’s more important to me now. I just--”

“...want it to be perfect?”

“Yes.”

“They’re ready for you now.” The registrar's assistant piped up from the doorway, her hands clasping the wooden frame gently as she peeked her head into the small preparation room. “Do you want to follow me out, guys?”

Nodding in time with one another, Rupert led Claire out and down the short corridor towards the ceremony room where Jamie was waiting. Heaving in a large, soothing breath, Claire made sure to put one foot in front of the other as her eyes began to mist over. The thought of making her small family complete with Jamie by her side made her chest swell with pride. They still have several hurdles to overcome; results day was fast approaching and Claire still hadn’t fully decided whether she was going to pick up her A Levels.

Before she’d had time to think, Rupert had her hovering at the end of the short aisle, his hand clutching her elbow so gently that she barely felt him pull her to a stop.

“Take a breath, Claire,” he whispered into her ear, hyper-aware that she hadn’t inhaled in a while, “it’ll do ye no good to collapse on me here, aye? I ken I’m no’ the smallest, but I amne strong enough to carry ye down there to him.” He jested, his chest heaving up and down with suppressed laughter as he nudged Claire with his knee.

Just as the room fell silent = the registrar’s finger hovering carefully over the button to start the pre-recorded organ music - a huge bang echoed through the halls of the small chapel. The sound of footprints thumping towards them made Claire, Jamie and Rupert all turn to gaze through the open door.

“Wait!” Henry called, his loud cry causing Claire to pull free from Rupert and turn quickly in the direction of her father's voice. “Claire!” He panted, appearing in front of them in an instant. His usually quaffed hair standing aloft on his scalp. “T-that’s my job,” he huffed, winking conspiratively in Rupert’s direction, “to walk the bride down the aisle,” he continued, more composed now, “do you mind if I take it from here?”

“Nay bother, sir,” Rupert replied, passing Claire’s arm to Henry’s and skipping madly down the aisle towards Jamie with a rather large grin on his face.

Next into the room followed Julia, Ellen and Brian, all with pink-tinged cheeks and almost manic expressions on their faces.

“We’re not too late then?” Ellen asked, smoothing down the wrinkles in her floral summer dress.

“You’re all here?” Claire whispered. She was awe-struck. Her face was a sight to behold; half caught between shock and happiness, she couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry - or do both at the same time.

“O’ course,” Brian said, taking her free arm in his and kissing her heated cheek lightly, “as soon as we kent yer mission we came. Did ye think we’d want to miss our weans getting marrit?” He said, his accent getting distinctly thicker as the emotional high they’d all been riding on their manic trip down the country began to fade.

“We hoped ye’d come,” Jamie said, his voice carrying through the small purpose built room, “but we didna ken whether ye’d stop us if we told you.”

“Never,” Ellen and Julia said in time with one another, “we just want you to be happy.” Ellen continued alone, “if that means a small wedding done now - quickly - then we just want to be here wi’ you, aye?”

Coughing, the ceremonies team all chirped up together, the registrar looking idly at her watch as she glanced between Jamie and Claire. “Are we ready now, ladies and gentlemen? Time is getting short.”

“Yes,” Claire murmured, the tears gathering in her eyes as she stood happily between her father and her father-in-law-to-be.

Walking slowly, the men and Claire waited for Ellen, Rupert and Julia to sit down before speeding up their journey towards Jamie. The ceremony itself seemed to pass in a whirlwind. Claire and Jamie had penned their own vows, combining the words from a traditional ceremony with their own passionate verses, and both struggled to get through them without completely breaking down. Holding on to one another's hands, the pair sniffled, sobbed and forced the words out - just about.

With their vows completed, Rupert passed Jamie both rings and watched with a large grin as both Jamie and Claire struggled to get the thin gold over each others fingers.

“I love you,” Claire whispered against Jamie’s lips as the officiant announced them man and wife, her arms slid perfectly around Jamie’s waist as she brought him to rest softly against her stomach. He jerked a little as the bairn moved, the distinct feel of a foot pressing against his abdomen.

“Is that?” He mumbled against her mouth.

“Yes...it is.” She replied, closing her eyes and tilting her head to kiss him more thoroughly.

“I love you both.” Jamie replied reverently, lifting Claire off the floor as they continued to kiss, the feel of his child sending pleasant chills down his spine. “I love you so much, Claire Beauchamp Fraser.”

[mapowrites]

Misericórdiae (Erwin/OC)

Chapter 11: I Know

[ I ] [ II ] [ III ] [ IV ] [ V ] [ VI ] [ VII ] [ VIII ] [ IX ] 

The clock struck two o’clock in the Supreme Commander’s meeting room, and as if on queue, the latter called a close to the assembly. The handful of high-ranking officers saluted their Supreme Commander before leaving the meeting. Erwin followed in the steps of his superior as he stood from his seat, a disgruntled look plastered on the commander’s face. Their request for additional funding had just been denied, and the Scouts had no other choice but to indeed throw a sponsoring event with what was left of their budget. This left a bitter taste in Shadis’ mouth.

“Get in touch with Duke Lichtwark; he owes me, and he’ll be able to reserve the venue. Ask him to have it ready for the end of the week. Then leave it to his wife to plan the event. After all, I doubt you joined the military to plan idiotic parties.” As they exited the meeting room, Shadis and Erwin walked together, and the commander grumbled his instructions in indignation to his right-hand man.

“And for Maria’s sake, if he asks you what colour tapered candles I want, shove the egg shell ones up his ass, would you?”

Erwin permitted a crooked smile at his commander’s misfortune and the absurdity of it all. “Yes, sir.”

Shadis, off to his next meeting in the capital, parted ways with Erwin. The blond officer steadily made his way through the immaculate halls of the military capital’s HQ, his dexterous fingers curled around a file of documents, until he spotted an unpleasant character in the adjacent hallway from him. Assertive and unwavering, Erwin’s strides never faltered as he faced the unavoidable. His fingers unwittingly pinched into the papers.

“Good afternoon, brigadier general.” The blond stopped to greet his superior out of duty.

Markus turned his head. “‘Afternoon, Erwin!” Markus replied cheerfully, and he dismissed his assistant. Left alone with the scout, the general requested to accompany Erwin, and the two men began their walk down the marble corridor.

Charismatic as always, Markus broke their silence. “So, what do you think? I didn’t know the military police and scouts were in the habit of organising parties for those pot-bellied nobles. Perhaps we should officially make it a bi-monthly event.”

Erwin answered, his eyes fixed on the walk ahead. “I can’t say I’m a fan of them myself, sir.”

“Do you think your engineers will come?”

“I'm sure they will.”

“And you'll come too, I hope. I know Ms. Reichart would like you to be there.”

Erwin paused. “I’ve no choice but to make an appearance.”

Markus hummed to himself, his eyes looking to the ceiling in thought. “I wonder what I’ll wear… Is there a knot that’s particularly fashionable these days?”

“You're asking the wrong man, general.” The blond monotonously retorted.

“What about women? Does a woman keep her promise?”

Thrown, the blond raised an eyebrow and turned his head towards Markus. “Sir?”

“Oh, you don’t know? I asked Ms. Reichart to marry me.” The man tilted his head to drink in any reaction from the scout, his lips donning a seemingly genuine smile. The malicious glint in his eyes — that only someone like Erwin could’ve noticed —betrayed his honesty.

Erwin felt his heart stop, but he refused to look at anything but what was in front of him; he wouldn’t let his reaction fuel the brigadier’s insidious remarks.

Markus continued to eye the blond, and when he elicited no visible reaction from him, he simply looked away and continued. “I’m waiting for her answer. Do you think she’ll say yes?””

“Once again, I’m—”

“Please, you seem to know her well. Help me out.”

Erwin paused for a long time, the clicking of their boots the only sound in the hallway. Reluctantly, he answered. “I suppose if it's not inconvenient to her.”

Markus let out an amused laugh. “Smith, you've become quite cynical lately.”

“Pardon my impertinence, sir, but I would rather not discuss personal matters of these sorts.”

“Very well,” The two officers reached the HQ’s exit and found themselves before a large outdoor staircase descending to the main street level. “I just wanted to tell you in advance, Smith, because I believe I know your secret.”

Something about Markus’ tone obliged Erwin to stop. The men turned to face each other, emerald meeting sky blue, and Erwin realised that all signs of facetiousness had dissolved from Markus’ aristocratic face. His green eyes mocked him.

“I’ve seen you together. The way you speak to her. And watch her. And look after her. I know her profound affection for you,” The blond’s unfaltering gaze parried the ominous glare as the air thickened around them. For what seemed like eternity, the men stood at the top of the stairs in silence.

Finally, Markus interrupted their tension when a grin broke out onto his face. He patted Erwin’s shoulder nonchalantly and laughed. “But you've behaved like a man, and as an honourable rival. I’m profoundly grateful.”

Cooly armed with a diplomatic quip, Erwin thought about replying, but they were interrupted by a sheepish soldier.

“General Schoenberg,” Markus turned to face his subordinate. “The commander would like a word, sir.”

Unruffled, the general bid Erwin goodbye with an easy smile. Quietly exhaling the breath he hadn’t realised he was holding in, he watched Markus disappear back into the building with the soldier.

Strolling down the stairs and flagging down a coach to return to HQ, he unclenched his fingers from the papers in his hand. The pages were bitterly warped.

--

Wilhelm was sitting at the desk in his living room that faced the casement window when he saw his daughter walk by in the street. Putting his pen down and taking off his glasses, he stood as the front door opened.

“Hello, father.” Lyor greeted him with a smile when she spotted him walking towards her.

She slid off her coat as they exchanged a kiss on the cheek, and Wilhelm noticed something different about her: her formerly long, ash brown hair had been cut into a bob that barely touched her shoulders. He also noticed the grim rings of grey haloing under her eyes. Not being one to vocalise these changes, the greying man returned to his desk but didn’t sit. He straightened his stacks of papers and books to put away. Despite his concern over her apparent exhaustion, Wilhelm was happy to see his daughter. He turned his head to her.

“It’s nice to see you, half-pint.”

They both exchanged a laugh at the old nickname, and Wilhelm began to organise his books onto the bookshelf beside his desk. After hanging her coat, Lyor’s lingering smile was interrupted when she noticed the now second damaged window in her father’s home.

“Father, why are the windows broken?”

“Just kids being kids.” Without hesitating, he continued to put away his books.

Her brows knit; she knew he was lying. “Kids broke two different sets of windows on either side of the house?”

Wilhelm replied with a thoughtful hum in affirmation, and took a stack of papers and quietly sat at the kitchen table a few steps from the living room. Lyor followed and sat across from him, her eyes perceptive as he flipped through some papers. “If I didn’t know you any better, I’d say you were hiding something.”

Wilhelm glanced up at his daughter from the papers he was organising. “Seems to run in the family, doesn’t it?”

Lyor searched her father’s sagacious gaze for the meaning behind his words. Afraid he would somehow figure something out if he looked at her long enough, she tore her eyes away. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You spend night and day at work. You haven’t been home in two weeks,—”

Lyor cut him off without hesitation, unyielding. “Heinrich is recovering. Someone needs to pick up the sla—”

“— you’ve been irritable and uncooperative; nothing anyone does at work is good enough for you. You snapped at Hanji, your direct superior might I remind you, whenever she showed interest in your progress—”

“I don’t like it when people interrupt me while I’m working.”

“And I don’t like it when people interrupt me when I’m speaking.”

She pulled back at his articulation, his steely tone bringing back unpleasant memories of being scolded. “Sorry.”

“Lyor, what’s going on?”

There was a long pause before Lyor looked away from him again. She spoke as if she was addressing a stranger in the empty living room; reluctant and toneless. “Do you know anything about brigadier general Schoenberg?”

Wilhelm tried to decipher the significance of her question, but found that between all of these turbulent events, his daughter had perfected that emotional veil of hers.

“The project supervisor? I can’t say that I do.” He replied as he sat back in his chair.

“He’s from the interior police, but you’ve never dealt with him before?”

“The interior police has a lot of officers.”

A cryptic silence fell between them after his matter-of-fact response, and he watched her drum her fingers on the table. After a few moments, she stood decisively from her spot and strolled to the kitchen counter where she filled a kettle.

“Would you like some tea?” She asked, dismissing their previous conversation.

Twisting around in his chair, he watched her seriously. “Why are you asking?”

“Because I’m making tea.”

Being accustomed to Lyor’s evasiveness when it came to discussing her problems, he managed to suppress an eye roll. “Your wit won’t work on me, half-pint.”

“It’s complicated.”

He couldn’t see her expression from the angle — not that it would have helped him much — but he recognised the edge in her voice. Wilhelm was a reoccurring witness to his daughter’s emotional compartmentalisation since her teen years, and he couldn’t be fooled by her ambiguity. He stood and joined her at the counter as she lit the stove, and gently placed his hand on her head. She looked at him curiously, and for a split second, he saw the same little girl that used to hold funerals for caterpillars.

The second passed, and he was left with the sight of a troubled young woman idly watching a kettle heat up.

“You’re making me nervous.” He admitted, but his daughter took his hand in hers and squeezed it. She extended him a reassuring smile.

“Don’t be; I simply don’t want to involve you. This is something I have to handle on my own.”

He watched her walk away before he could ask anymore questions. She traversed the kitchen and living room towards the stairs leading upstairs. “Watch the kettle, would you? I have to get dressed for the gala.”

“You’re really going?” He called after her.

She peered at him from in between the banister poles. “Hanji said if I didn’t get away from my desk, she’d solder my hands to it. Now that you’ve said I’ve been snapping at her, I don’t want to find out if she was joking or not.”

--

“Rick, you made it!” Rashad exclaimed from his seat as the broad man pulled out a chair from the squad’s assigned table.

“Don’t they ever think about scaling back a little?” He asked as he took a seat between Hanji and Kenji, gesturing at the ball room.

“They scaled back a lot. They cut two appetisers, cancelled the champagne fountain, and they reduced the catering staff to 21 servers not counting the point men.” Lyor replied, making room for Rick at their table.

Keiji took a swig of his whiskey. “Well, you can’t not have a point man ‘cause then what’s the point?” Tipsy, the group exploded into guffaws.

The immense ball room was full of bodies as the moon neared its halfway point, milling about or near collapse with flutes of champagne in hand and glasses of hard liquor. Some harassed the waitresses putting about, others puffed foul smelling cigars and tossed cards, chips and money on the tables circling the open area where people stood between themselves and acquaintances. These were the regular soldiers of the Scouting Legion and Military Police — dressed in their formal military attire and mingling amongst themselves — some swapping war stories, some discussing politics, and some, of course, playing drinking games.

It was comforting – how settled they were, how happy with just being. But they weren’t the main focus of the party. In the middle of the room, groups of men and women stood and chatted over their alcohol and hors d’oeuvres, while the attendees in the open space in front of the musicians danced gracefully to their serenades. They wore intricate dresses and suits; lace and glimmering jewellery. They were clean cut, their posture rigid and their expressions perfectly poised. From a glance, anyone would know these were not soldiers or heirs of poor families, posh bastards that they were.

Being here only for appearances, she watched the nobles from her spot, as they drank and talked in pretentious voices and haughty laughs – never glancing away from their circle yet always seeming aware. It was enthralling to see, in a place where looking through wool was a favoured state of mind, their eyes were opened – forcefully or otherwise – they lived without the delusions of the general populace. The higher ranking officers from the two military divisions mingled among the nobles, finding their place among them due to their ranks. Lyor spotted Shadis and a few familiar squad leaders amongst the nobles.

She forced herself to tune out the absurdity of the event after a while, sipping at the almost-empty glass of wine in her hand. She brought herself back to her squad, busy laughing and drinking amongst themselves at their table, occasionally forced to partake in inane conversation with passing nobles. They were no longer on their turf; they were in the noble world where not paying attention to your word choice could land you in the streets, stripped of rank. How obscene.

People feared Titans, called them monsters and fled from them like rats. She knew better, knew how monstrous humanity could be – how disgusting and vile. Titans were mindless, pathetic. Humans were premeditated; they could be manipulated, bought or threatened into committing atrocities that would make Titans look like child’s play. She pretended to not notice Markus between the crowd, schmoozing a group of lords.

Just as she lowered the glass from her lips, a voice spoke up from her behind her and Hanji, who sat beside her. “Ms. Zoe?”

The group turned to find a middle-aged woman standing across from them. She looked chummy, like a grandmother, dressed in a traditional dress, and a headpiece Lyor found to look slightly ridiculous.

“Mrs. Hamburg!” Hanji declared, pleasantly surprised. The squad leader shooed Rick out of his chair — muttering something about chivalry — and offered the seat to the older woman, two places down from Lyor. “It’s been a while! How’s your book store?”

“You haven’t seen it since we added a second floor, dear,” the lady replied. Lyor turned away from Hanji and the woman, resuming her previous conversation with her other coworkers. But she couldn’t help but eavesdrop when she heard his name. “Mr. Smith must have told you about it.”

“No, and that bastard never offers to pick up any books for me when he visits town!”

“Oh, he hasn’t visited since the fall, dear,” replied the older woman. “In fact, he bought a first edition Voltaire at that time. I’m not surprised that he hasn’t visited in a while — it cost a fortune!”

Lyor, who was not far from choking on her drink, widened her eyes at her words.

Hanji turned to raise an eyebrow at Lyor’s coughing fit.

The storeowner rambled to herself, “Yes, I’ve always wanted to ask him about it. He said it was a gift for his friend.”

From her spot amongst her coworkers, she had the perfect view of their commander’s right-hand man across the tables. That impenetrable man – taller than all the nobles he was speaking with – didn’t look particularly friendly. He wore expensive shoes, a brown, formal military vest with a matching waistcoat, and the angle he faced her cast a shadow over his gunmetal blue eyes – he was handsome, and he was cold, that Erwin Smith. Cold, but oh so charming. She could tell that his eyes were trying to see something else entirely as they scanned around the group of nobles he was speaking to. She smiled as she finished the last bit of her wine. He was always watching with a cunning eye; watching things beyond his area. And that was something she admired in a man.

Lyor leaned forward to address the older woman. “What was the name of the book?”

She blinked at the stranger but eventually replied, “Dictionnaire Philosophique.” Hanji eyed her friend suspiciously.

The brunette’s heart fluttered, and she suppressed the wily smirk that threatened to stretch on her face.

“I’m also curious to know what his friend thought of it. Why don’t we go ask him?”

“A-are you sure?”

Lyor stood, smoothing down her dress. She flashed a charismatic smile to the older woman, and charmed her into standing herself. “Yes, he’s a good friend of mine. Please, come.”

Baffled, Mrs. Hamburg nodded, bidding goodbye to her customer, and followed Lyor onto the floor.

Lyor watched Erwin catch their approach from the corner of his watchful eye, and he turned to the two women. She caught the slightest slip of surprise on his face before he replaced it with a diplomatic smile. He excused himself from the group of nobles, and the two women stood before him.

Though Erwin kept the observation of Lyor's shortened hair to himself, he noticed. He thought it rather suited her.

“Mr. Smith! It’s been a while. How are you?” The storeowner smiled delightfully as she spoke, plummy.

“Ah, Mrs. Hamburg. I’m well, thank you.” His voice was husky and accommodating, and Lyor eyed him with mischief at the piece of information she had just learned about him. Trying to contain her glee, she was bursting at the seams.

“Mrs. Hamburg came over here to ask you about the book you bought from her in the fall. What was the name of the book again, Mrs. Hamburg?” Lyor spoke, her voice silvery despite her thrill.

“Oh, that incredibly expensive first edition Voltaire for your lady friend. Did she enjoy the gift, sir?”

Lyor watched Erwin’s eyes slightly widen as he looked from Mrs. Hamburg to her, and it took all Lyor’s might to contain her laughter. In that instant, he looked like an innocent boy.

For the first time in weeks, her heart felt feather light.

Flummoxed, he seemed to struggle to form any words for a brief moment before the man finally pulled himself together. He locked eyes with Lyor, and she shot him a devious smirk. Amused, he managed a smile. “… I believe she did.”

Mrs. Hamburg let out a small squeal. “How wonderful! I would have been so disappointed for you if she hadn’t enjoyed it — it took me years to find such an impeccable edition.”

“Yes, in fact, she loved it so much that she refused to loan it to anyone.” With a pointed glance to the brunette, Erwin’s fruity voice risked sarcasm, but only Lyor caught on.

Lyor sheepishly offered a smile, guilty as charged. “Considering she definitely knew you bought it especially for her, certainly. If she did loan it, she would feel like an absolute cretin.”

Erwin’s smile grew. He exhaled, and he felt the tension in his shoulders release as he drank in the colour of her eyes. “I know.”

The conversation carried on for a few minutes, Mrs. Hamburg exchanging pleasantries with the officer and the young woman, before Mrs. Hamburg excused herself to find her husband — but not before falling for Erwin’s charm and promising she would convince her husband to sponsor the Legion. Thanking her, the two bid the storeowner goodbye, and were left alone amongst the sea of attendees.

“You look nice.” Erwin stated, and the two stood face to face, both of them cradling a flute of champagne in their hand.

“Yes, well, this is a really nice dress,” Lyor retorted before she returned his smile. “You’re freshly laundered.”

“It happens from time to time,” Entertained, the blond answered. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

Lyor repressed a sneer. “Actually, no, I’ve lost my cyanide capsule. Have you seen it?”

“I don’t suit this kind of affair either.” With a laugh, Erwin admitted, taking a sip of his drink as he eyed the crowd.

Lyor followed his gaze and sighed as they forlornly watched the sea of refined accoutrements. “I think it’s about time I say good night.”

“I wish I could go, too.”

Lyor’s skin prickled at the voice that came from behind them. “Oh, come now!”

Bitterly, the two turned to face the voice to see Markus approaching them: tall, provocative, and august. He seemed even more intimating than before, donning his formal military attire and a cunning smirk, drink in hand. Greeting him cordially, Lyor and Erwin were the epitome of diplomacy.

“Not before you’ve danced! Both of you. You two make a handsome couple,” Markus gave Erwin an amiable pat on the shoulder as he eyed Lyor. She couldn’t hide the forgery in her smile, but Erwin’s facade was impenetrable. “The next song is about to start; why don’t you two show me how well the Scouts dance? I insist.” He punctuated with a leer.

The deviousness spread to Markus’ eyes as the brunette and blond exchanged a meaningful but hesitant glance, until Erwin finally held out his hand. Lyor modestly placed her hand in his, and his touch was electric. Markus laughed heartily as the two of them smiled insincerely at the officer, walking away to the dance floor. With her hand tucked into his arm, Erwin and Lyor sifted through the crowd to the dance floor peppered with couples who bowed to each other when the song ended. She indulged in the opportunity to touch his arm, but she softly objected.

“Erwin, we don’t have to.”

“I’m not opposed to the idea.”

A new waltz began, and Lyor let go of his arm. When they faced each other, Erwin noticed the flush on her face. It was a time to see a woman redden who was not given to the reddening as a rule: not a point in the milkmaid but was of the deepest rose colour. In considerateness, he pretended not to notice and gently took her hand in his, and chastely snaked his other arm around her waist. He couldn’t ignore how incredible the indulgence of holding this woman in his arms was.

They fell in perfect synchronisation with the music and the other couples, but Lyor had trouble focusing. Her mind was hazy — their proximity and his scent intoxicated her: pine trees, leather and a subtle hint of cologne. All she could think about was the delightful burn of his touch on the small of her back, and the way his body towered over her own.

She compressed her lips to a demure impassivity, willing away any signs of bashfulness, and looked up at him. He smiled down at her when he felt her gaze — pure and penetrating — and an infatuated smile grew without thought on her lips. Blue eyes gazed into honey ones, and she felt as if they were the only two people who existed in that moment.

Lyor recalled the day they met, and she wondered what she had done to deserve that fateful encounter with a man as magnificent as him. She took in every detail of his features: the tenderness in his smile, his bushy eyebrows, sharp cheekbones, beaked nose, and the incredible strength in his gunmetal stare.

It suddenly became very clear to her that he was the only one for her.

--

Notes: *SCREAMS*

Although wtf is that son of a bitch Markus up to

Are we moving too fast? Thoughts?

[ruffsficstuffplace]

And The AWRD Goes To (Part 64)

Note: Lyrics originally by kran* at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ov5IyW-O6bg and Will Stetson at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1QsjrS_xxpI, used without permission and modified by me.

The current version here used is shortened, and relies on a remix of the track I made in my head. Sadly no accurate backing music to that.

9:30 PM, the Professional bracket of the Moonlight Serenade began in earnest.

Crews rushed in and assembled their sets and props in Devalekha’s famous revolving stage. The contestants, their crews, and their supporting members packed the dressing rooms full, if they didn’t have trailers of their own. The hosts smiled as they subjected the audience to enough noise and spectacle to drown out the sounds of frantic construction, and roar of the stage’s complex machinery just behind the curtains.

The seats were packed full with people, from the luxury boxes filled with wealthy individuals, talent scouts, and many of the sponsors for the contestants; the rows upon rows of benches reserved for the rest of the paying audience members; and especially those standing around on the fringes, trying to find the vantage point to escape the crush, or just watch the show, live on the stage or through any of the giant screens attached to the sides of patrolling airships.

And of course, the fans and supporters were out in full force. Whether they were packed together in matching colours like armies, or spread out in small handfuls all over the area, they were all armed with banners, posters, and words to be shouted at the top of their lungs, to their favoured contestant, or to anyone who dared voice the opinion that they might be flawed, or worse yet, inferior in comparison to a different performer that night.

“MARU FOR LIFE!” some random fan dressed in purple cried, their companions chiming in too.

“MIRA IS BETTER!” came from the group opposite them, all dressed in orange instead.

Just beside the two warring groups, the older Schnees, Taiyang, and Zwei did their best to ignore them, but their increasingly passionate arguments began to drown out the background music and the words of the hosts.

A minute in, Freya snapped. “Will you all SHUT THE FUCK UP?!” she yelled as she sat atop Nick’s shoulders. “I’m here to watch the show, not bear witness to your senseless bickering!”

“Piss off, lady, this isn’t your fight!” someone from the Orange team cried.

“Yeah, shut up, this is none of your business!” someone from the Purple team added.

Freya’s ears pulled back, her tail stiffened, and her hands balled into fists. “And if you both annoy me enough that I make it my business...?” she growled.

“Yeah, what’re you going to do, call the cops on us?” someone from Orange taunted.

Freya smiled.

“Freya...” Nick said quietly, but it was too late.

A monstrous screech filled the air, the crowds started to panic and whip their heads about, screaming as they saw a giant, slate blue nevermore’s head sticking out of a glyph. It threateningly snapped its beak a few times, glared evilly at the Orange and Purple teams, but did nothing more.

Almost immediately, a police patrol airship was hovering over them, its spotlights shining down on the them. “Break it up, break it up!” said a voice over a megaphone. “And get rid of that Grimm!”

The nevermore turned to Freya, she nodded, and it obediently faded away into slate blue mist. The two teams began to split apart in retreat, the other people in the crowd rushing in to fill the space.

“Thank you for cooperating, and please do not harass, threaten, and/or use violence and semblances on your fellow audience members, or otherwise disrupt the event,” said the officer on the megaphone. “We would like to remind you that it is illegal to do so, and we have the right to immediately eject you from the premises, and pursue further legal action, if necessary.”

The ship left to patrol other areas, the wedge driven between the two groups seemed too large for them to argue anymore. Freya smiled, and said, “Much better.”

“That was a little excessive, don’t you think?” Taiyang asked.

“Yes, yes it was, Mr. Xiao-Long, but mark my words: no one and nothing is going to ruin my granddaughter’s performance tonight, and my enjoyment of it.” Freya replied. “It was already insidiously sabotaged once, I will not stand idly by and let it happen a second time.”

“Oh, come on, Grandma! You can’t honestly still believe that after all these years?” Winter asked.

Snowie gently nudged her in the side, and said, “Just let it go, baby.”

Winter sighed heavily, and did.

Elsewhere, Weiss and Aqua were in the communal dressing room, sitting at one of the many vanity tables. They were a patch of relative calm in the sea of chaos and busy work, Aqua doing little more than retouching the make-up Weiss already had on, and adding some extra decorative markings and putting on ornate jewelry that would have looked off outside of the stage.

“You nervous?” Aqua asked as she dipped her brush back into the bottle.

“A little.” Weiss replied.

“Well you shouldn’t be,” Aqua said as she let the excess drip off, before she resumed her work. “You’re going to absolutely kill it out there, and that’ll just be with your singing.”

Weiss smiled slightly. “You sound so confident...”

“Because I know just how good you are, Weiss,” Aqua said, smiling as she made one last careful stroke. “There, all done. What do you think?”

“I’m absolutely terrified of sweating, touching my face, or otherwise marring all this wonderful work,” Weiss replied calmly. “Thank you, Aqua.”

Aqua laughed, before her expression turned serious. “Can I confess something to you, Weiss? It’s not recent, just… really long overdue.”

“Uh, sure… what is it?” Weiss asked.

“I was really intimidated and worried about losing to you, the first time you competed here,” Aqua started. “Topaz wasn’t that worried when she did some oppo research and those videos of you performing at Hoshiko and Sanctum popped, but I could just tell you had It—stage presence, appearance, and a talent honed to razor-sharpness. So when I sidled up to you on the night, chatted you up, and saw how flustered you were getting…

“I went full on Sun Tzu, and I am really sorry I did, however little that probably means by now.”

Weiss nodded slowly. “Was the relationship after that some kind of insurance that I’d never compete again?” she asked half-jokingly.

Aqua smiled. “Nah. That was because I find out your cuteness wasn’t all skin deep afterward.” She sighed, and looked down. “You deserved so much better than me, Weiss… better than how I treated you, better than how it all ended...”

Weiss gently put a hand on Aqua’s arm. “Let’s not dwell on the past, Aqua—especially not when we’ve got a show to put on so soon,” she said, smiling.

Aqua looked up and slowly smiled back. “Yeah, you’re right… break a leg out there, Weiss.”

Outside, at the staging grounds, all the construction crews were getting ready, clearing paths for wheeling their equipment, props, and sets in and out; stretching and re-energizing themselves with snacks and stimulants; and running through plans and assignments all over again, just in case.

“Man, that cannon looks big enough to fire someone out of it!” Amanda said as she helped unload the contents of a Bunyan Logging Co. van. “I wonder if they’ll let me borrow it after the show...”

“Most probably not, and I politely ask that you put a stop to any other burgeoning plans involving it,” Diana said as she stood nearby with a clipboard in hand. “Whatever they are going to do with that, it will be a stunt that the inspectors have deemed safe and sane, and I am quite certain that whatever you are planning to do with it won’t be.”

Amanda scowled as she hauled a bundle of prop tools on her shoulder. “You’re no fun, Diana.”

“Well forgive me for thinking of the success of our show, and by consequence, the size of your paycheck once all of this is said and done,” Diana replied calmly. “It will not help our already risky plan in the slightest if any sort of untoward incident garners the wrong sort of attention to ourselves, and thus, the Bakunawa.”

“Alright, alright, no making after-gig plans, sheesh!” Amanda said, before she deposited the tools before Constanze, Akko, and a squad of training dummies.

“You excited to perform for real, Amanda?” Akko asked as she picked up a rake, and put it in a dummy’s hands.

“Hell yeah I am!” Amanda cried as she did the same with a scythe. “Not looking forward to having to stand around here with nothing to do till they let us out at 11:30, though. My cut better be higher than what Jaune got me to agree to way back when, or I am not going to be happy.”

“It’s not that long of a wait,” Akko said as she grabbed a pickaxe.

“It is when the only thing I’ll be able to do is walk around, twiddle my thumbs, or try to chat someone up!” Amanda replied as she kicked up a wooden mallet to her hands. “It’s fucking bullshit they won’t let us use our scrolls for anything other than emergency calls, man.”

“If it helps stop people from sabotaging the other contestants like they did in other years, I can’t really argue against it,” Akko said. “Maybe you should just pretend you’re on wild watch.”

“And here I am, the huntress who did everything she could to get out of wild watch...” Amanda grumbled as she rested the bulky head across a dummy’s shoulder. “Honestly, who’d willingly sign up for a job where you stand around in a tower for hours to days at a time, constantly watching and waiting for something to MAYBE happen…?”

Far and away from the lights and hubbub of the Tsukimi Festival, a few miles out from the city’s borders, Qrow stood alone in a wild watch tower, binoculars in one hand, the other hovering near a large bottle of alcohol with marker notches all over its side.

What was normally a relatively quiet patch of mountain wilderness was alive with the sounds of Grimm driven berserk by the moonlight, the wanton destruction they were causing, and the cries of animals that weren’t given the mercy of swift death. Your average army lookout or Grimm hunter would likely be hyper aware of every last noise as they cowered in a corner with weapon in hand, but Qrow had long tuned it all out, the area effectively dead-silent.

He was just about to take another measured sip of his drink when he heard it: a mechanical noise like a flying machine’s rotors, screeching and whirring like something particularly awful had gotten sucked into the turbines.

It only lasted for a second, but a second was all Qrow needed to whip his binoculars in the direction he’d heard it, tag the location on his scroll’s map, before he pulled it up. “Tower 7 to Central, Tower 7 to Central, come in, Central, over!” he barked.

“Central to 7, what is it, over?”

“Suspicious noise in the immediate vicinity, sounded mechanical, definitely not supposed to be around here tonight. Requesting permission to investigate, over.”

“Permission denied, 7, over.”

Qrow blinked. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me. This is the first interesting thing that’s happened all night!”

“Not to us, 7. We’re stretched paper thin and just got ripped into even littler pieces with similar disturbances reported in the other areas; we need you to stay up there, and maintain your bird’s eye view until some of them start to report what they’ve found, and/or confirm they have returned to their posts, so remain in position and proceed as usual, 7, over.”

“...”

“Do you copy, 7, over?”

“Roger wilco, Central, 7 out.” Qrow said, before he sighed, put his scroll down, and picked his bottle back up. “Isn’t that just my luck…?” he muttered, before he took a long drink of it, ignoring the notches completely.

9:44, back at Devalekha Terrace, Luna Nova’s performance had been completely set-up. The Bunyan workers, Woody, and the Timber Wolves fled the area, everyone else got into their positions, be they human, Faunus, or a creature of aura.

In the center, Diana and Whitley wiped the sweat off Weiss’ face before it could start to ruin her make-up, the glow surrounding Akko and Ruby faded as they stopped channeling their aura into her. They each wished her “Break a leg.” or gave her reassuring looks, before the warning lights began to flash, the safety siren whined, and they hurried to their places.

The stage revolved once more, their section now faced the audience. The inner set of curtains whizzed by behind Weiss and obscured the set and the others, the outer set parted slowly, keeping Weiss from getting blinded by the bright studio lights beaming down on her.

“… And here she is, returning to the Moonlight Serenade after her debut four years earlier, contestant number #2, Weiss Schnee!” the hosts on-stage said, before they ran through the gamut of introductions, small talk, and of course, the ad spot for the Bakunawa.

“I hope to see you all again there later!” Weiss said flirtatiously, before she winked at the audience.

She did not have quite the same effect as Aqua had with her audiences in years past, but there was no time to worry about that, as the lights changed, the inner curtains rolled back, and the show began.

The music was upbeat and fast, the choreography just as energetic; Weiss danced across the stage, the background rapidly shifting and changing as she passed them by:

A beautiful mountaintop palace on the highest peaks of Mistral; the busy and bustling streets of a marketplace in the lower levels; to the rolling fields, thriving seas, and dust mines that fed the kingdom and its industries.

The dummies and the others mimed the daily lives of the people:

Aristocrats and royalty strolling through the gardens and enjoying the beauty; the common folk going about their business, creating art, and sometimes even fighting; and the workers toiling away, loading carts full of food, raw materials, and especially dust and jewels.

Whatever the scene, it was colourful, lively, and bright, cherry blossoms petals floating down all over the stage… and then, the “sky” grew black and thick with smoke and fire, everything was cast everything in dark, gloomy tones as the cherry blossom petals burned up and turned to ash.

With a bold and sudden calling, Northern Revolution's starting Steel your hearts, prepare yourselves, the Great Storm is coming Riding on their beasts of metal, ash and ruins left in their wake Drawing evil spirits like moths to the flame

Mantle soldiers started to charge in, bringing guns and war machines. People were shackled and herded off, instruments, brushes, and art pieces were torn out of hands or destroyed outright, those that resisted or tried to fight back were shot with impunity.

Weiss found herself in the thick of the horrors, dodging and weaving through the crossfire and the explosions.

On the great roads, soaring through the skies, let us move forward, don't look behind. Boys and girls bear blood of the samurai And the pride of their lives gone by.

Bandits and Grimm joined in the mess, Weiss managed to flee back to the palace, where inhabitants remained untouched, as happy and carefree as earlier, even with the Mantle soldiers and war machines surrounding them. With the brief pause in the music, Weiss put on expressions of confusion, horror, then rage; and as the chorus began, so did her plan.

Thousands of cherry blossoms dwindling in the light Though I can't hear your voice, keep what I say in mind - This bouquet that surrounds is iron poison, see, Looking down at us from that big guillotine

With deft acrobatics and graceful movements, evaded the guards and into a new location: a “vault” full of weapons and treasures, the Shiny Rod in the center. She spirited it away, out of the palace, guards chasing her through the market’s streets, to the fields and right into a Grimm attack on dust miners, handing the weapon to the first person she saw:

Akko.

Darkness has just engulfed the universe we know The lament that you sing can't reach ears anymore We are still far away from reaching clear blue skies Go ahead, keep fighting, ignite the light of hope!

Akko raised the Shiny Rod and a fake dust crystal, a bright flash “vanquished” some of the Grimm. The tide began to turn, more fighting, “gunfire,” and explosions rocked the stage as the Mantle soldiers came in.

Veterans who've trained through struggles are now officers in battle Here and there, we see the harlots in procession This one, that one, doesn't matter, every single person gathers March on to our saintly deaths now! One, two, san, shi!

The common folk fell quickly, but more came to replace them. The Mantle soldiers sent in reinforcements and even cannons, but even those didn’t help them as the bandits and thugs came in, clearly on the people’s side as they stabbed the soldiers in the back and joined the mob.

Passing through the gates on the mountain peaks, Escaping this world, kill all the evil fiends Surely this will end in a denouement Among the crowds giving their applause

They stormed the palace, the guards there and the royals stood no chance. The mob tore through them, Akko leading the charge with Weiss, till they reached the top of the “mountain,” victorious. The others raised their arms and cheered.

And then, the Grimm returned in full force.

Thousands of cherry blossoms dwindling in the light Once your song can be heard, we'll dance with all our might! We are still far away from reaching peaks of hope Go ahead, keep fighting, use your shining bolt!

It was chaos all over again, the Grimm fighting their way up the mountain, making short work of the helmeted, faceless training dummies as the living actors put up a fight, but slowly got pushed back up the “mountain” and to the peak.

Akko raised the Shiny Rod, another bright flash exploded all throughout the stage and pushed the Grimm back, the colour and life began to return to the set as they all “vanquished” the horde.

Darkness has just engulfed the universe we know The lament that you sing can't reach ears anymore We are still far away from reaching peaks of hope Go ahead, keep fighting , spread your wings and fly!

The remaining Grimm bowed and cowered at the base of the “palace,” the dummies and the living actors stood proud with their arms raised on the steps leading up, Akko and Weiss stood proudly at the top, holding the Shiny Rod between them as a storm of cherry blossoms rained down upon them again.

And it was then that the real Grimm attacked.

Nevermores flew in en masse, turning the brilliant night sky black from sheer numbers. The music and the audio cut off as emergency sirens and announcements blared in their place. Audience members screamed and started to run as the largest of them all swooped in, ugly, jagged scars and burn marks all over its body.

It blew past the patrol ships and obstacles in its way like paper, broke through the ceiling of the stage, and ripped it off completely as it fled, Weiss and the Shiny Rod in its talons.

Note: God I hate modifying song lyrics, but it was incredibly important for this chapter. Almost all of Weiss important character developments come in song form, after all.

P.S. I just could not get the stanzas to format properly.