#and richness of emotion they demand. there are things i need to braid into the earlier story so they match the ending and remain consistent.

[gentlethorns]

still can't believe i finally got that scene written last night. that signifies that the novel is really truly in the last mile of its marathon. it's been a surprisingly easy race despite it being essentially my first. i am so excited i can TASTE the end it is so close!!!!!!!

[mythiccheroacademia]

—lunch box

A/N: just another cute idea i had because i’m obsessed with barbarian/dragon king!bakugo and fantasy shit in general. some context: you and bakugo are betrothed—although, sometimes you wish you weren’t bc he can be a real asshole. luckily for you, he’s willing to work on it bc he likes loves you just that much. a litte angst (it wouldn’t be a mtha story without it) but it ends in fluff <3

Warnings: cursing

Your friends looked at their food with heart eyes and dug into the neatly wrapped box with fever.

“Ahh! Thank you for making this, Y/N!” one of them exclaimed. The other could only nod in agreement, too into your cooking to speak.

You smiled and waved them off. “It was nothing. Consider it a thank you for letting me copy the homework last night,” you chuckled.

“Did you cook one for Prince Bakugo? I’d imagine he’d love it! If there’s anyone’s cooking he loves more than his own, it’s yours!”

At the mention of his name, your expression fell. You looked down at the case of food you had prepared for him as an apology.

Four days ago, you two were hanging around his residence. You managed to get him to dance around with you. Well, it more like you were dancing and he was doing his best not to combust in embarrassment. Katsuki warned you that you shouldn’t be too reckless otherwise you’d break something.

Of course, you paid him no mind, too enthralled with your fun to notice your proximity to a nearby statue—one of the Bakugo family’s treasures.

One thing led to another, and you knocked it over, shattering it before either of you could even react. Your rich skin lost its glow and your boyfriend cursed something nasty.

Least to say, his parents were not happy. But instead of being rightfully scolded, Bakugo had taken the blame for it.

They found him attempting to clean it up and assumed it was his fault. You wanted to correct them, but he threw you a nasty glare, sealing your mouth shut. He was now under punishment until they deemed fit and from then on, he hadn't spoken a friendly word to you.

A little sigh escaped your lips. Your two friends looked at each other before offering you encouraging smiles.

“Hey,” one spoke, placing a hand on your knee. You met her gaze. “You should go give it to him. He’d love it.”

There was a moment of silence before you decided to act. Taking the spur of confidence, you stood up and briskly made your way to the other classroom. Just before you entered, you heard his voice and felt your heart waver with anxiousness.

However, now wasn’t the time to let doubt consume you. Things wouldn’t get better until something was done.

You took a deep breath, calming your nerves, before opening the door and walking in. Your eyes scanned the room and found the young dragon prince amongst his group of friends.

Jaw set, you walked over to them, hands firmly around the packaged food.

Kirishima saw you first and gave you a friendly wave.

“Hey Princess L/N!”

“Hi boys! How’re ya doing?” you politely asked, putting on your best smile.

They gave you an upbeat answer that lifted your spirits.

Despite that, you hadn't heard a response from Bakugo. In fact, he hadn't even looked at you—but you wouldn’t be disheartened. You fueled herself with faux confidence and held out the dish to your betrothed.

“I-I made you something small yesterday, as an apology,” you stuttered.

Katsuki finally looked up, indifference in his stare. Ruby eyes flickered down to the box filled with rice, chicken, vegetables, and a small pastry on the side. His favorite kind. For a moment, he seemed like considered your offer, but you suffered the low blow of humiliation when he turned away to look through the window.

“Thanks, but I’ve already eaten. Should’ve given it to me earlier.”

Something in your stomach fell. Crushing rejection blossomed up your throat with each passing second. His words were cold, harsh, and unforgiving. It might’ve been stupid, overdramatic even, but it hurt.

Heartbroken wasn’t even the word.

Your nose burned, eyes blurring before you could stop it. Your chest tightened with embarrassment. Luckily, you mustered enough strength to hold in whatever was threatening to crumble you.

“Oh,” you dumbly responded.

“I’ll take it!” Kaminari excitedly said.

“No, I will! I’m still starving!” Kirishima chided.

You placed the box down, struggling to keep up your act.

“Split it between the both of you. I hope it’s good!” You internally winced over how high your voice had become. “I’m gonna to get going now. I’ll see you guys after school, yeah?”

And before anything else was said, you bolted straight out of the room. You hadn’t bothered to look at Katsuki. Knowing him, he probably hadn't noticed the strain in your voice.

As soon as you were out of sight, the tears flooded. You held your hands against your mouth, desperate to muffle your cries. You quickly took you into the nearest bathroom and you prayed no one had seen you lest there be questions. If you went to your friends, it’d cause a commotion. Your parents would eventually find out and you didn’t want any more problems.

So, you cried your eyes raw and eventually willed yourself to stop when it was time to return to class.

…

The week had gone by without another interaction. The weekend brought you some relief since you wouldn’t be forced to see Katsuki’s face for the time being. Or so you thought.

All you wanted to do was run some errands for your parents and then go back home and continue sulking. Yet the universe would not let you rest.

The moment you caught Bakugo’s eyes, you pivoted on your heel and booked it the other way. You assumed his anger with you would force him to keep his distance.

But you were thoroughly surprised to find he was following after you.

“Y/N,” he called.

Irritation and hurt filled your chest. You only walked faster, clutching the purse against her chest.

“Y/N, stop,” he demanded to which you promptly ignored.

This went on for a good thirty seconds until Bakugo decided he had enough. Without much noise, he ran up to you, grabbing you by the shoulder.

You weren’t having it.

You harshly shrugged off his hand. “Don’t touch me,” you snapped, keeping your eyes forward.

“I need to talk to you,” Katsuki grumbled.

“Well I don’t want to talk to you. So maybe some other time.”

Truthfully, the crowned prince found himself shocked at your coldness. Despite your innate boldness, he wasn’t used to such an icy tone. Especially directed at him.

His father warned him to never attack in these situations, but Bakugo let his temper get the best of him. His first reaction was to frown and deal back harsher words.

“What’s your fucking problem, dumbass? When I say stop, stop!”

A spike of anger flooded your veins. You whirled around on your heel and glared at him with frosty eyes. You felt compelled to drop your papers and slap him, but instead, you settled for a finger in his face.

“First of all, I’m not some dog you can just order around, you jerk! And just because we’re betrothed doesn’t mean I’m some girl you can treat like dirt whenever you feel like it! Until you apologize, leave me alone because my only problem right now is you. Bye.”

And just as quickly as you came, you turned to leave.

Now Bakugo was actually stunned. Forget, cold, this was a side of you he hadn't ever experienced. Admittedly, he hadn’t been spoken to like that from anyone besides his mother—and she only got away with it because she was not only the queen…but he was his mom.

Katsuki honestly didn’t know how to handle it. It was only then that he concentrated back on his father’s advice. Whenever his mother was upset with his dad, his father would fight back, but never with emotional anger. Always with humbleness and an understanding tongue.

It usually did the trick considering his mother could never stay upset with him for more than a night. It always struck the teen with hidden awe. Sometimes, Katsuki thought his dad was an angel.

Bakugo was no angel, but he hoped it’d have the same affect on you.

The blonde teen softened his face and walked up behind you. He stopped you, wrapping his arms around your waist to lie his forehead against the decorated braids the fell down your back.

“Damn it. I’m sorry okay?” he lowly said, face burning from such a public display of affection. “Just hear me out.”

You didn’t speak and he clenched his jaw.

“Please.”

You inwardly cursed your rapidly beating heart. If it weren’t for how stupidly nice being in his arms was (he was definitely working out more), and the fact that you found him kinda cute begging for your permission, maybe you wouldn’t have caved in so easily.

For now, you’d blame it on the fact that you two were destined to wed. It was better to start dealing with fights now so, hopefully, the future held less of them.

You heaved a sigh, unwillingly ignoring your body’s urge to curl in his arms. Instead, you pulled away and turned to face him. You peered into unsure crimson eyes with as much harshness you could conjure.

“Fine. Speak,” you permitted.

There was a small pause as he gathered his thoughts. When he opened his mouth, you instantly regretted it.

“I’m still mad at you for being dumb and breaking one of family’s treasures. And I’m still fucking pissed that my old hag is on my ass about it,” he started and noticed how your eyes narrowed in contempt.

You were about to turn away, thinking this was a waste of time. However, Bakugo took a hold of your wrist before you could leave.

“Leave me alone! If you didn’t want to get in trouble, you should’ve just let me take the blame. I can't believe I thought you’d apologize—“

“Let me finish, princess.”

It was your title, yet you felt your stomach flip when it came from his lips. You refused to let it influence you…but you’d give him another chance.

Bakugo stepped closer to you. “I’m upset, but I took the punishment because I wanted to. You didn’t mean to break it. Accidents happen, I understand that.”

There was a pregnant pause. Then, you softened your gaze a bit, eyes still lit with inquiry. “Why? Why would you do that if it meant getting in trouble? I could’ve taken the blame just fine.”

“Y/N, you freak the fuck out whenever you don’t get a perfect score on an exam. You try not to mess up and when you do, it’s like the world is ending,” he explained with a teasing smirk. You ungracefully snorted. He had a point. “When you broke the vase, I could hear your heart drop. You were two seconds away from crying. And when I saw how scared you looked I just—I don’t know.”

The look on your face was something between shock, surprise, and wonder. You blinked, thick lips parting slightly in awe.

“Katsuki…” you breathed to which the boy heavily blushed. Realizing how sappy he sounded, his mind screamed at him to cut it out.

Bakugo looked down and noticed he was still holding your wrist. He quickly let go and instinctively rubbed the nape of his neck.

“D-don’t be dramatic. I just didn’t wanna see you moping around or some shit. My father said that it wasn’t that important anyway…the vase I mean,” he mumbled.

Sure it wasn’t, you thought. What were you gonna do with this boy?

You supposed an apology was a good start.

“That was very nice and admirable of you Katsuki. Thank you,” you eventually said. “I’m still really sorry about the vase, and for being mean to you just now.”

He shook his head. “I know, but I’m the one that should be apologizing. I ain’t hafta treat you the way I did. I was being an ass for not accepting the food you made for me earlier.”

“Yeah you were, ya bastard.”

He chuckled at that. “The two idiots wouldn’t stop raving over how good it was.”

“Well, I had the best teacher in the kingdom,” you grinned.

“And I had an even better student,” he winked.

Your smile widened. Maybe marrying him wouldn’t be so bad.

You couldn’t help yourself when you heartily embraced him, enjoying how his arms slowly slithered around the small of your back. Your eyes met and you kissed him on the lips, leaving him with a little gasp. You pulled away and giggled under your breath.

“You know, you're a sweet guy underneath all that false bravado.”

“False brav—what the hell are you going on about!?”

Ignoring his explosive behavior, you readjusted the straps on your shoulder before turning on your heel.

“Don’t bring anything for lunch on Monday, okay? I’ll see you later, blondie.”

Despite his little tantrum, Bakugo still watched you disappear into the store with a gentle expression. You gave him more headaches than he cared for, but you were worth it. Besides, he was sure you could say the same for him.

Bakugo turned to leave and passed his fingertips over where your lips touched his own.

He’d never admit to the giddiness in his chest. He’d take that shit to the grave.

[starlit-scarlet]

Stress

Pairing: Levi x Reader

Word Count: ~1.9k

This is a somewhat self-indulgent fic I decided to write this morning. Levi gets to comfort reader who's stressed out from school and an internship. Always such fun :) haha

Another long day of school, followed by hours at your internship where you got the thrill of doing all the work and reaping none of the benefits, and you finally staggered into your home, the sun having set below the horizon hours ago. Shutting the door closed behind you— metaphorically shutting away the day— you pressed your back against the door, eyes fluttering shut as you desperately tried to will away the migraine you could feel coming on at the base of your skull.

Fuck, could this day get any worse?

Tears pricked at the back of your eyelids, long having since wondered if any of this was even worth it at this point. Half the time you thought you’d made the wrong choices, picked the wrong path, yet here you were, continuing to truck along, because that was what you were supposed to do. Without having realized, the purse you’d been holding had slipped from your hand to land with a gentle thump on the floor.

The memory of the day flickered across your mind, remembering all the ways you’d apparently screwed up, your asshole of a supervisor never hesitating to remind you of that. Yet she always seemed to forget the way you made sure her files were always neatly organized in the proper drawers, the way you were always on time, never late, always willing to stay late when she needed you. The way your notes were careful and methodical, documenting as much of her time spent with clients as possible.

No. None of that she gave a shit about. She simply seemed hell-bent on pointing out each and every blunder you made.

‘You fucked up big time with that client. How you've gotten this far in your career and education, I haven't a clue. Go get me some coffee. Maybe that, you won’t screw up.’

It wasn’t that you minded criticism. No. You welcomed it. But there was a difference between constructive criticism meant to help you improve, and criticism meant to tear you down.

And you were doing all of this for an overpriced piece of paper that you weren’t even sure was worth it anymore.

Is this something I even want to do anymore?

Sighing, you pushed yourself off the door, wincing at the pull of your back. Sitting all day with shitty posture put a strain on your back, and it had you rubbing at the muscles as you made your way into your tiny kitchen. More tears flooded into your eyes at the sight sitting before you in the warm, dim light of the room.

There at the table was a steaming hot plate of your favorite dish, and you can’t help but drool at the sight of the bowtie pasta topped with the bolognese sauce. It was a meal that always brought you comfort, it having been the first thing he’d made you on that first date so long ago. Beside it, a simple glass of freshly squeezed lemonade, a couple of aspirin, and one of his notes he often left sitting around for you to find.

Oh, how that glorious man spoiled you to no end.

You picked up the note and unfolded it, a few tears trickling down your cheeks at the words.

‘Hey, don’t forget I love you.’

Sniffling, a weak, watery laugh spilled out of you at the simple little note. He may not be one for grand gestures and words of poetry, but fuck, the things he did had your heart pitter-pattering in your chest. As if you could ever forget. The man may be shit at verbalizing his emotions, but each and every day he made sure he showed you in some way that he loved you.

Making sure you had at least one hot, home-cooked meal a day, knowing the rest of your day was spent grabbing whatever was fastest.

Doing your laundry for you when you were bogged down with assignments for school, with work your supervisor forced you to take home to finish.

Taking you to your favorite spots on days where you had a little free time, the ones that held the most cherished memories for you.

Hugging you.

Kissing you.

Letting you cuddle up against him on the couch.

The fact that he did any of that even though he was also busy with his own job as a software engineer, was something so heartwarming, something only a man like Levi would do. His position was demanding, full of responsibilities, but he always made sure he made time for you, to take care of you.

Hearing a noise coming from the hall, you spun on your heel to watch as he entered the kitchen, your eyes filling with adoration for the stoic man stepping through the entryway. It stumped you sometimes, the way you’d been able to capture his heart, to break through the walls that had been erected around him, finally finding that soft and sweet interior you knew had existed.

He paused mid-step when he glanced up from his phone— most likely checking for messages from you— eyes widening when he realized you were already there.

“Oh you’re back already? Damn, I thought you were going to be a bit later. The soufflé isn’t quite done yet, but—”

The rest of his words are cut off as his breath huffed out of him at the force of you slamming into him, wrapping your arms tight around him. Burying your face into his neck, the trembles hit your body before you can stop them, breath hitching at the way his arms wrapped around your waist, tugging you close against him.

“Hey, it’s okay, I’m right here.”

See, that right there was another way of him reminding you he loved you. Simply telling you that he was there for you never failed to have your heart flipping in your chest the way it did in that moment. His voice might be gruff, but the underlying tones of affection were there, and only ever for you, and it had another shudder hitting you.

As always, he held you without resistance, for as long as you needed, another way he showed you. It had taken you time to learn to speak the language of Levi Ackerman, but now? Now you knew, and you read him with ease, could pick up each and every nuance, each twitch of his brow, the quirks of his lips, everything he did that was a clue to what he felt and thought. His heart was held in the palms of your hands, in the most delicate of ways, just as yours was with him.

He pulled back a touch to kiss the top of your head, tucking his knuckles beneath your chin to draw your gaze to his, and swiping away stray tears with his thumb.

“Why don’t you go get cleaned up and changed while I finish up in here?”

Nodding you leaned up to peck at his lips before making your way into your bedroom, stripping yourself of your clothes and tossing them into the hamper, your shoes placed neatly on the rack in the closet before changing into some comfy clothes and thick socks. Almost immediately, you felt a weight lift off of you, just from the simple act of removing the fabric you’d worn for the day, as if you’d been removing the events of the day with them.

Throwing your hair into a quick braid, you scurried back out, the smell of the food drawing a fierce rumble from your stomach. When you tried to help him finish, he waved you off, telling you to sit down and relax.

That’s how it usually went with him. He refused help when he sensed your day had been rougher than normal, no matter how much you insisted, not until he felt that you were at ease, relaxed, and taken care of. So you relented, settling in at the table, ravishly digging into the meal, slowly feeling more and more at ease. He sat in the chair next to yours with his own plate of food, and for several moments, the only sounds filling the room were the clinking of forks against the plates.

That was something else special about Levi. He always waited for you to eat, wanting at least one meal where the two of you could spend time together, enjoy each other’s company. It didn’t matter the time. Early afternoon, late evening, early night, no. He didn’t care at all, so long as you ate together. Another reminder of how much he cared for you.

When you’d finished, you leaned back in your chair, a satisfied smile filling your face at how his simple care had made you feel better, the aspirin not even needed as the headache faded on its own. Not having realized your eyes had fluttered closed, you started when he took your hand in his, linking your fingers together. You turned your head to meet his eyes, and your heart flipped in your chest at the affection you see in his, the dim kitchen light making his hair appear darker, and you couldn't help the way your free hand combed through the bangs flopping over his forehead, moving to cup the side of his face.

“You don’t have to do this, you know?”

Without even needing clarification, you knew what he was referring to. It was something he reminded you of regularly, reminding you that he would support you no matter what, that you didn’t have to continue on if you no longer wanted, that you would both figure things out together. You don’t know what you’d done to deserve him, but like hell would you ever let him go.

Tears prick your eyes once more, though gentler this time, and not from the stress of the day. “I know, baby...I want to do this.”

Because at the end of the day, this was something you truly wanted for yourself. You wanted to be able to look back and say, I kept going, and I finished. Even if it wasn’t the right path for you, you wanted the satisfaction that came with that overpriced piece of paper.

And that was all the reassurance he needed as he leaned in to graze his lips across your forehead, drawing a content sigh from you. He was your rock, and he was all you needed to make it through each and every day.

Timed perfectly, he pulled the soufflés out of the oven, setting them down in front of the both of you. His is a tart lemon, yours is a decadent chocolate and you can’t help but moan in delight at the richness that hits your taste buds as you devour the desert. Enjoying each other’s company, the two of you sit in companionable silence as you enjoy the delicious dessert he’d made.

Once finished, he rose to clear away the dishes, though this time you insist on helping, refusing to take ‘no’ for an answer. Sensing that you were more relaxed, he relented, the chore passing by faster with the two of you working together...him washing and you drying of course.

With the dishes out of the way, the two of you were free to end the night in the way you both enjoyed best, cuddling on the couch with your legs swung over his lap, his arm around your shoulders holding you close. As he always did, he’d tossed a throw blanket over the two of you before flicking on the tv, selecting the next episode of the latest tv show you were indulging in together.

It was the perfect end to a shitty day, one that helped you keep going.

Back to Fluff/Comfort Menu

[lazysublimeengineer]

you bring color to my monochrome world

Summary: Her smile was the burst of psychedelic hues to Takemichi’s dull, greyscale life.

His loyalty and conviction brought out a multitude of colors to Hinata’s sepia life.

His candid, azure irises painted a sheer, rich texture of prismatic hues to Mikey’s void, insipid life.

Characters:Takemichi H., Hinata T., Manjirou S.

“I wish you a kinder sea.”

— Emily Dickinson

i. I will protect you.

Takemichi was drowning.

He was drowning in the sea of doubt and hopelessness. What was he thinking? Going back to the future to undo every mistake that he did there and save Hina? He couldn’t even save himself from Kiyomasa’s punches and roundhouse kicks. He clenched his fists as he stared at the blinking street lights around the city that evening, ignoring the stares from the other people because of his mottled face and bruised body.

However, was it the right thing to do? To run away again? To struggle in vain and restart his stale life all over again?

He could feel his eyes started to water as he remembered Hina’s forthright yet breathtaking smile when she uttered those words at him in the midst of his own torment and wretchedness: I will protect you.

Her smile was the burst of psychedelic hues to Takemichi’s dull, greyscale life.

And he swore to himself that he won’t fail her this time around.

He would save her.

Even it could him his own sanity and life in the long run.

ii. The only way to win is to kill me! I definitely won’t lose!

The first time that Mikey saw Takemichi was when he was in the middle of an underground fight with Kiyomasa which was to be honest looked like a one-sided battle since the poor guy was being treated like a punching bag by his opponent.

He pursed his lips. Underground fights were stupid and he didn’t want to have the name of the Toman to be tainted by a useless slugfest like this. He was about to make his way there when he stopped midway upon hearing the young man’s speeches that was brimming with firmness and determination.

“The only way to win is to kill me! I definitely won’t lose!”

But the one that caught his full attention was his deep blue eyes shining with tenacity and valor. There were only few people around the world that possessed that kind of reckless yet admirable conviction.

He hadn’t seen that kind of eyes and fighting spirit since his late older brother.

That day he had made up his mind. He needed to have a buddy like Takemichi into his life.

He signaled for Draken to make their presence known when Kiyomasa was getting berserk and demanding for a bat.

The crowd went in complete, deathly silence as they presented themselves and was already beating up Kiyomasa after he succinctly made his existence well known in front of Takemichi.

“Takemitchy. See ya later.” He shot him a carefree grin before he turned away and left the place completely. The young man’s befuddled yet ingenuous expression was forever etched into his memory.

His candid, azure irises painted a sheer, rich texture of prismatic hues to Mikey’s void, insipid life.

iii. I ain’t gonna give her up ever again!

Hinata’s hand was trembling.

Nevertheless, she wouldn’t give these people the satisfaction of seeing the fear creeping up slowly within her. She knew that Takemichi was too trustful and forthright to a fault even though it’s also one of the reasons why she had fallen in love with him.

She just can’t stand there and watched the two delinquents domineered him into their own whims and wants whenever they wanted to. She promised Takemichi that she will protect him after all and she always held and fulfill her own promises.

However, she made a mistake of thinking naively that they can get away unscathed after she pulled out a brave yet foolish stunt of slapping the blond right in front of the class. She tried not to shake as she felt a hand gripped her wrist and heard the threat of the tall male with braided locks that made her swallow thickly.

“Hey. Do you want me to kill you, bitch?”

She heard more words and threats that came out of his mouth before she decided to respond and gave him a piece of her mind. Takemichi was always bruised, crestfallen and lost every time she saw him dropping by her flat. She had enough of these people dictating and treating him like their own slaves. Even if this will put her in a risky situation, she will defend and protect the man she loves.

She was now ready for the consequences of her actions but she was taken aback when Takemichi’s hand gripped the tall male’s shoulder firmly and demanded him to let her go. No. No. No. No. She didn’t want Takemichi to suffer and take the brunt of her actions. If she had to intervene again to save him, then she will have to do it even if it could cost this her own life.

She was about to speak again when Takemichi’s next words made her eyes widened briefly and rooted her to the spot.

“I ain’t gonna give her up ever again!”

It was stated with raw conviction and firm temerity that she had to double take and stared up at him with wide eyes that was brimming with amazement and concern for his well-being now that he challenged the two delinquents in front of them.

‘Takemichi-kun…’ Hinata restrained a gasp as she observed Takemichi in silence. It was like seeing another facet of him that was different from what she used to see. But she liked his tenacity and firmness. He may be a crybaby and wore his heart on his sleeve but she knew that his heart was in the right place.

After a troublesome misunderstanding later and apologies pouring from her lips, she waved goodbye to Takemichi and let him hang out with his newfound friends.

His loyalty and conviction brought out a multitude of colors to Hinata’s sepia life.

And she could never get tired of loving him.

iv. That’s why I’m going to create an era for delinquents.

Mikey stared at the horizon in front of them with a serene smile on his face.

Takemichi observed him from a few distances away, looking at the quiescent male who was sitting on the grass. Draken was also standing a few meters away from them, sporting an unflappable expression on his face.

From what he observed so far, Mikey was a delinquent but he was not a bad guy. He was simply a person who possessed some radical beliefs on his own and translated it into his actions that may be questionable to other people due to his carefree yet strong personality and straightforward manner of speaking.

He had also noted some odd yet interesting behavior from the gang leader himself. Even though he’s mostly laid back and insouciant he had a habit of flipping a switch to his moods seamlessly, revealing a hidden cold anger and ruthless nature from within as he had witnessed on how he just beat up Kiyomasa like it was nothing.

There was a saying that the eyes were the mirror to the soul.

But when he looked at Mikey’s onyx eyes it was a bottomless pit of nothingness. Devoid of any emotion and was a vacuum of an empty black hole. He remembered how he stared down at Kiyomasa like he was nothing more than a pathetic insect under his palm that’s waiting to be crush. And how Mikey’s eyes almost suck the life out of him earlier in that tense situation with Hina, almost resigning himself for the inevitable punch that would come from his hands only to be tricked and playfully derided by him that he’s a dummy and he doesn’t hit girls.

Hence, he had reached a conclusion that Mikey was hard to understand and read his intentions sometimes.

However, one thing was for sure: Mikey was not a bad person and he’d be willing to help and save him alongside with Hina to prevent them from meeting their miserable future and demise.

He just had to convince Naoto to get to the bottom of the problem and find out the reason why Mikey turned out the way he was in the future.

“That’s why I’m going to create an era for delinquents.”

The gang leader didn’t need to convince him twice when he asked him to join his gang after he shared his goal and vision to him. Just looking at his charismatic smile and earnestness, Takemichi knew that he was drawn in. Hook. Line. And sinker.

v. You should come with me. I like your guts. Hanagaki Takemichi.

He stood up but he was still looking at the horizon when he finally revealed his vision and intentions to him, uttering his name correctly for the first time.

“You should come with me. I like your guts. Hanagaki Takemichi.”

Mikey couldn’t picture out his exact reaction to his words but he could already surmised the genuine astonishment and wonder that was written on his clear blue eyes. Then the seriousness and determination that would crossed his face afterwards.

That’s the kind of guy Takemichi was. Honest, sincere, determined yet reckless sometimes when it came to defending his beliefs and the people that he mostly cares about. It’s easy to read him. Just dropped a verbal bomb in front of him and he’ll be getting a multitude of interesting expressions from his face.

…and there were times that he isn’t.

He had seen how Takemichi would be like an open book but with hidden pages that was not visible to the naked eye. Takemichi wasn’t a liar yet he was a secretive person as well. He cannot forget his initial reaction when he asked him casually if he’s really a middle schooler in that school. It was an unguarded moment for the young lad and he had a look that screamed of panic and anxiousness.

Interesting.

Even though Takemichi was an emotionally expressive person and vocal about what he believed was right and wrong, he still couldn’t decipher what his real purpose was. All he knew as of the moment was, he was too protective of his girlfriend Hinata who gave him an amazing slap earlier.

He was willing to defend and fight for her even against to the people like them.

What a reckless guy. But he guessed that was a part of Takemichi’s own charm. He couldn’t help but to be intrigue by this person who possessed those electrifying sky-blue irises and a sheer will determination.

‘Hinata huh? What a lucky gal…’ Mikey thought as he gazed at Takemichi’s profile.

For now, he could only basked in the vibrancy and vivid hues of Takemichi’s presence, coloring his monochromatic world with the promises of hope for the future.

(A/N: I don’t own Tokyo Revengers and any of the characters from this franchise. Inspired by the scenes that shows the relationship and interactions of Takemichi with Hinata and Mikey. I believed in Takemikeyhina supremacy but I lived for some drizzle of angst and pining hence the end results of this one shot. Apologies in advance for some grammatical errors and if some of them are OOC as English is not my native language and I’ve tried my best to keep them in character. Reviews are amusing hence I look forward to hear them from you).

[yourlocalmaraudersbabe]

Helloooo! How are you? I really like your fics! <3 Can i request some headcanons for young!Sirius? Or maybe kid!Sirius? How do you think he was like? What if he and Y/n were best friends? Would he go to her for comfort when his parents are nasty with him? Sorry for my horrible English🤡 still struggling with it.. (maybe that's why i read so many fics😂) Best wishes!

“I'm starting to think that we deserve each other”

Summary: Headcanons of Sirius and eventually confessing feelings

Pairing: Sirius x Muggleborn!reader (it’s literally mentioned like one time)

Warnings: swearing, angst, parent/family issues (?)

A/N: Ahh hi anon! Thanks so much for sending this in, I really enjoyed writing this and I hope you enjoy reading it :)))) Ahhh but this was also a little different style of writing than I usually do so let me know how you guys feel about it! I’m also just like, obviously in love with Sirius Black so um, they get into a little bit at the end and confess some things :=) Ooo, as always, send me an ask if you’d like to be added to my taglist! I also should let you know that I wrote this very late at night so the logistics and grammar might be shit

Word Count: 2054

Masterlist + Characters and ships I write for

Requests are always open <3

I have more time since it’s now summer so please send them in!! :)

Reminder that I do not support jkr. Do not interact if you do.

It was well known throughout your first years at Hogwarts that you and Sirius did not get along. He honestly annoyed the shit out of you everyday. He came from a rich pureblood family and you were a muggleborn, so anyone could see how the two of you clashed there.

All of the professors were completely done with you and Sirius’s antics. It started off with Sirius somehow managing to turn your hair green during the first flying lesson that the Gryffindors had. “Hey y/n, your hair is amazing! Didn’t think you could pull off the green!” a peer had spoken to you just before mounting your broom.

Sirius broke out into a nearly uncontrollable laughter and got a detention for it. But of course, none of that stopped you from getting back at him. Even just the simplest of pranks had gotten the job done.

There was one prank at the start of second year that earned you and Sirius a month’s worth of detention with Slughorn. He basically had the two of you as his personal assistants. It was honestly torture. But there were moments when he would step away from his classroom to talk to another professor, or slip away into his office to plan the next day’s lesson, and it would leave you and Sirius alone.

The two of you gave in and finally had a conversation with each other. It wasn’t much and it was very awkward, but seeing as this was your first day out of a month’s long sentence of detention, someone to talk with didn’t sound too bad.

And that was what blossomed a very chaotic friendship between the two of you. Having to suffer together was what drew the connection. You two eventually planned your own little pranks against other people.

Despite everything in your younger years of being at Hogwarts, Sirius was your closest friend. You could maybe go as far as to call him your best friend, but you’d never say that to his face, it’d add to his already huge ego.

You ate nearly every meal with him. You’d practically drag him into the library to study. He mentioned something about doing well in school for his parents, so that’s what you’d help him with.

Though the two of you quickly learned that it’s very hard to focus in each other’s presence.

You taught him how to braid hair. He practiced using yours. “Would you stay still, y/n?”

“I’m trying! You’re the one yanking me back and forth, Sirius.”

From that point after, you’d sit in between his legs on the floor as he sat on the couch.

He got you sucked into quidditch and nearly got you to try out for the team. “I think it’d be fun having you on the team!”

“I think that’s your way of saying you want to spend more time with me.”

“Of course,” SIrius shook his head no.

One day he saw someone in the hall walk by with eyeliner and he demanded that the two of you try putting it on yourselves.

This ultimately got you in trouble for staying up way too late, laughing at how silly you both looked in the prefect bathrooms. Lily would allow you in saying “This is going to get my badge taken from me, I swear.”

You two eventually got back to studying after Sirius received some notes from his parents.

You caught on quickly that he didn’t have the best relationship regarding his family.

It was actually a little difficult being friends with Sirius at first. It was very hard for him to just be vulnerable and talk, but by fourth year, you understood where he came from and didn’t push for anything. You listened to him the very few times when he would make small little notes of his family, or talked about his brother while passing him in the hall.

Your conversations were more so filled with random things that only really made sense to the two of you. Any outsider would’ve thought you two were completely crazy.

By fifth year, you were looking at Sirius in a whole different light and you hated it. You wanted to be way more than friends and didn’t know what to do with yourself. You started to avoid him. This was the worst and best decision ever. It’s still debatable.

While the rest of your friends were taking a little day to Hogsmeade, and while you were still on a streak of pretty much avoiding Sirius, you slipped off from the courtyard, taking a less used corridor towards the library.

Here, you found Sirius with his shoulders shaking, head in his hands, and your heart shattered. If you were feeling this, you couldn’t even begin to imagine what he must feel like. He didn’t pay any mind to his surroundings until you slid down the wall next to him, placing your hand on his shoulder.

He didn’t even have to look to know that it was you. He leaned into your shoulder while you brought your arm around him, quiet sobs escaping from his body.

He always kept parts of him, especially these emotions so closed off, that it honestly was a little surprising to see him like this. “Sere, tell me what’s wrong,” you whispered.

“I- um, it’s nothing. I just got a letter from home and it’s-” he broke down again.

At this point you let your legs stretch in front of you. He was still under your arms until he just let himself go. He let himself feel. And relax. And he understood that it’s okay to cry. And be vulnerable. And that you were safe to talk to about anything. He hugged you full on. He clung on tight as he cried. And man, you were fucked. This wasn’t helping any sort of feelings you were trying to suppress by being here in his presence. It honestly nearly broke you. You wanted to cry for him. Scream for him. Go off on his parents for him. You wanted to protect him from all that could ever hurt him this way.

He talked about everything that has happened up until the letter and stammered off his explanation with one final point. “A-and I’ve missed spending time with you. It’s like you’ve been avoiding me,” he mumbled into the thick air. He was laying down against you with your fingers in his hair. “It’s like I- I’m missing a part of me. Like we’re so close I couldn’t possibly imagine my life without you.”

You stumbled over your words, trying to find out what to say. ‘If only he knew’ you wanted to groan out into the air. “I’m sorry,” was all you could say, tears stinging your eyes while you blinked them back, hugging him tightly.

From that moment, the two of you had bought bracelets at Hogsmeade and spelled them to change a certain color for when the other wanted to talk, or simply just needed to be with the other. They were simple fabric ones, something you both liked and wore everyday.

Most of the time Sirius came to talk to you about his parents. Which was new considering he was a little closed off before.

You were there if he needed to cry. You would hold him if he needed a hug. You would laugh with him when he didn’t want to be the only one. You were there for him for everything.

There was one night that was really bad. His parents basically sent a letter saying not to come home in the future. You were supposed to meet him in the library yet he wasn’t there.

After asking around, you found him in the Gryffindor common room when it was far too late for you to even be out. His face was tear stained and his eyes were an irritated pink. Though he didn’t seek you in the first place, he didn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around you, burying himself in your comfort.

By sixth year it was supposedly “Painfully obvious you two were basically in love with each other” Remus would say every time you gave up a library visit to be with Sirius. Or James would very blatantly leave you both to carry out specific parts of a prank together. Lily would just leave you and Sirius alone together whenever she got the chance, really.

One particular Gryffindor win for Sirius was crashed by some Slytherins who came without any good intentions. It was soon discovered that there was veritaserum in the drinks that, of course, you and your friends had already enjoyed.

All of this prompted you to leave the party. You left with a big group of people, Remus, James, Peter, Lily, Mary, Marlene, all off to the grounds, trying to avoid any trouble. You stayed back with Remus and Sirius while the rest walked ahead, talking about the most random of things, like how Remus wants to ride a unicorn. He eventually sped up with the rest of the group, claiming he was going to ride a unicorn, properly drunk. “Mhm, yeah. You go have fun with that Remus,” Sirius called to him as he stumbled ahead.

You and Sirius couldn’t go as far as to say you were drunk, but definitely tispy. You walked over to a small tree and sat yourself under it, laying back against it. Sirius did the same thing except he leaned his head on your shoulder and you leaned yours on top of his. It was a sweet moment as he mindlessly played with a thread hanging from your robes.

The veritaserum didn’t bother the two of you much, you were honest with each other most of the time anyways. Well, it didn’t bother you much until Regulus and a few of his friends stood over you, making fun of how close you and Sirius were. You kept your mouths shut for as long as you could. “What it’s not like you like each other. Do you, Sirius?” Regulus pushed.

“I actually like y/n a lot. She’s always there for me and—” Sirius slapped his hand over his mouth, eyes wide.

“Hmm, and I don't suppose you feel the same way, y/n?”“

“I have feelings for Sirius,” you blurted out right as Regulus and his friends walked away.

Sirius looked over to you, smiling like an idiot. You leaned your head back against the tree, covering your face with your hands just before he pulled them away. He squeezed them in a comforting manner and asked why you hadn’t said anything before. “Because you’re such a great person, like you deserve the world and I don’t think I’d be enough a-and I hate that people keep asking questions because I’m on this stupid veritaserum that’s making me look like an idiot

He cut you off with a kiss, effectively shutting you up. The kiss was rushed at first before turning into something exploding with passion that you didn’t even know you needed until now.

“Well, you’re a beautiful idiot. Because, as said before,” he mumbled the last part, returning to his normal tone of voice. “I like you too. A-and I guess that you could tell me that I’m an idiot because—”

“Why didn’t you tell me you liked me, Sirius?”

“My entire life is a mess and I have too many problems and you’re always there for me to begin with, I’d take up too much of your time if we actually ended up dating. And you’re perfect and I look like absolute shit all the time. Just as you said you deserve the world but as I’m saying all this, I’m starting to think,” he trailed off searching your eyes for words. “I'm starting to think that we deserve each other,” he finished in a soft voice.

“I think we deserve each other too,” you grabbed his face gently, kissing him.

That night is now the day you and Sirius started dating, one of the most memorable days of your lives.

You never left breakfast in the Great Hall without stealing a kiss.

Or a piece of bacon from his plate.

There’d be some nights where you could sneak away and fall asleep with him peacefully and everything seemed alright.

[sunnyrosewritesstuff]

Day 3 Birthday Plot Bunnies 2

If you want this to become my next WIP, be sure to shower it with lots of love!!  🥰 💖 All the story starters will be linked back to this masterpost.

Title: Soul Traitors

Summary: Betrayal among soulmates is unheard of in all the free races of Arda, yet that’s exactly what Durin, King of Khazad-dûm, endures. Heartsick and angry, he damns the Valar for their choice and earns their wrath in return. He and his former lover will be reincarnated until the wrong between them is righted. Thorin, Durin’s lastest reincarnation, believes nothing can break that curse and instead mounts a quest for the Arkenstone to free his people of theirs. Gandalf, the meddlesome wizard, offers a Burglar for their quest. A hobbit burglar who will help Thorin uncover more than just a gem.

Warnings: Character Death, Gore (I mean, it’s not heavily descripted gore, but it does mention the manner of the character’s death so just to be safe.)

Each of the races have their own views on soulmates and how you go about finding them. However, all seem to agree that to find a soulmate is a very special thing. To find the one person who you can trust with your whole heart and soul. That’s why to the dwarves, they called these people, Ones. None would ever consider betraying their Ones as that seemed a cruelness beyond even that of the orcs. Which is why King Durin stood in the high chamber of the court of Khazad-dûm staring down at the small figure below with such shock and fear, many feared a light breeze could topple their usually infallible king.

The curly haired creature in chains returned the king’s stare with heartbreaking indifference. Many of the court began to chant prayers to Mahal that this was not to be so. That the One of their dear king wouldn’t dare do that which he was accused. Durin’s flat and breathless voice finally spoke, silencing all in the hall.

“Madoc son of Maloch of the Holbyta Tribe Fallohide, you stand before the King of Khazad-dûm as the sole conspirator and thief of the Arkenstone. One of the great treasures of our kingdom. What plea do you make in your defense?”

With no hesitation, no change in emotion, the small being stated the same line Durin’s heard since his capture.

“I love you.”

The king leaned forward to bow his head as he gripped the stone podium tighter. 

“Madoc, this is serious!” Durin’s most trusted advisor, Gelbim, spoke up. “You have taken a sacred relic from our halls, and not just any, but the one that has the power to bring ruin upon our city and our people! Your crime is punishable by death. For the love of Mahal and the great Valar, please, tell us where you’ve hidden the Arkenstone.”

Durin slowly brought his eyes up as the silence persisted to see a small break in Madoc’s mask. His jaw trembled and a single tear leaked from his soft hazel eyes that Durin had loved from the moment he met him. 

“I...love...you.” He sobbed.

That was the moment Durin’s heart broke. Not shattered completely though. No, unfortunately that particular pain would come later that week when Madoc’s sentence was being carried out. But this...this was the first of a pain that would never desist.

“How can you when you hurt me so?” Durin asked softly, yet his words carried through the chamber as Madoc bowed his head in defeat. “You are given a traitor’s sentence. Death with no chance to appeal. Your name will not be spoken aloud again, your hair will be shorn and removed of any braids and beads, and your body will be burned rather than returned to the land and stone. In the Eyes of Mahal, so mote it be.”

Gelbim, his dear friend, told him he didn’t need to attend. None would think less of their king. Durin wished he had listened. He couldn’t bear to watch, but the sound of the axe going straight through his One’s neck would haunt him for the rest of his life. As it was, he stumbled to his chambers to fall and not rise from their marital bed for weeks after. When he resumed his reign, the toll of losing heart and soul was apparent to all. 

Durin became hardened in the final years of his reign. He demanded every ounce of mithril in the mountain to be pulled up and sold it to his allies for too high a price. What he didn’t sell, he forged. Weapons, jewelry, a particular handsome mailshirt, and if it were all the same size as his beloved holbyta? Well, none had it in them to point it out to their fading king. As demanded of a traitor’s death, the name Madoc was stricken from all records and replaced with the Amrâb Hufrel or “the soul’s betrayal of all betrayals”. The rest of the Fallohide tribe which was camped near the Misty Mountains was forced to pack up and resume their nomadic lifestyle west or face war with the dwarves. The sorrows of Durin were not to stop there. 

“The goblins of the Deep grow bolder.” Gelbim remarked as they watched the latest battalion return battered and worse for wear.

“Without the Arkenstone, they will not stop.” Durin growled.

“Durin, my friend, we’ve sent quest after quest after the gem. Wherever M-the Amrâb Hufrel has hidden it, we may not ever find it. It may be time to consider...alternatives.”

“What alternative is there aside from leaving my mountain and my mithril!” Durin spat.

Gelbim raised an eyebrow at his answer. “And is that worth more than the lives of your kin?”

Durin froze before spinning around quick as a flash. “Leave if that is your wish! This has been the home of MY line since the reign of Durin I and I WILL NOT GO!”

Go, Gelbim did taking a third of his kingdom with him including the young Prince Thrain and his mother. Crown Prince Nain, Durin’s only stone son, could not be moved to leave his father to his fate even as he saw the heartless path he wrought. For in their quest for more mithril, an ancient evil slumbering deep below the rock was awoken. The king led a frantic charge against the beast and was slain almost instantly. The war against Durin’s Bane lasted a year longer, but when the newly instated King Nain, was slain, the mountain and its riches were abandoned. In the lore of Durin’s folk, this was the first great curse of the Amrâb Hufrel’s theft.

Durin, who welcomed his death with open arms, awoke expecting to find the Halls of His Father. Instead, the nervous face of his treacherous One amongst a starry plane was the first sight he was graced with. 

“Oh Durin, my heart…” The holbyta began taking a step forward.

“You!” The king snarled, moving away as quickly as he could.

The Amrâb Hufrel looked miserable as his face twisted in anguish. “Please let me explain…”

“NOW YOU WISH TO EXPLAIN!” Durin boomed. “You had your chance! You had every opportunity to tell of your nefarious schemes, and instead you mocked me. You mocked my kingdom, a kingdom you once called yours. Well look at it now! All because of you!”

The creature before him was truly wretched and small as he hunkered against every blow Durin dealt. And the dwarf was yet to be finished.

“Peace, my son.” Came a great voice from above that Durin instantly recognized as His Father even having never heard it before. “You have made your point. Now let your Sanâzyung (Perfect/True Love) say his piece.”

“NO!” Durin roared against the very heavens themselves. “I don’t want to have anything to do with this...this...Amrâb Hufrel!”

Thunder rumbled, shaking the entire platform they stood upon. And while the holbyta trembled in the face of such power, Durin’s anger was too great to be cowed.

“You would reject this gift we offer, son of Aulë?” A female voice demanded, icy and iron.

“What gift?” Durin sneered. “Unless you offer me the chance to sever his head myself this time, I see no gift here.”

The other creature of blood released a gasp that was more like a sob, but Durin had no more patience for the likes of him. In fact, he had nothing left to give to him. Something that became apparent to the Valar watching.

“You have become cruel.” Another, softer female voice soothed. “You know only the truths you have seen with your own eyes.”

“And it is enough for me to condemn that thing and the Great Valar that thought to join my soul with it! Damn him and DAMN ALL OF YOU!”

If Durin expected the same booming show of power he received previously, he was sorely disappointed. Instead, it just all seemed to fade away. The stars, the platform, and the holbyta. His sorrowful face full of tears was the last thing Durin saw before he was swallowed by the darkness. The darkness allowed no sound, not even from Durin’s own voice, and no escape. He was unsure how long he wavered in that place: hours, weeks, years? He was utterly and completely alone until finally the voice of His Father broke through.

“You have shamed me, my uzfakuh (great joy). You have shamed me, you have shamed yourself, and you have shamed your Sanâzyung.”

Durin knew he could not speak back, but he still fumed at the Great Smith’s words. 

“We have thought long and hard on how you can atone for the atrocities you’ve committed today.”

And what of the Amrâb Hufrel’s atrocities?

“Your path will not be an easy one, especially if you hold tight to the stubborn slights of your mortal heart. For a soul is worth so much more. You and your Sanâzyung shall be reborn over and over as many times as needed until you can right the wrongs between you and hear the truth of his soul.”

Durin felt a burning on his breast and looked down to behold a glowing oak tree being inked in chains.

“You shall carry this mark in every life of yours henceforth, and it shall know the mark of Madoc in return. Only free of the chains that bind your soul, will you be welcome in my Halls.”

The legend of Durin’s curse and the theft of the Amrâb Hufrel passed down through the centuries until it had inscribed all dwarven mothers with fear. For any child to bear the mark of Durin was to lead a loveless and empty life. Likewise, any “hobbits” as they preferred that met with the dwarves were met with open hostility. Especially if they bore their own mark, though none knew for certain if it was Madoc’s or not. Still, the hobbits learned fast and stories of their own circulated that any child bearing an acorn on their palm would be hunted and killed by the dwarves. So as the stories grew wilder and edged with desperation, Durin and Madoc were reborn again and again just as Aulë promised, but were no closer to breaking the curse that bound them so.

It was many centuries later when a young prince from Durin’s own line was born to the immediate wailing and disappointment of every dwarf in attendance. Not even a few seconds old, Thorin, son of Thrain, Prince of Erebor bore the heavy burdens of his ancestor. It steeled his heart as he grew into adolescence and forced him to throw his all into his duties as prince. He would love Erebor for none would ever love him. And when Erebor was attacked by the dragon, it was Thorin’s foresight and friendship with the men of Dale that was able to send Smaug away. Thorin grew from prince into a king his people could be proud of, and he never wavered from his vow to his kingdom. Never knowing that almost a century and a half later, a hobbit was born with the death sentence of his people on his palm and a destiny he would not be able to escape.

[obiwanobi]

In the Sith Senator au, I imagine that sheev introduces them either at a dinner party or maybe at a gala? anakin is in his robes as always and obiwan is super dressed up because he's a respectable senator thank you very much and he calls anakin darling and sweet thing and stuff like that and within an hour he has anakin wrapped around his finger

Okay, so WHY NOT BOTH? The last long post about this AU was painful, so have some “hate at first sight” and “0.2 sec for Obi-Wan to fix it and learn that banter and endearments can turn Anakin into a very charming mess” 

The first time they met, Obi-Wan has just been elected Senator after working in politics on Stewjon for years, making enough important friends and empty promises to be re-elected even without showing his face on Stewjon until the next decade. It’s his first month back on Coruscant, close to Sidious after years on his own. He needs to show him that his presence here, so close to his Master, is right, and can only benefit their plans. Even when everything isn’t… great.

The committee of small planets of the mid rim is pestering him to join their sad little club of useless dustballs, he has dozens of demands of various needy mayors, dignitaries and even ministers from Stewjon to reply to, the Senate security staff are a bunch of lazy bastards who still haven’t given him his pass and badge to enter and exit the building whenever he wants to and keep pretending not to recognize him even though they force him to go through a full security check every morning, and he can’t find a decent assistant to hire. 

You could say that Senator Kenobi is a bit on edge. 

He really, really doesn’t need to be late to his first real, private meeting with Sidious, especially because his only excuse is ‘I forgot how busy traffic was on Coruscant in the morning, don’t blame me I’m used to the countryside and seeing more sheep than ships on my way to work”. That would probably not go too well.  

Looking at his chrono every twenty seconds, he doesn’t pay enough attention to where he’s going and doesn’t notice the man turning at a corner on his side, running fast enough to come crashing against him without having the chance to do anything about it.

One second, a sharp cry, a flurry of dark robes and a cup of tea flying, and they’re both on the ground.  

Obi-Wan isn’t pleased. You could say he’s even a bit exasperated, lying on his back, a stranger’s elbow digging in his stomach. And then he turns his head to see who’s stupid enough to run in the Senate’s corridors on a Monday morning and almost curses out loud when he recognises Jedi robes and a stupid Padawan’s braid. 

It’s fine. He’s fine. He’s used to suppressing his Force-presence so no one can feel him and he’s not going to make a scene to attract more attention. He’s going to inhale and exhale slowly, accept the deepest of apologies from the stupid Jedi with a benevolent smile, repress his need to do something harsh, and be on his way.  

But then the Padawan groans, rubs his head and asks reproachfully why Obi-Wan didn’t watch where he was going. 

It’s eight am, half of his (expensive and only sold on Stewjon) tea on the floor, and Obi-Wan already wants to strangle a Jedi.

So, there is a shouting match.

Words like “pathetic life form” and “karking useless politician” are thrown, and it takes almost half a minute for Obi-Wan to realise that he’s arguing with a dumb teenager and that they’re still on the floor, half on top of each other. He, very politely, asks the Padawan to get the kriff up, doesn’t take the time to even look at the remains of his cup of tea after salvaging his wet datapad from the puddle on the ground, and leaves with one last silent death glare. 

“You’re not even going to clean that?” the Padawan yells in his back, sounding revolted. 

Obi-Wan rolls his eyes. What are droids for these days? 

*

“You’re late,” Palpatine says flatly the instant the door of his office closes behind Obi-Wan. “Make sure it doesn’t happen again.” 

“Yes, Master.”  

“Call me Chancellor for now. I want you to meet someone and he should be here soon. He could become important, maybe even crucial for our plans.”

“Oh? Another Senator or representative to charm?” 

“Even better,” Palpatine smiles. And that’s what gets Obi-Wan interested. He knows this is the reason he’s here and the reason Sidious wants him in the Senate. Obi-Wan is a smooth talker, a nice face and a warm smile all in one. Someone who, with enough time and efforts, could make anyone believes in anything.

Palpatine always said that he was made for politics. 

“He could be a decisive piece in this game. It will take a lot of careful manipulation and dedication to bring him to our side and I don’t have this kind of time to waste, so you’ll do. With enough care and patience, I think he could be the most loyal and useful… support, we could have.” 

“Who is he? What do you want me to say and how far am I allowed to go?”

A knock at the door interrupts them. “For now,” Palpatine says in a low voice, sitting behind his desk, joining his hands together above it, the picture of old and trusted wisdom, “I just need you to make him like you.” 

That’s not going to be a problem, Obi-Wan thinks, as the doors open. He straightens up, gets ready to put on his most radiant smile and displays an inviting openness and friendliness that few can resist. 

The Padawan enters. 

This is going to be a problem. 

*

“Ah! My favourite Jedi!” Sidious exclaims loud enough to be heard over the music and raising his cocktail above their heads. Anakin Skywalker smiles as he sees him, and dutifully comes closer. The Chancellor makes a point of clapping his hand twice on his shoulder once Skywalker is in front of him, and leaves it there as he introduces him to his new chief of staff. If anyone is wondering what a Padawan is doing at a Senate party that should only include political staffers and a few dignitaries, no one breaths a word of it. 

It gives Obi-Wan time to gauge, assess and appraise Skywalker, his reactions, body language, and anything he can learn from a simple conversation between Sidious and him. It would be his turn to do it soon. Relieve me from the burden of having to stroke the boy’s ego regularly so I can take care of more pressing issues, his master had snarled disdainfully. Right now, he’s playing the part of the dotting and proud fatherly figure to perfection, Obi-Wan has to give him that. 

Attention, approval and respect, Sidious had told me. That’s all you need to be in Skywalker’s good graces. The boy will soak every bit of kindness you can spare, as long as he considers you someone worth his own devotion.

It didn’t stop Obi-Wan from learning absolutely everything he could about him, from his lightsaber technique to his favourite food because Obi-Wan is and will always be a very thorough man who doesn’t rely on luck or unprecise sciences like basic psychology. Especially from his Master, who probably never encountered an emotion or feeling he couldn’t twist to fuel his ambition. 

Admittedly, Obi-Wan doesn’t share his Master enthusiasm for charming the brat and make him fall. He’s all for turning him against the Jedi, sure, that he can get behind and happily endorse, but having to deal with a moody teenager on a regular basis for the foreseeable future? It would be painful for everyone. Especially for Obi-Wan’s nerves.

 Anakin Skywalker, reckless, volatile and troublesome former slave and actual Padawan, wasn’t the type of Sith candidate Obi-Wan would have chosen. Not at all. Too many variables, too many chances to go wrong, a wild card that he would never risk. 

But Sidious is adamant. Doesn’t care for any of his arguments. He wants Skywalker, and Obi-Wan has started to realise why when he learnt all about the prophecy. Stealing the Jedi Chosen One and turning him against them in a last-second betrayal was the kind of symbolic irony Sidious loved and would gloat about for years to come. And when Sidious decides that he needs something, there is no going back. 

But this time, Obi-Wan has to do all the hard work himself. He calculates that getting close to Skywalker, especially after their more than tense official introduction, is going to take months, maybe even (and Obi-Wan shudders at the thought) a year. Trapped at playing nice with an overgrown child who hates being told no and likes to think he’s above the rules. For no direct and personal benefit but the approval of his own Master.

Obi-Wan really, really hates it.

But that’s not going to stop him from completing his mission perfectly, as he has always done. 

“I’m glad to see you, Chancellor,” Skywalker says softly, his quiet tone already at odd with what Obi-Wan expected. He grew taller than the last he saw him, and Obi-Wan hates it. His braid is a bit longer and his robes are a shade darker than a few months ago. Something passes in his eyes when the Padawan notices Obi-Wan’s presence next to the Chancellor and his head snaps up defiantly. “Senator Kenobi,” he grits out like the words pain him. 

Obi-Wan needs to change this right now before Sidious deems him inapt for this mission.

He hates this a bit more. 

The opportunity is given quicker than he thought when Sidious excuses himself and leaves their little group to mingle with other demanding sycophants. Obi-Wan gets stuck with Skywalker, Sidious’ chief of state who’s apparently only here for the free drinks, and Keneg, the senator of… Corulag? Barl’leth? One of those rich Core planets that hate anyone who isn’t them but need to be kept around for their credits, who always seems to suck years of his life every time Obi-Wan is forced to speak to him. It takes thirty seconds for all of them to grow bored of Keneg incessant complaints about how the lower levels of his planet are “ruining its reputation” and that the problem resides in their too lenient immigration policy, especially concerning poor and uneducated races.

Skywalker’s face is a journey. At least twelve different emotions play through his eyes, the twists of his mouth and raised eyebrows like a theatre actor in a dramatic scene at each careless word coming out of the Senator’s mouth, and Obi-Wan wonders if anyone has ever told him that Jedi are supposed to be masters of their own emotions first and foremost. Especially around politicians. 

But it doesn’t matter right now, because that’s the opening he was waiting for. 

“Excuse me Senator Keneg,” He cuts him off politely before another endless tirade. “I’m afraid I have to go, I see the Senator of Botor and I’ve been trying to talk to him for months. Surely you understand. Padawan Skywalker, may I ask for your assistance? We could use some Jedi wisdom in our debate, if you don’t mind.” 

Skywalker looks torn between being relieved to be offered an out from an awful conversation, but also have no desire to spend more time with Obi-Wan. 

“Sure,” he ends up mumbling, apparently judging that he was the lesser of two evils. 

“Wonderful.” Obi-Wan doesn’t pay any attention to the betrayed look Sidious’ chief of state sends him after being left alone with Keneg.

“So,” Skywalker says, resigned, following Obi-Wan who’s making a beeline for the bar. “Where is he?”

“Who?” 

“The senator of Botor? And what’s your deal with him?” 

“I don’t even know what he looks like,” Obi-Wan replies, trying to ignore the casual tone Skywalker shouldn’t take with a Senator, even one he dislikes. 

“What? Then why did you ask me to come with you?”

“Aren’t you relieved that I saved you from dreadful hours of xenophobic discussions about how poor people should be banned from showing their face in public because it doesn’t please Senator Keneg?”

“You didn’t save me,” Skywalker grimaces, but still seats beside him. “Is it… Is it always like that? I mean, I know Core worlds politicians can be a little…”

Obi-Wan weighs his options, and decides that Skywalker would probably appreciate truth more than carefully chosen words and subtle hypocrisy. Pretending to be the last nice man in politics is out of the question with the way they met, so Obi-Wan opts for sincerity.

To a degree. 

“Snobbish? Disconnected from reality? Shameless bastards with no souls?” Obi-Wan says while signalling the bartender for Trandoshan ale and a cocktail.

“Well, yes.” 

“Welcome to politics.” 

Skywalker opens his mouth like he’s going to protest. He puts his hands in his sleeves, probably hoping to pass for a wise Jedi Master, but his pouty lips and frowned eyebrows make him look like a sulking youngling. “You’re part of it, you know. You can talk about it like you’re not one of them, but I remember you insulting me and leaving without caring about your tea and cup all over the floor.”

What a brat.

“My tea- My dear, do I have to remind you that you barreled into me at full stupid and made me spill my tea everywhere? Some Senators would have made a diplomatic incident out of it,” he huffs, a bit more irritable than he wanted to. 

 “You said I was a brainless child!” 

“Because you ar—” Their drinks arrive at that moment, and it gives Obi-Wan precious seconds to compose himself.

This isn’t how he’s supposed to play it. He didn’t expect Skywalker to be this whiny and petulant, despite Sidious’ warning, and was planning on letting him think he was the one in control of the situation. He’s supposed to be a Jedi for Force sake, not someone who can’t control their tongue and get into pointless fights with politicians! 

No, no. Grin and bear it. Obi-Wan should recall the last remnant of Jedi philosophy still in him. 

“Padawan Skywalker, I’m sorry if my words offended you,” Obi-Wan says with the voice he normally uses for debates where he wants to appear as the most sincere and reasonable party. He holds a glass of ale to Skywalker, as a peace offering. “I admit I wasn’t in the most pleasant of disposition at that time, and I may have been harsher than I realised. I hope you can forgive me.” 

This seems to mollify Skywalker a bit. He doesn’t look like he’s going to forget it, but does take the offered glass. “At least the Chancellor is different,” he sighs and Obi-Wan represses the urge to burst into laughter. 

Oh, Skywalker is truly the most naïve boy around. Perhaps twisting his mind will turn out to be fun. 

“Wait,” Obi-Wan exclaims suddenly as the Padawan holds the glass to his lips, “are you even old enough to drink?” 

“Oh come on, I’m 19! I can handle a beer and I’m a Jedi, don’t forget,” he brags, like being Force-sensitive changes anything about his (probably low) alcohol tolerance. To be fair, a regular politician wouldn’t know anything about what the Force could and couldn’t do. Skywalker’s probably relying on lack of awareness about the magic and mysterious abilities of the Jedi to get away with it. It’s almost endearing. 

 “I don’t know, Padawan, you did look like an adorable sulking youngling just a minute ago.”

“Ador- I’m not adorable!” He yelps as his cheeks turn into an interesting shade of pink. 

“But you don’t deny the youngling comment,” Obi-Wan teases good-naturedly between two sips of his cocktail. He can’t help it: It is way more intriguing to follow the colours on his face spreading to his neck than being on the receiving end of his frowns and accusing words.

Unduly flustered for such an innocent comment, Skywalker stutters a few syllables, huffs, and narrows his eyes at his glass, Obi-Wan’s playful smile, and his glass again. He downs the whole thing with his head thrown back before Obi-Wan can say anything, surprised by the sudden motion and too busy watching his throat moving until the empty glass is back on the table with a resounding clank. Still wiping his mouth, he calls the bartender and asks for another. Obi-Wan doesn’t miss the ‘don’t you dare stop me’ glare. 

This isn’t how he imagined befriending him, but Skywalker is still seating next to him and getting into a rant about how he’s a capable man, thank you very much, and yesterday his Master even said so, well, not in these words, but he’s not a youngling, and absolutely not adorable, he’s a warrior, a protector, but he doesn’t suppose a politician can understand, and if Obi-Wan wants to know, his sabre technique is exceptional, really, it is! 

His whole speech is supported by hands flying around to illustrate his words and mouthfuls of ale, because he is a man and not a kid, remember that, Senator Kenobi. It doesn’t prevent him from flushing a bit deeper and spluttering even more when Obi-Wan, listening attentively with a smile on his face, throws an indulgent of course you are, darling.

Skywalker turns his face away from him, desperate to hide his embarrassment, and orders another ale. 

Adorable. 

 Obi-Wan can work with that.   

*

Hours later, once Skywalker is happily sloshed and dangerously leaning toward crashing against his shoulder, Obi-Wan calls him a hover cab.  

“Thanks, Senator Kenobi!” Skywalker exclaims as he climbs into the cab, like Obi-Wan is now his favourite person to be around. His cheerful and warm demeanour has stopped being surprising after his second ale. “You’re not as awful as I thought!” 

Obi-Wan can’t help it, he laughs, truly laughs at that. It’s probably the most sincere compliment he’s gotten since he arrived at the Senate. “I’m glad you consider me a slightly better man than Senator Keneg,” he says, leaning forward toward Skywalker, hands on the cab. 

Skywaker grins and raises an eyebrow at him. “And more handsome too!” 

For once, it’s Obi-Wan who must look baffled. Despite his careful planning, all his diverse estimations and assessments about the different ways he could charm Skywalker, he didn’t consider actually seducing him. That’s… a whole new point of view. 

Interrupting his thoughts, Skywalker yawns and starts hugging his robe around himself, smiling contently like he’s in the best place in the galaxy, barely trying to blink away sleep from his eyes. Adorable.  

On an impulse, Obi-Wan leans closer to him and tugs on his braid. The reaction is worth it: Skywalker makes a small surprised noise, eyes suddenly wide, and the slight flush on his cheeks worsen in an instant.

Obi-Wan almost considers touching his face, just to see how warm his skin is. And maybe even brushing his parted lips with his thumb, just to see how warm it can still get. 

But Obi-Wan feels merciful.

For tonight. 

“Sleep well, Padawan,” he purrs, winding the thin braid around his finger one last time. Skywalker looks like he’s going to melt.  

Obi-Wan can work with that too. 

*

Two months later, Sidious tells him that he’s going to be the victim of an assassination attempt right before the Military Act vote. It would be acceptable for the Chancellor to be concerned about the protection and security of all Senators, of course, so he will push for Jedi protection and is certain to convince the Council to send one particular Padawan as a bodyguard. 

Obi-Wan doesn’t hate the idea. 

[magalidragon]

fire on ice | a crackish Jonerys drabble

Soooo... @moggett reblogged this post and well I felt compelled to write a drabble for one of those prompts so I give you this crack fic-- a funeral home meet cute!

I give you....FIRE ON ICE!  And this is also partially @youwerenevermine‘s fault, lol, because we literally had same idea for one of the prompts.

“Thank you so much Mr. Snow.”

Jon nodded politely, solemnly, his gray eyes the perfect amount of sympathetic, sad, and he hoped the right amount of ‘normal’— lest people think him a total fucking creep—while he shook the hand of the Greatjon Umber, whose son Smalljon Umber had unfortunately encountered the wrong side of a chainsaw while out trimming trees.  

Greatjon began to go into a tale about his son—who by all accounts had been a horrible person—speaking like he was the second coming of Aegon the Conqueror for all his ‘talents’ and ‘successes.’  “Hmm,” he murmured, walking him slowly to the door.  “He sounds like quite a man your son, thank you Mr. Umber, we will speak later regarding tomorrow.”

“Of course, thank you again Mr. Snow.”

The door shut loudly behind him, Jon slumping against it, relieved.  He glanced at his cousin, who had emerged from the basement, shaking her chopped bob out of its messy little knot atop her head.  “He gone?” she demanded.

“Aye.”

“I had half a mind to sew his arm on backwards.”

Jon closed the doors to the viewing room where Smalljon rested in repose until tomorrow when he’d be taken to the Karstark’s castle for the final funeral and ultimate burial in the crypts, as was custom for the Northerners.  He clicked his tongue.  “Arya, be nice.”

“Remember when his wife died, and he squeezed my arse?”

“Aye, I remember.”

“Thought so.”  Arya checked her phone.  “Your beloved texted me.  We have another on the way.  This one fell from the Wall.  Ygritte said he’s a fucking mess.”

He made a face; he hated that she referred to his ex-girlfriend as his ‘beloved.’  “Will you stop calling her that?”

“She works for the morgue Jon, what were you thinking?”

“It’s hard to find women in this line of work.”  He heard the bell ringing on the other side of the old stone house that served as their place of business and home—the five-floor monstrosity he knew people in town referred to as ‘Castle Black.’  He did wear a lot of black.  Came with the territory.  He waved off Arya.  “Just make sure you finish up with Mr. Lannister before the end of the evening.”

“The rich dude who died on the shitter?  Yeah, no thanks, that’s all yours.”

“Do you want to take this one?  Where the fuck is Robb anyway?”  Robb was the master of this shit, not him.  He was better with the dead.

Arya walked away before he even could try to play ‘Dragon, Wolf, Lion’ with her or answer as to where her eldest brother happened to have gone off.  Guess it was all him.  He caught his reflection in one of the mirrors in the hallway, adjusting his black tie at his neck and raking fingers through his curls.  It did nothing to tamp them down. He schooled his expression, solemn, and pushed through the dark wooden doors from the funeral home side of the floor to the entry way.  He let them swing back and folded his hands in front of him.  

“Welcome to Three Wolves Funeral Home, may I help you?” he asked, voice gentle; you never knew who might be waiting to speak with you on this side of the building.  He’d been accused too often in Robb’s post-services discussions of being too cold.

The woman standing in a dark red dress with long black overcoat was not someone who appeared to be in mourning, but then you never really knew, some people were good at masking emotions.  Her silver hair was in an elegant, braided knot at the back of her head and she had large black sunglasses folded in her hands, gazing at the table with various brochures for caskets.  

She turned, blinking wide violet eyes at him, her lips crimson, face pale.  “Good afternoon,” she greeted him, eyebrow arching.  “I’m inquiring as to your crematory services.”

“For yourself?” he blurted, before he realized how it sounded.

She smirked, while he flushed, thrown off by her stunning beauty.  He tried to school his expression again; she could very well have been there for her husband, boyfriend, or other, he did not need to stumbling through this.  He wished Robb was there.  “That would be interesting, wouldn’t it?  Well, I can assure you I’m not here to burn myself alive, but you know…” She inspected her hand, a couple rings on them glittering gold.  She grinned up at him.  “I have heard stories my ancestors were immune to flame.”

His throat constricted.  “Apologies.  Can I help you?”

“Your crematory services?” she wondered again, walking by him and into the showroom, running a finger over an ebony casket.  

“Ah…I am afraid Three Wolves does not offer such services.  We can, however, assist with selecting one, urns, and preparing a memorial service.”  He wondered what she was doing; she was now leaning down to look underneath a massive white casket.  No one really cared what the underside looked like.  He gestured towards the office.  “We can speak in private, if you wish?”  

The woman shook her head.  “No I’m fine, thank you.  Just doing a little bit of research.”

“For a relative?”  

“Something like that.”  She wore very high heels, which clicked loudly on the hardwood.  She glanced sideways; eyes shrewd.  “Are you one of the Three Wolves on your sign out front?”

“Yes, Jon Snow, I’m the mortician.”  It sounded so creepy like that, but it was the truth.  Robb handled the hand shaking, the business side.  Arya was their resident makeup artist—she could do wonders with faces practically taking them on and off—but he was the one who handled everything else.  

“Hmm, yes I heard of you.”  The woman offered her hand.  “Dany.”

“Jon,” he repeated, like an idiot.  He was put off by her beauty, rather disarming.  He swallowed hard again.  “Nice to meet you.  Is there…”

“This was enlightening Mr. Snow.  I’ll be back.”  Dany wiggled her fingers, waving, striding out decisively.  “See you later.”

What the seven hells was that about? He spun on his heel, about to ask her what else he could help her with, when the front door slammed shut, bell ringing on her exit.  He heard the door from the services wing open, Robb walking in.  He scowled.  “Where were you?”

“Talking with the Umbers, heard it went well, did we have a customer?” Robb adjusted his tie, eagerly seeing dollar signs.  “Where are they?”

“They left.”  

“Damnit Jon!”

He rolled his eyes, storming by.  “I’ll be downstairs.”

“With Tywin Lannister?  Better make him look good, the Lannisters are paying through the nose for this.”

“Aye,” he said idly, heading downstairs and to his ‘lair’ as Robb referred to it.  He shook his head, preparing in the locker room, putting on scrubs and his protective gear.  When he tugged on gloves, walking over to the block of freezer drawers, he rolled his eyes again, making another face.  He was better with dead people anyway.

-----

A couple of weeks later, Jon saw the beautiful silver-haired woman again, this time from the front step of the funeral home, while Arya sat on the railing, Robb in shocked horror as the sign went up across the street.  

Dracarys Funeral Home and Crematory Services

“How did this happen?  We had the run of things here!” Robb exclaimed.

Arya cracked her gum.  “Want me to get info?”

The silver haired Dany waved from the front step of her home.  “Hello Starks!”

Jon shook his head, appalled.  “I thought she was just asking because someone died…like they all do.”

“You didn’t think that she was scoping the competition?” Robb shouted.

“I told you I’m better with the dead than I am the living!”

“Oh leave him alone,” Arya chided.  She rubbed Ghost’s ears—his great white wolf—gazing across the street again, shrugging.  “Maybe we can make this work.  Jon, you were the one who met her, maybe you can get some more info.  They do crematory, we don’t.  Maybe we can make a deal or something.”

Robb nodded, poking his shoulder.  “Go over there, find out more.”

Jon sighed.  He really didn’t want to do this. “I have that Wall guy to deal with.”

“Jarl will keep, go find out more.”

He slid away from the column, clicking his tongue for Ghost to follow him, the two of them crossing the street and up to Dracarys.  He entered into the front room, seeing that everything was a shade of black and red.  He glanced at Ghost, who was scanning the space with his bright ruby eyes, white fluffy tail wagging slowly.  “What do you think?” he mumbled.

The walnut wood stairs creaked in the back, drawing him towards the door leading away from the showroom and sitting area.  He peeked into another part of the old house, just like how their business was set up, with a viewing room and seating area.  He moved to another door, which was open, leading down a set of stairs.  

A massive black cat yowled from a sunbeam near the door, hissing at Ghost and running off.  Ghost didn’t bark but took off after the cat.  He sighed, calling out.  “Please don’t kill her cat!”  

He went down the stairs and pushed open a set of swinging double doors, pausing at the sight.  It was state-of-the art and he scowled at some of the fancy equipment he’d been trying to convince Robb to upgrade to for the last year.  He ran his tongue over his teeth, arching a dark brow at the woman who had been wearing head-to-toe designer when he’d met her and now was in black scrubs and protective gear, leaning over a dead man, a kit of makeup and brushes next to her.  

“Jon Snow,” she called.

“Daenerys Targaryen.”  He used her full name.  The proprietress of the competition, he would not refer to her as Dany.  “You could have told me you were moving in across the street.”

“And you would have shown me around?  I think not.”  

He stepped closer, curious at what she was working on.  His eyebrows flew to his forehead.  “Greyscale, huh?”

“Hmm,” Dany murmured.  “Yes.”  She looked up, grinning.  “I saw you coming over, decided not to stop you from finding me.  You’re not squeamish.”

“No I’m not.”

“They call you the King of the Dead.”

It wasn’t the worst thing he’d been called.  “And you are?” he retorted.

“The Dragon Queen, I suppose you could call me.  Or at least, that’s what they called me at mortician school.”  She selected another brush, grinning.  “I’m offering a service that your busines does not Jon Snow, that’s all.”

“The North doesn’t burn their dead.”

“I know, but many in the South do.  There’s plenty of them moving up here.”  Dany stood and pushed the gurney with the greyscale man into the freezer, closing the door.  She removed her gloves and gear, walking by him, and began to wash up.  She tossed a serene smile over her shoulder.  “I think we can make this work Jon Snow.  Don’t worry about it.”

“Robb isn’t used to competition.”

“And you?”

He shrugged.  “I work better with the dead.”

“So do I.”  When she finished, she studied him for a few seconds, which unnerved him.  He tore his eyes from her, wondering what she was doing.  She approached him, hands on her hips.  “Would you like to get a cup of coffee?”

He frowned, nose wrinkling, surprised.  “Coffee?”

“A hot beverage, sometimes served with milk and sugar?  Other times with various accoutrements like cinnamon or chocolate?” Dany’s smile softened.  He saw then how gentle she actually was, how soft.  It was comforting and he wasn’t even grieving.  She must be very good at her job, he thought.  He was numb, unsure how best to reply.  She patted his arm, stepping by him.  “Come on, I’ve got a lovely blend from Braavos.”

In the kitchen on the third floor of her house, where he assumed, she lived, she prepared the coffee.  He wondered where Ghost had gone.  “This how you get all the competition?” he managed to get out.  “Ply them with coffee?”

“Just you.”  Dany sat down across from him at a small bistro table in a large bay window, with a beautiful view of the mountains in the distance.  She passed him the mug of coffee and used a small ceramic pitcher to pour milk into her coffee.  Lifting it to her lips, she smiled again, warm and eyes dancing.  “You intrigue me.”

He sipped his coffee—it was very good—a small smile on his lips.  “You are an interesting one, Dany…if that is your real name.”

“Only my friends can call me Dany,” she mouthed.  

“And we’re friends?”

“Well I hope we’re not enemies.”

Jon figured he’d have to wait it out and see for certain, but he didn’t think enemies was the best word for it.  He was not good at this sort of thing, so he chose to continue drinking his coffee.  He set the mug down on the table, sighing and cocking his head, a slight furrow to his brow.  “I’m not good at this.”

“I know,” Dany shrugged.  “But I am.”

Well that was that then, he figured, smiling at her.  

-----

“So where did you two meet?”

Jon wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that, as one of Sansa’s friends from King’s Landing had cornered him, trying to get info on Robb.  “Where did I meet…?” he echoed, playing dumb.

Margaery Tyrell frowned.  “Where did you meet Daenerys?  Sansa didn’t tell me.  In fact, she’s being really weird about things.  Won’t even tell me what Robb does for a living.”  Her eyes lit up.  “I like a challenge.”

“Um, well…”

His wife of the last two hours emerged at his side, looping her arm through his.  “We met at a funeral home,” she said, smiling at Margaery’s wide-eyed, horrified expression.  Dany gazed up at him, love shining from her beatific face.  “In fact, we contemplated holding the reception there, but figured everyone might think that a little weird.”  She smiled even wider.  “Also in the future, please keep the Fire on Ice Funereal Services in your thoughts for any funereal needs!”

Jon stifled a snort, glad to be rid of the odd questions.  He smiled down at his beloved.  “We didn’t actually consider the reception there or…did you?”

“No of course not, I don’t want to mix business and pleasure.”

“Isn’t that exactly what we did?”

“Nah, I came to scope out the competition and this really cute guy who couldn’t look me in the eye without blushing wandered in.”  Dany rose on her toes, pecking his cheek.  She patted her hand against his chest.  She beamed again.  “Best decision I ever made.  I could have sent Viserys.”

At the mention of her annoying older brother, Jon shivered.  He squeezed her close.  “Very well then.  Let’s at least try to figure out a better story, you’re scaring people.”

“Well it is the truth.”  

Jon shook his head, but smiled anyway, his arm around her and hers around him, both of them walking off into the crowd of guests.  He even thought that he overheard someone say the King of the Dead had found his queen.  He kissed her temple, sighing.  He certainly did.

THE END

[courtofjurdan]

One Chance part 17

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Masterlist

Main Masterlist 

A/N: Hey peeps, I know it has been ages since I updated this, but here I am with an update. By the way, when you see “~”, it means its switching to past and then when you see another one, it goes back to present. And I got all my info from google and tv shows for this chapter so if it is not entirely right, I’m sorry. This is the last chapter. I have an epilogue planned also. I hope you enjoy this!

Jude felt pain ripple through her stomach and then felt wetness down her leg. She looked down expecting it her water to have broken but instead she was met with blood. As the pain intensified, the blood got worse.

“Cardan.” “Cardan!”

At that moment she realized she was at home alone. She went looking everywhere for her phone. Finally, she found it on the kitchen island, and called for an ambulance immediately. She called Cardan next telling him to either hurry and come home, something is wrong with the baby, or meet her at the hospital when the ambulance arrives.

Cardan hurried home from his job. He got there after the ambulance arrived. He went with her to the hospital and she was admitted quickly. They needed to do an emergency C-section before anything worse happens to the baby. They rolled Jude to the operation room, Cardan right behind her getting dressed in sterile paper clothes.

She gave birth to her baby, and the whole room was silent. You could hear a pin drop. Jude began asking, “Why isn’t she crying?” She looked to Cardan who had tears running down his cheeks and she knew her worst fears were being confirmed. She started to scream, “No, no, no…”

“No!

“Jude!” Cardan put his hands on her cheeks. “Wake up, baby. It’s a dream.”

Jude opens her eyes, tears falling out. Her breath coming in pants.

“Take a deep breath with me.”

Jude copies Cardan breaths. After she is calmed down, Jude says quietly, “She was dead and I couldn't do anything about it.”

Cardan knew what she was talking about. He put his hand on her very swollen stomach, “Look she's okay. You feel her kicking and moving around in there?” A nod of her head. “That means she is happy and healthy in there. There is nothing to worry about.”

~~~ Jude is 38 weeks now. She’s now very round, extremely emotional, and has crazy nightmares all the time. Cardan is always there to comfort and care for her around the clock.

Two months ago Jude and Cardan moved into the house his dad had bought for them as a gift. It was a two story house with 5 bedrooms and 3 full baths. They decided to get a house where they could live forever. A house they could fit their ever growing family.

Cardan got closer to his dad. His dad finally met him halfway into wanting a relationship with him. They met at least once a week for dinner or coffee. Cardan got a job at his company, a very good paying job. Unfortunately for Jude, Madoc still hasn’t wanted to mend their relationship, but Jude is okay with it. She doesn’t want someone that doesn’t want her.

When Christmas came around five months ago, they decided to have everyone get them baby stuff rather than presents for themselves. They basically had a baby shower for Christmas. Jude liked it because she is not a fan of planning parties or events.

It’s now the end of May, and Cardan and Jude finally graduated from college. They got to do virtual college because of the current predicament they were in. They only had to go to some classes, but mostly they did it from home. Definitely this last month, Jude just wasn’t feeling up to do stuff. She is always tired and sore, and just needs to take it easy. ~~~

Jude looked back at Cardan as he wiped her tears away and put her hand over her stomach to feel her baby kick. She repeated Cardan’s words, “She’s okay. She’s okay. She’s okay.”

Cardan kissed her cheek. And rubbed her back as Jude processed everything.

Then she grunted, “I need to pee. So help me up before I pee in the bed.”

Cardan laughed before he got out of bed and helped Jude steady her feet on the floor.

~~~ Jude has to pee a lot. Cardan swears she has to pee every 20 minutes. Which means Cardan has to help her every 20 minutes. But he doesn’t complain to her, it’s half his fault that she does, but he wouldn’t change it for the world.

Cardan never realized how hard it was on women to grow a baby. He thought they just gained weight and got tired but no, he was wrong. He didn’t know how uncomfortable Jude would be as time got closer. He didn’t realize how swollen her feet would become, how sore her back would be, the amount of loss sleep because the baby was restless or she was too uncomfortable. It made Jude so strong in his eyes.

Jude’s chosen family, Van, Liliver, and Garret, and her blood/adoptive family, Taryn and Vivivenne, were always there for her. And her family was excited to see their niece and become aunts and uncles. Her chosen family was surprised when Jude came to them and mentioned about them being aunts and uncles for her little one. She explained to them that they were more than just best friends. They were more like brothers and sisters to her. They all had an unbreakable bond with each other.

Jude and Cardan have set up the nursery. Jude insisted that she wanted a faerie book style room. And Cardan gave that to her. It’s a room any little girl would want, and when it came to Cardan, he would give anything both of his girls asked. But seeing Cardan trying to put baby furniture together was the best thing Jude has ever seen. She sat in a rocking chair every night watching him struggle, it was the best entertainment. At one point, he decided to call for backup, and Van and Garret came in and helped. So then Jude got to watch all three of them struggle together. But they eventually got it put together.

Jude has started to have Braxton-Hicks contractions for about a month and a half. Cardan hates them. Everytime she has one and she stills, he starts to freak out and Jude has to tell him it’s fine and calm down. It’s not like he feels the pain from them. But Jude is secretly happy he’s there for her and he cares so much about how she feels. ~~~ Once Jude goes to the bathroom, she asks Cardan if he will make breakfast for her. Her breakfast included popping some toaster strudels in the toaster and putting the rich icing on top. Jude basically has been craving anything sweet. So if it’s sweet, Jude wants it.

They eat breakfast and Jude decides to go to the baby room and go through stuff/ organize. She is nesting. She has gone through the hospital bag about three times already, she’s organized the kitchen several times, she cleans everything that she is able to, demanding Cardan to clean the stuff she can’t. And again, Cardan does it, because he doesn’t want to be on Jude’s bad side at the moment.

When Jude was resting from her organizing, Cardan got ready and left for work for his dad’s company. Cardan insisted that he stay with her until the baby is born but she said she would be fine alone. In the end, Liliver came over the days Cardan had to work. Liliver liked to call it their “girl time” before the baby got there.

It was about 7 o’clock pm when Jude decided to get a shower. Cardan was off at 8, and he was bringing home food which was right up her alley.

Now dressed in her pajamas, which consisted to be some stretchy legging and Cardan’s t-shirt, she made her way back to the bedroom. When she met the threshold of the bathroom and bedroom, she felt wetness run down her leg. She paused. All she could think was “Is this really it?”

She called for Liliver. “Hey, Bomb!”

Liliver was there in a couple of seconds. She saw Jude’s pale face and immediately asked, “What’s wrong?”

Jude stuttered, “Umm I- I think my water broke.”

Liliver looked down and saw the puddle of water gathered at her feet. “Oh okay, yeah. So, let’s just go sit down on the bed, I’ll clean that off the floor, and I’ll go call Cardan, okay?”

They slowly made their way to the bed. Liliver got a towel and put it over the fluid to dry it up, and got her phone out and called the man of the hour.

“Hey Cardan, I need to come home. Now.”

There was a pause. And then he seemed to find his words, “Uh, why? What’s wrong?”

“Well, all I have to say is ‘are you ready to go have a baby?’ Jude’s water broke.”

Heavy, nervous breathing came back to her, “Oh my gosh, really? Okay, okay, I’m leaving now. Is she okay? Crap, no she’s probably not okay, what am I thinking, she’s having a baby. Do I need-”

Liliver stopped his rambling, “Cardan, stop, Jude needs you to come home. Everything’s okay right now. I’ve got it handled.”

“Okay, I’m leaving right now.” With that he hung up.

Bomb helped Jude get some shoes on and braided her hair so it was out of her face. Knowing if it was down, all her hair would stick to her face from the sweat that was already starting to bead on her head as her contraction got stronger.

After she finished having one, Liliver asked, “Jude, have you been having contractions today?”

Panting, she said, “Yeah. I thought it was just Braxton-Hicks contractions, but I guess I was wrong.”

“Why didn’t you tell us? Cardan would have stayed home with you.”

Jude glared at her. “Exactly, Cardan would have stayed home and fussed over me. I don’t want someone taking care of me, I’m a big girl.” No, what Jude didn’t say is that she’s scared. And saying it aloud makes everything a reality, and she is not ready to admit that yet.

Not fifteen minutes later, Cardan comes through the front door. He walks quickly to their bedroom. He sees Liliver and Jude on the bed. The former rubbing Jude’s back through her contractions.

Cardan bends down in front of her and gives her cheek a kiss. He grabs her hand and waits till the contraction passes, rubbing small circles on the back of her hand.

When it is over with, he tells Jude, “I’m going to change my clothes real quick, and we will head out, okay?”

Jude nods her head. Cardan can tell how nervous and stressed she is.

He gets up, changes into some sweat pants and t-shirt, puts some Nike high tops on, and goes back to Jude, bending down in front of her, “Okay, you ready?”

Tears immediately fill her eyes, which isn’t a shock, she cries about everything these days, but when her body starts to shake with nervousness, Cardan knows this isn’t her just being an emotional basket case.

He immediately has his hands cupping her cheeks, “Hey Love, what is it? What’s wrong?”

A sob wracked through her, “I’m scared, Cardan, I’m so scared. What if I fail her? What if something goes wrong?”

He put his hands on either side of her stomach, “Hey I’m scared too. But guess what? We get to meet our little princess today or tomorrow, and that’s all that matters. She is going to be so loved. You’re going to be an amazing mom, I know you will be. She is going to love you so much. It’s okay to be scared, but don’t doubt yourself.” He gave a kiss on the lips. “You’re so strong, nothing is going to go wrong.”

Jude opened her mouth to reply, but at that moment a contraction hit her, and the words dissipated from her lips. But Cardan was there to rub her back, and tell her to breathe.

After it was over, Cardan grabbed the baby bag from the living room and headed out to the car with Jude. Liliver promised she would clean up a few things and lock the house before she leaves. Cardan thanked her, internally grateful for such a friend.

Cardan helped Jude into the car, and then got into the driver's seat. He blew out a big breath, and a wide smile bloomed on his face. He looked at Jude and said, “Let’s go have a baby.” He leaned across the middle and put his hand on Jude’s belly and kissed her lips excitingly. It made Jude smile right back.

The car ride wasn’t too bad. Even though Jude grunted and cursed, she didn’t complain once. She held onto Cardan’s hand while he drew circles on top of it, asking if she was okay. Which just aggravated her.

Once arriving at the hospital, the nurses took her back to a room. The room had machines, obviously a hospital bed, a chair for Cardan, and in the corner was a little bed for the baby to be checked out in. It was so surreal to them.

Cardan helped Jude change into her hospital gown, and helped her lay in the bed. The nurse came and put monitors on her stomach, one looked at the baby’s heartbeat and the other could tell when contractions came and how strong they were. The nurse then started on IV to put her on some fluids.

Doctor Tatterfell came in to check how far she was dilated. Which was a 5, she couldn’t believe she was already halfway there. Hence, she has been having contractions since this morning so I guess it does make sense.

But now, at 10pm, the contractions hurt bad. She held Cardan’s hand like it was her last lifeline. And Cardan, the ever encouraging boyfriend, let her, and he massaged her back and whispered sweet nothings about how good she was doing and how strong she is.

She got into different positions throughout the hours to try and relieve some of the stabbing pain that pursued every 5 minutes.

After finishing having one, Jude said, “Cardan, next time massage my lower stomach and my lower back at the same time. It might help.”

So that’s what Cardan did. It seemed to be the best right now to relieve some pain. Soon a nurse came in asking if she wanted an epidural which she immediately said yes.

They again checked to see how dilated she was, and they told her she was at a seven, and then they went ahead and gave the epidural.

Soon, Jude was numb from the belly button and down. Cardan held her hand as the needle went into her back. He couldn’t believe how big the needle was though, he was very nervous for her, not that he would tell her that. But she took it like a champ. Cardan let her know that much too.

Now she was laying back down, getting in a comfortable position on her side. Cardan wiped a cold rag on her forehead, she had sweat quite a bit in the last three hours.

He laid the rag down on a tray and muttered, “You’re doing so good, baby. I’m so proud of you. Rest now while you can, okay? I’ll be right here if you need me.” He was going to sit in the chair they had provided him.

Jude spoke quietly, “You rest too.” Jude ran a hand over her stomach. “I have a feeling we won’t be sleeping much tomorrow.” She smiled up at Cardan.

Cardan softly laughed and kissed her lips right before he went down and kissed her belly.

Soon they both were resting and asleep. Jude got about 2 hours when she started to feel the numbness wear off. She didn’t wake up Cardan, wanting him to get as much needed sleep as he could get.

Taryn came in while they were still sleeping. Jude wanted someone there that could document this moment, and Taryn said she would happily record and take pictures of this monumental day.

But soon, the pain increased, which means her groans of pain got louder. Unfortunately, she couldn’t keep it quiet enough, and Cardan heard it. He rushed to her side and grabbed her hand.

After the pain subsided a little, she called out, “I feel a lot of pressure, Cardan.”

His eyebrows shot up, “You feel like you need to push?”

She nodded her head.

Cardan spoke quickly, “Okay, wait just a second, let me get a nurse.”

Cardan opened the door, went out the hall a little bit and got a nurse. In no time, Jude’s team of nurses and her doctor came into the room.

Doctor Tatterfell checked her and said, “Okay Jude, when you feel another contraction go ahead and push.”

Some nurses held her legs back while Cardan held her hand and let her squeeze it to the point of it feeling like it was breaking.

After 15 minutes of pushing, Cardan muttered into her ear, “You’re doing so good, Jude. I’m so proud of you. You’re almost done.” Cardan could tell how tired she was.

She pushed again and panted, “I can’t. I can’t push anymore. It hurts and I’m so tired.”

Cardan looked past her legs and back at Jude, “Jude, honey, you can do this. She’s almost here. She’s already crowning. We just need a few big pushes, and she’s here. I know it hurts, and you’re tired, but it’s going to be so worth it when this is all done.” Tears started to well up in his eyes.

Jude put a determined look on her face and breathed in deep, and pushed.

Cardan mumbled to her, holding her hand, “Push, push, push, push. Good job, baby.”

This happened two more times, and on the third push, Jude felt relief. She then heard her baby girl crying, and her baby was placed on her chest. She gathered her up in her arms, admiring the little body that wailed with life.

She couldn’t help the tears that fell from her eyes, couldn’t help the sob that tore from her throat. She heard the nurse ask Cardan “Dad, would like to cut the cord.”

He did, and turned back to his girls. Jude heard a sob to her right, and turned her head to see Cardan with the widest smile on his face, tears falling from his eyes.

Cardan looked at Jude, kissed her forehead, kissed the baby’s head and said, “She’s so beautiful.”

Jude sniffed. “She is.”

They took the baby away to be checked by the nurses and doctors while they cleaned Jude up from the rest of the birthing part.

Taryn was still there and did her part. She took pictures and recorded like she was supposed to. She cried while she did it. This was an experience she would never forget.

They weighed the baby and checked her height. She was 7.4 lb and was 19 inches long. Born on May 28, 2020 at 1:09 am.

Soon the nurse came back over with the baby. “Okay. Here she is.” She gave the baby to Jude. “Do you plan to bottle or breastfeed?”

“I plan to breastfeed.”

“Okay then let's see how she does.”

The nurse helped her get the baby to latch, it took a couple of tries but she did it. After the nurse saw everything was going well, she left the room along with Taryn to give the family some alone time.

Cardan cupped the baby’s head as she fed from where he stood, “Jude, you baffle me. You brought this sweet baby girl into the world, and you did amazing. You did amazing carrying her for the last 9 months. And now we get a lifetime of happiness together.” He gently grabbed Jude’s chin from where she was looking at the baby so she would look at him. “Jude Duarte, marry me.”

Jude’s eyes widened and she whispered, “What?”

“You make me the happiest man in the world. I want to live with you forever, I want to raise our children together as husband and wife. I want to attempt to be the man you deserve every single day for you and our family. You bring out the best in me. So will you make me an even more happier man if that’s even possible today and marry me?”

Jude eyes filled with more tears and she nodded, “Yes, Cardan, yes, of course.”

They kissed as the baby unlatched herself. Jude broke the kiss and looked down. The baby had gone to sleep. She looked at Cardan and smiled, “Okay, dad, are you ready to hold her?”

Cardan nodded enthusiastically and held out his arms. Jude met him halfway and gave him the baby. He sat down in his chair by the bed and gazed adoringly at her.

And for the hundredth time that day, Cardan cried. He let the tears roll down his face, unashamed. This was the happiness of his little family, his baby girl that had dark brown hair, and looked to be like golden brown eyes from the little bit she did open them, and his fiancé that blessed him with all this joy.

He looked down at his baby and ran a finger down her cheek, and with a thick voice, breathed, “Welcome to the world Liam Rose Greenbriar. I’m your daddy.”

All Cardan could think of was he was so thankful that Jude gave him one chance.

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[apprentice-lex]

Thank you so much! <3 Warnings for blood and injuries. Reactions under the cut. Long post ahead. SFW.

Valerius

Lucio is trying to do what?! The delicate wineglass breaks in the Consul's hand, sharp shards mixing his blood with the dripping wine, but he doesn't notice, doesn't care. This was not part of the deal. Who does Lucio think he is? He tries and fails to control his breathing; it does nothing to dissipate the panic that curls within the Consul's ribcage, burying its claws into his heart. He needs to do something. He needs to do something right now. Even though it was the middle of the night when he got the message about Lucio's mercenaries, hired to capture you like a common criminal, the Consul doesn't waste a moment, and marches immediately to the palace, right to the door of Lucio's bedroom. Valerius is quite a sight - hair escaping his braid, face flushed with anger, his house robe trailing behind him instead of his usually tasteful garments. He bangs his fist against the door; the guards that move to stop him all wither under his venomous gaze. Finally, Lucio opens the door, disheveled and cantankerous from being woken up. Listening to about a half of the Consul's angry tirade, Lucio cuts him off with: "You woke me up for such a a paltry thing?" It takes all the self-restraint that the Consul possesses not to punch the Count in the face, right then and there. Yes, Lucio is a trained fighter and it would likely not end well for Valerius, but the Consul's rage won't listen to reason. He'd do much more, for you. Who cares for a few bruises when your freedom is at stake? However, reminding himself it would do more harm than good, the Consul manages to calm himself, and instead threatens the Count with all the possible consequences he can think of - delays of the Count's parties, confiscated supplies - whatever it takes, until Lucio agrees to call off the pursuit. Valerius returns to his estate still fuming. He got the Count to let you go, but it did nothing to quell his rage or his growing dislike for the Count. He wishes he'd taken the chance to throw that punch instead, consequences be damned.

Valdemar

They pause, close their eyes, take a deep breath, and remind themself that the assistants around them do not deserve their ire. But Lucio... Oh, Lucio. How arrogant the pitiful thing is. How infuriatingly oblivious to his own insignificance. Yes, Valdemar had a deal with him, but they've had countless deals with so many, over the centuries; with nobles and kings and magicians, with wisemen and fools equally. They've been the court physician in kingdoms that had crumbled to dust before the civilization of Vesuvia ever left its cradle. And now, this arrogant, insignificant speck thinks he can imprison someone Valdemar holds dear, against their wishes? Oh, how the Count will rue the day he ever heard their name, or yours. Valdemar puts down their tools - they do not need any for what they are about to do - and heads straight to the throne room, bloodstains on their apron and all. The time has come to review the terms of a deal. Ignoring the guards, they stride right into the throne room, slamming the door shut behind them. What they are about to say is for Lucio's ears alone. When the Count and the Quaestor leave the throne room some minutes later, Lucio is pale and shaking, rudely brushing off the servants' concern. You are immediately set free, and pardoned for anything he might have accused you of in order to have you captured. Valdemar goes back to the dungeons, to continue with their too-long-neglected experiment. Everything is as it should be. All they had to do is explain to Lucio whose heart they will immediately take if you are not set free.

Volta

The moment she hears what the Count is attempting to do, she breaks down in panic. The guests at the dinner table try to look everywhere but at the Procurator's tear-streaked face, trying to maintain a sense of decorum. She doesn't care. She leaves the food half-eaten, leaves the guests behind, and summons her carriage driver - she needs to go to the palace, immediately. It's also the first time that the carriage driver sees the Procurator lash out, urging him to go faster. She barely waits for the carriage to stop, before gathering her skirts and almost running up the palace stairs. She ignores the servants, ignores the chamberlain, ignores everyone who is trying to stop her, heading straight for Nadia's quarters. She interrupts the Countess' meditation - something hardy anyone would ever dare to do - to plead for help, for Nadia's support. She cannot allow Lucio to get away with this. The Procurator hardly makes sense, words flowing from her like a river through a broken dam - she begs and even threatens, promises that she will ask the other courtiers for help should the Countess refuse. The commotion quickly draws an unwelcome audience - Vulgora and Valdemar who both had business in the palace, Vlastomil who was just about to return to his estate and who finds this chaos quite intolerable; even Valerius, who comes to watch the spectacle unfold with a glass of wine in his hand and a disapproving sneer. However, the tiny Procurator's heartfelt, chaotic speech wins them over; Nadia sees it in the eyes of her courtiers. Willing or not, she has little choice but to help, because Volta will certainly never stop trying to find a way to help you, trying to get others to promise their aid. The Countess intervenes, and you are set free - Volta immediately wraps her arms around you; her own knees buckle, but she refuses to let go, which takes the both of you to the floor, and leaves you kneeling in the middle of the palace. She is unashamed of the tears of relief spilling down her cheeks as she covers your face with kisses, promising with every breath that she would never, ever stop trying, that she would never give up on you. The staff politely looks away from this display of raw emotion, but you're certain you see a few clandestine, approving smiles.

  Vlastomil

He is horrified when the news reach him; the rose he had been carefully tending to crumples in his hand. He doesn't care. His mind immediately in overdrive, he all but rips off the gardening gloves and apron, leaving everything scattered around the garden as he rushes to his study. He spends the afternoon, the evening, and nearly the entire night writing letters; promising, threatening, calling in favors, offering favors... slowly but surely turning the court and the nobility against Lucio. Messengers are dispatched, swift and trustworthy, in the night. Many a noble recognizes the Praetor's looping script, even if the letters are signed just "V." Most of them dispose of the letters, burning them; it would do no good to leave proof of that they are about to do, especially if it should fail. But the Praetor's schemes rarely fail...he's had years to build his web of connections. Lucio's invites are declined. Favors refused. Goods for his parties - such as wine and fabrics and luxury spices - withheld. It takes him days to realize he is in the middle of a rebellion. His own nobility turns against him; the palace's opulence dwindles. All the while, Vlastomil himself is the picture of politeness. Warm smiles that never reach his cold, pale eyes. Finally, the Count is invited to dinner at the Praetor's estate. He sees many of the things that were meant for his own table, had the Praetor not turned his suppliers against him. He knows these things are served as a show of power. And he knows about the poisoned blades hidden in the folds of the guests' clothing even before he sees them. He knows that his own swordsmanship would do him no good. Vlastomil bled away his riches, turned his advisors and the nobility against him, and now the only way for the Count to leave this room with his life is to not only free you, but to plead for the Praetor's forgiveness. For taking the one thing that Vlastomil cares for more than anything else. One thing that the Praetor loves. Vlastomil never raised a hand against the Count, he never even raised his voice. But let it never again be doubted that the quill is that much mightier than the sword, a whispered word at the right time more potent than a declaration shouted at the town square. You are released, officially pardoned, offered gold and land for all the troubles you've been put through. As much gold and land as the Count can offer, after the rebellion had bled him dry. Let it never be said that the Praetor doesn't make a formidable enemy. It is a lesson the Count will never forget.

Vulgora

The moment they hear the news, Vulgora makes a beeline for the palace, tossing and smashing everything and anything in their way. The guards who see the approaching Pontifex immediately withdraw inside the gates. To say that the Pontifex had murder written all over their face would be a major understatement. No one before had seen their eyes that exact hue of pale, cold gold - it was beyond rage, mortal anger and mortal bloodlust had nothing on a demon unleashed, and the news of your capture had done just that; what Lucio did unleashed everything Vulgora worked so hard to leash and restrain for your sake. Now, their gauntleted fingers were twitching, searching for the nonexistent throats of their enemies, as the guards inside the gate wiped cold sweat from their brows and tried to swallow their panic. Hearing the news that Lucio had ordered your capture, the Pontifex truly became what they were rumored to be; bloodlust incarnate, an embodiment of rage. They were a one-person army, standing alone at the gates and demanding that Vesuvia hand you over, or they would rip the finely-made gates off their hinges, and paint the halls of the palace crimson in a way that even the red plague did not. But the Pontifex themself was the least of their worries, the guards realize, when the cloud of beetles blots out the sun. They descended upon the palace gardens, leaving bare branches and barren earth in place of the lush, green grass. If you asked the guards after that day, they'd swear that the sky had turned crimson and that the water in the fountain turned to blood... that War had been unleashed, for you. It is unclear what had truly happened. Soldiers so frightened are not to be believed. But even the frightened guards still remember correctly how the last vestiges of color drained from the Count's face when he was summoned, how quickly he'd issued orders for your release. When the tall palace gates opened, still none of the guards dared appear - the sole reason the gates had opened was to let a lone figure out. You walked free - and unafraid - straight into Vulgora's arms. Everyday life in the palace soon resumed - things returned to normal. But no one would soon forget what had happened when you were taken from the Pontifex, and no one would make the same mistake again.

[thefallennightmare]

Soldat[6/10]

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x Reader. Slight Steve Rogers x Reader.

Warnings: swearing, lots of angst, some fluffy parts if you look close, and smut (eventually)

Summary: Captain America and Reader have worked together at SHIELD for over a year. What happens when they have a run in with The Winter Soldier and when the reader is captured by Hydra and The Winter Soldier, again. Can she make Soldat remember her or is her life with Steve just a slow fading memory now?

A/N: Here is chapter six, FINALLY. I’ve made this one a doozy to make up for the long wait The next chapter will mostly be a flash back, where we all will find out the past between Reader and Soldat!. TAGS ARE OPEN

Throbbing pain of regret bounced around in my mind, body suddenly twitching back to life. The haziness began to clear, a dark room only lit by a dim light came into view. Metal bars surrounded me and I realized that I was locked in a cell. On one end of the cell there was a small cot with a blanket and on the opposite side was a sink, mirror, and a toilet that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in years. 

 An unattractive groan slipped through my lips as I pushed myself off the cold floor and slowly made my way to the mirror, cringing at my reflection. My hair was matted into knots and a slight purple mark was starting to form under my right eye. I quickly braided my hair then took in the disheveled state of my clothes. My shirt was covered in blood and sweat while my pants were covered in dirt and holes. 

Holes. 

My fingers grazed over what used to be the bullet hole that I had just a few hours ago. The skin was soft, no wound in sight. 

“What the-?” I cursed. 

“Ah, you’re awake.” 

Eyes snapped to the man on the other side of the cell and my skin crawled in disgust. 

Alexander Pierce. 

“Where am I?” I questioned, the faint pain of a headache rattling my brain. 

“Now, why would I tell you that? So you can send a message to your team to come find you?” Pierce asked. 

I gave him a slight shrug and smirked at him. “I thought you’d be stupid enough.” 

“He’ll never find you.” Pierce slid a chair in front of the cell and took a seat. “I’m not sure he would want too after he finds out about your gift.” 

“Gift? What are you talking about?” My eyes sliced into him. 

“You don’t remember? The amount of pain you went through when you saw the soldier in the chair?” 

My heart fluttered in my chest at the mention of him but I refused to let Pierce see my weakness for him. I crossed my arms over my chest, putting all of my weight on my left leg, and raised my eyebrows at him. 

“What are you talking about?” I repeated. 

Pierce remained silent, only pulling out his phone and hitting a button before turning it towards me. On the small screen, Soldat was strapped to the chair, electricity whirring to life, his body tensing with the fear of what was mere seconds away from happening. 

“I knew him.” 

Sadness etched in my bones at how broken his voice sounded and I bit my lip to stop the tears. 

“They both acted like they knew me,” Soldat’s lips quivered. 

“You’ve met them before on assignment,” Pierce appeared on the screen. “We’ve already told you this.” 

Soldat firmly shook his head. “She wasn’t on any mission. I knew her. Intimately.” 

The secret memories that were made just for us fluttered around in my head, my heart rate doubling tenfold, realizing that he was starting to remember them. I could still remember the way his skin felt on mine. 

Pierce grabbed Soldat’s chin, forcing him to look at him. “She left you. She was afraid of what you became; what Hydra made you.”’

“You lied to him!” I screamed, reaching for the phone. “He’s the one that helped me escape. It was him!” 

Pierce sighed before pausing the video. “You two are meant to be connected; as one. His love for you made you the perfect candidate.” 

“Candidate? For what?” I choked out. 

“You two are going to use your gifts for the greater good. It will kill millions but save thousands,” Pierce stood this time, closing the distance between him and the bars of the cell, letting the video play again. 

Tears brimmed in the soldier’s eyes but he blinked them away before anyone saw his weakness. 

“Prep him.” Pierce commanded. “Double it.” 

“We’ve never gone past 50.” A voice cried in the background. 

“He’s remembering too much. DO IT!” 

Screams of pain echoed off of the brick walls but it wasn’t just the soldiers, it was mine as well. It erupted from low in my throat, the pain of a thousand needles stabbing my brain over and over again, the knives twisting and turning. We both cried out, wanting the pain to stop, and I gripped the metal bars in front of me. 

“Make it stop!” I cried. “Turn it off!” 

“No! You need to tap into your full potential. Your powers will be used for the greater good!” Pierce demanded, letting the cries echo down the halls. 

Anger ran through my veins, a slow warmth spreading down to my fingertips and they shook with itch, wanting to wrap around Pierce's throat. Suddenly, the pain had vanished in my head and my eyes went dark with hate, the warmth in my fingertips burning with fire. 

Literal fire. 

A scream clawed its way from my throat as I reached for Pierce’s phone, flames immediately engulfing it. I watched in horror as a fireball emanated from my palms, dancing with the slow breeze of air around us. I pulled my hand back through the bars to my chest, the fire disappearing with a puff of smoke. 

“Wha-what did you do to me?!” I shuddered. 

Pierce’s eyes were wide with excitement. “I gave you a gift, Y/N! You and the soldier will be unstoppable!” 

“Why?!” I slowly backed away from him, trying to give us distance. 

“It was inevitable; no matter how many times we wiped his memory or put him on ice, he always remembered you. When he would get weak, he would mutter your name in the dark. We needed to find you, to make him stronger!” Pierce admitted. 

I shook my head, the pieces of the puzzle clicking together. “This is why I was hired at SHIELD? For some vendetta?!” 

The flames returned, my hands grabbing a fist full of Pierce’s suit, the fire burning him through to the skin. 

“Bitch!” He cried out, releasing my hands from his arm. 

Fear spread through me as Pierce opened the door to the cell and he grabbed my arm, throwing me onto the cot. I scrambled to get farther away from him but he continued to slither close, like a snake following his prey. 

“I give you everything you need; powers, your true love. And this is how you repay me?!”

Movement on the other side of the bars caught our attention and I felt the nerves wrack my body when I saw Soldat standing in the doorway to the small room, no emotion in his eyes. 

“Take care of her; make sure to be quiet.” Pierce commanded before leaving us, the bare skin of his arm red with a burn from my touch. 

We both sat in silence, staring at one another, and his eyes started traveling lower to the tips of my fingers where the fire still burned. His eyebrows pulled together in confusion. 

“They did that to you?” 

I blinked at the deep, richness, to his voice but slowly nodded. “Did you-did you hear all of that?”

His silence was the answer I needed. 

I brought my hands to my face as I continued to shake with fear. 

“I can’t make it stop. I don’t-I can’t make it go away,” I sobbed. 

Soldat’s body stiffened before he entered the cell, bending at the knees in front of me. His metal hand covered both of mine, the fire evaporating. Forcing my gaze from our hands, I watched a low light in his eyes flicker, something as if remembrance appeared in them. 

“Do you remember?” I breathed. 

His lips twitched, trying to hold back a small smile. “I remember the feeling but I can’t remember anything else.”

With a free hand, I slowly raised it to move a strand of hair from his eyes, his body tensing under my touch, but the fear of the fire returning and hurting him caused me to pull my hand back to my chest. 

“I have to get out of here.” I said, mostly to myself. 

His face fell for a split second before nodding. “There’s a door at the end of the hall that leads to the outside. Go straight for two miles and there’s a motel that you can call your friends for help. You’ll have to run fast otherwise they will catch you.” 

My mouth fell agape. “You’re letting me leave?” 

Soldat stood to his feet and shrugged, a blank look still on his face. “You don’t belong here; I do.” 

“Buck-.” I bit my lip, stopping the name to leave them, as I stood in front of him. “You don’t belong here, either. What you have gone through, no one should have to do that alone. Come with me.” 

“You should go now. They will send me after you.” He ignored my request. 

Licking my lips, I gave him a small nod and went to move past him, ready for my escape, but the feeling of metal wrapping around my wrist stopped me.

My gaze bounced from my wrist in his hand to his broken eyes. 

“Did-did we love each other?” 

I smiled fondly at him and nodded. “More than anything.” 

Giving him one last look, I fought the urge to stay here with him, knowing that it wouldn’t be best for either of us if I did. I felt his fingers release me and I ran down the long hallway towards the other man that had my heart, the one I had been longing to see ever since I had been caught. 

“Y/N?” 

Standing on the gravel road, my hands shook as I watched Steve make his way towards me, relief clear on his face. It had been a few hours since I escaped Hydra and Soldat, making it safely to the motel. I used the phone there to call Natasha, her answering immediately almost knowing that it would be me calling. I didn’t want to call Steve, too afraid to face him with my new gift so I had Natasha come pick me up. 

On the car ride back to their hideout, she had mentioned that I was gone for eight hours but that still didn’t stop Steve from looking for me. 

You should have seen him, Y/N. He was a man possessed looking for you.

Given different circumstances, my heart would have soared at the news but with everything that happened, the last thing on my mind was Steve’s feelings for me. 

Natasha had also mentioned that Nick was alive and very well, him and Maria Hill faking his death to throw Hydra off his tail. They had a plan to take down Hydra and to stop Project Insight but they didn’t know what I did. 

Now, here I was standing in front of Steve, broken and afraid of what he would think of me; the new me. 

“Steve,” I breathed. 

“Where have you been?” He questioned, his steps slowing when he saw the look of fear on my face. 

“I saw him, Stevie.” I muttered. 

“Who?” He squinted his eyes. 

“Sold-erhm, Bucky. I saw Bucky.” I corrected myself. 

Steve’s shoulders tensed under his navy jacket; the one I loved so much on him.

“Did he remember me?” 

My heart broke at the hopefulness in his voice and shook my head. “They erase his mind, Steve. They make him forget. He-uh, he didn’t remember me.” 

“Sweetheart,” Steve’s own heart broke at my sobs and he tried everything to hide the jealousy. “Come here.”

“No,” I violently shook my head, tears starting to fall from my eyes. “I’ll hurt you.” 

“I’d like to see you try,” He joked but he wished he could have taken it back when he noticed the broken frown on my face. 

“Pierce, he put something in me.” 

Steve’s body and demeanor changed, anger flashing through him. 

“He gave me a gift,” My voice dripped with venom, “He said that Soldat and I are connected; that our love is going to be used for the greater good. For Project Insight.” 

“Y/N, what did he do?” 

I ignored Steve’s question, my rant fueling the new powers I was still trying to get a hold of. “He used our love for his own personal vendetta. My whole career, my life, all used to kill innocent people! They lied to him. They said that I left him because he scared me. I was afraid of what they made him. But that’s not true,” I sputtered, the tears falling. 

Steve slowly stepped towards me as I continued to rant, not paying him any attention. 

“I loved him, Steve. Not Bucky but Soldat. He doesn’t remember me or you and it’s because of Pierce. They use him and freeze him when they’re done with him,” I revealed. 

“We’ll save him, Y/N. I promise. But we need to stop him first,” Steve promised, reaching for my hand. 

The sudden motion caused me to snatch my hands away from him with a yell. “NO! He doesn’t want to be saved!” 

My screams reverberated throughout the woods, birds flocking from the trees, the tone causing Steve to step away from me. 

“I felt his pain, Steve. What they did to him, I felt it. The pain crushing my skull into pieces,” I sobbed, sparks started to emanate from my fingertips.

My eyes landed away from Steve to a lone bush that lay pressed against the empty warehouse they were using as a hideout. Fingertips danced with the fire behind my back and I looked back into Steve’s worried gaze. 

“He didn’t want to come with me because he didn’t remember me, our love. All because of Pierce and Hydra!”

Horror dug deep into Steve’s stomach as he watched me pull my hand from behind my back, fire shooting straight to the bush, setting it a blaze in mere seconds. He blinked, allowing the confusion to rattle his brain, then looked away from the burning bush back to me. 

“My gift,” I shrugged while answering his silent thoughts. 

“Pierce did that to you?” Steve’s voice finally croaked out. 

I nodded while clasping my hands together. “I don’t know how he did it. The only thing I remember was waking up hooked to wires and tubes. It’s some type of serum.”

“Like super soldier serum?” Steve asked, closing the distance between us. 

“I don’t think so,” I shook my head. “I don’t have super strength or hearing but I do have rapid healing.” 

I motioned towards the place on my leg where the bullet wound bled hours ago. “I also have heightened senses for pain.” 

“For everyone?” Steve’s eyes looked from my leg to my eyes. 

“Just for him,” I answered truthfully.

We stood in silence, letting the news of who I was now sink in, and the knowing fear that nothing would be the same again. 

“Steve?” 

He nodded. 

“I’m terrified,” I wept. “I don’t want this.”

“Sweetheart,” Steve comforted, “We’ll figure this out; all of us.” 

I let myself fall into his arms as he wrapped them around me, pulling me into his chest. My hands that became so foreign to me pressed against the muscles in his back and they felt every groove, saving them to my memory. I cried into his chest, tears staining his shirt, as he rubbed comforting circles all over my back. 

His lips brushed against my forehead, his breath fanning my face. “We’ll save him, Y/N. I promise. But there can’t be any secrets between us anymore. You need to tell us about your past with Bucky.”

The fear of my new powers was nothing compared to the fear of letting everyone know about my time being captured by Hydra and Soldat, all those years ago. 

Tags:

@kat002nd @chubby-dumplin @avengemepercy

[flowerflamestars]

Pearl and Bone

PART ONE  PART TWO  PART THREE PART FOUR  PART FIVE  PART SIX

The silence was a fractured thing, icy in the air of a palatial human parlor full of fae.   Lucien wasn’t sure which would prove more dangerous; the utter stillness of the Illyrian warrior on the other side of Elain poised for some cue. Rhysand, utterly blank in shock or warning, the air around him promising death and darkness.   Or Feyre, whose face had crumpled at the word mates. “I didn’t”- She shook her head, braid swinging. “Tamlin said it might take time, for a bond to snap in place between us. That we could be married first and the rest would come.” Blue eyes blazing found Lucien’s, “I didn’t know."   Elain scooted forward on the chaise, reached a hand out to her younger sister. “You couldn’t have known."   Feyre clasped her fingers across the low table, the difference between her shining immortal skin and the Elain’s pale grip apparent and painful.   “He was ruined before you ever met him,” Nesta told her, no less sympathetic for the different shape of the feeling. “You couldn’t have changed it.”   Feyre nodded, tight mouthed, looking between her sisters and powerfully managing to ignore Lucien himself, perched between them. After a long moment made longer by the tension that wasn’t leaving the air, for all that the sisters clear affection was there between them, Rhysand clapped a hand on Feyre’s shoulder.

“Why don’t we take a break,” The High Lord suggested, looking only at Feyre. Her nod was enough to break up the talk.   Immediately, Nesta rose from her seat. She strode to the farthest window, eyes away from Rhysand and her baby sister as he gripped her shoulders in comfort and clear affection- enough like how she acted when Lucien and Elain found themselves deep in conversation he wanted to turn back over a thousand afternoons for new context.   Lucien rose himself and drifted to lean near the other window as Elain joined her, the motion unsubtly putting his body between them and the Illyrian. In an odd echo of the motion Elain came to a stop perched sideways, nearly empty teacup clinking faintly as she screened Nesta from the rest of the room but for him.   Approvingly, intrigued- were the Acheron’s ever not up to something?- Lucien slouched into a lazy repose, flashed teeth at Cassian’s watching face.   In meetings between Courts, in stories whispered between the soldiers Lucien had trained for Spring, the High Command of the Illyrian Legions was a goliath. Savage, blood thirsty, fiendishly strategic; a stone cold killer capable of taking out armies single handedly.   No matter how much Rhysand was hated, particularly in the South, no on wanted to tangle with the legions led by this male.   A warm smile for Elain, didn’t make up for hauling Nesta from a fight like a sack of grain. A cup of tea was not a parley- the General was smart enough to be watchful, but he was looking the wrong way.   Feyre had called him a friend.   Then again, Feyre was sniping at the most powerful High Lord in history across the room.   Her laugh rang out, clarion. Had he ever heard her real laugh in Spring? Never after the Mountain. There was a palpable steadiness to her- even angry, even tense, Feyre seemed finally settled in her own skin.    Rhysand’s grip on both her shoulders had softened to an upward caress, tattooed hands tracing her arms. Lucien could practically see those silver bright ties between them without trying- gleaming like stars, chiming and pulling tight as Feyre swore, demanded Rhysand tell her more of the countries involved with Hybern. It was easy to see- and deserved, utterly deserved- that Tamlin could be forgotten.   Neither seemed able to look away, to see anyone else in the room but each other.  But Elain and Nesta weren’t paying attention to the growing heat.   On a napkin pulled taut in Elain’s white knuckled grip, her fingertip smeared with tealeaves, Nesta was writing the same word over and over again.   Velaris. Velaris.   VELARIS. Undeniably a fae name, but Lucien had never heard it. As the High Lord and Feyre discussed the human queens in such passing detail he wondered if Rhysand really knew anything about them, or just wouldn’t share the whole picture, another name joined the list, spilling onto the fine linen border. Rhysand. And then, barely legible and a thousand times more damning: Rhain. Lucien pulled the napkin into a nowhere space, heart thundering.    Neither flinched, acknowledged the sudden disappearance of the cloth from Elain’s hand. The surety- they’d grown utterly comfortable with magic, with how fae Lucien was- did nothing to assuage the roaring danger.   More importantly the sharp edged curiosity as it mixed with pride- they knew something.   And it started with the name of Rhysand’s long dead, deeply feared father, scrawled in tea for some harried purpose.   Lucien had made himself look out the window, but he felt every step Elain took toward him, skirt hissing over cool marble and plush rugs. She still smelled like blood- his, and Illyrian too. The slow drifting flakes of ice outside had ceded to a heavier fall of  snow, blanketing everything in blinding white. It’s light cast her pale as she drew up beside him. Velaris. Rhain. Rhysand.  Twelve generations of Acheron merchants had traded with faery countries. That nothing came and went over or under the Wall was by political ruling, and magical defense. Humans, without a faery presence, were physically repelled. All that could pass between mortal countries and Prythian came by sea.   The Acheron fortune now and historically, lay in a veritable armada.   Nesta and Elain owned ships. Enough for a small army; technically bought in their father’s name and secretly deeded back to them. Inspected for appearances by Lucien’s eyes when they came to port, but handled by Nesta in all the real ways.   Faery goods were the Acheron specialty.   Elain touched the icy glass, as though she could reach through and catch the snowflakes.   “We’ll lend out horses in the morning, try to get the roads cleared,” She said. “I sent anyone who could be spared out to the furthest tenants with food this morning, hope everyone was prepared.”   This Lucien could do: hide what he wanted to say in their human life, wait.   He blew a gust of heath fire air over her, no pause in surprise before she smiled. “I’ll bring around cider, keep off the chills.”   That their old apple trees now grew fruit that could cure many small human ills was an unintended blessing. Warm the hearts of the sorrowful, sooth the coughs from a child’s throat- once memorably, drug Elain and Nesta into a giddy, giggling joy Lucien hadn’t imagined possible- it was worth the danger of magic.   Cool fingertips tapped the back of Lucien’s hand- their signal for talk later- and lingered, Elain’s palm bracketing his wrist.   Her brown eyes were bright when he looked down in surprise- too many emotions tangled in her scent for Lucien to know anything but that Elain Archeron had another secret to tell; tension, excitement, earlier rage running embers through it all.   She simply looked back, smile growing keener.   Lucien thought of blue missives- not written in ink, but something much more flammable. News of the Night Court borders, Nesta burning letters, the sisters dropping the impossible idea of going after Feyre- and grinned.   “Is that a wedding ring?”   Feyre had shouted, looking at Elain’s hand like her sister had accrued some fatal disease.   “Engagement,” Elain replied, perfectly even, perfectly pleasant as she unhurriedly returned to her seat facing Feyre and the High Lord. Anger was a grace about her shoulders- did Feyre really not see it?   “You’re getting married?” Feyre repeated, looking at Nesta. “You’re letting her get married?”   Lucien managed to hide his wince, but only just. He knew Feyre felt responsible for her sisters- that their different skills had created an imbalance that haunted Nesta, especially.   “No,” said Nesta, flatly, “She doesn’t need my permission.”   The blow Lucien was waiting for didn’t come. It should have been easy- Nesta could have stopped Feyre’s fears with a few words: it’s not real. Elain could have explained the lie, the act they’d construed between them for safety.   He himself could have said something but- but, whose idea had it even been? Nesta had told him, but Lucien was sure the sister’s had spent the entire night before that meeting planning. She’d presented him a name, a life, a purpose.   That that life was at Elain’s side was a gift. Feyre was staring at his hands, eyes narrow. The urge to wave the left was neigh overpowering- Lucien rarely even thought of the slim gold ring he wore. He hadn’t chosen it- wouldn’t have picked a confection of pearl and diamond for Elain either. It wasn’t that wedding rings were a thing foreign to fae, or even that he didn’t want to touch that co-mingling of dream and reality.   If Lucien bound himself to someone, it would be impossible to ignore. He was high fae- the bond would live on their skin, show in their eyes, begat power and danger.   A ring was just a glimpse- one that audibly set Feyre’s teeth on edge. — The High Lord of the Night Court had purple eyes.   Not blue, not violet, a true rich, royal purple with shadowed depths in which what looked like actual stars gleamed, twinkling. Eyes where the night sky and dreams lived- across the sea, they called him the Lord of Nightmares.   Rhysand, whose whole body seemed tuned to her sister like a song.   She could write his name now- speak around the binding of Acheron blood. Had their ancestor struck a bargain to a High Lord with those same eyes? He set her teeth on edge, brought goosebumps to her skin if she looked too long.   And if he didn’t remove the violence of that purple gaze from Lucien soon, Elain was going to do something she’d regret.   Elain dug her nails into her palm, and prayed for patience as she faced her baby sister. “Feyre.” She said, “You came here to tell us something, why don’t you finish.”   Surely one stabbing was enough. Surely, despite her real, true joy at seeing her sister’s face again- whole, happy, immortal- they could manage to keep this from being a fight. Much less a fight about Elain’s engagement ring- a false engagement ring- when Feyre herself had fallen in love with not just two faeries, but two High Lords, one after the other.   Feyre, with the stubborn line between her brows as familiar as childhood tantrums, had no such compunctions. “What the hell are you playing at Lucien?”   Nesta set down her tea cup with a crash. Elain didn’t need to see her face- to know well that only Nesta was allowed to spit Lucien’s name like a curse, anyone else was damned for it. She stomped to stand behind Elain before speaking.   “What are you playing at, Feyre?” Her hands were white-knuckled, gripping the back of the chaise. Elain reached for one. “You brought the most powerful high lord in Prythian to our home. Do you know his name cannot be written by mortal hands? That we couldn’t even say the name of the city where you were safe in without choking?”   All Elain really heard was the breathe that left Lucien like he’d been punched.   One more secret- they hadn’t been sure they’d ever be able to tell him. Something about being in the room with Rhysand had allowed the gheas to shift- the promise of secrecy from a fairytale city, told to them by their father, as he learned it from his.   One thing at least, they could thank him for besides their name.   Feyre scowled. “What are you talking about?”   Elain let herself feel the sheer anger- there was so much danger here, she couldn’t even just talk to her sister, whose face alive and well was a happiness complete enough to wound. “Velaris.”   That made the High Lord look at them, finally. He ran a hand through his hair, made a rueful noise out of place in the utter stillness that had taken over. If Rhysand had been playing for human when he walked in, a watchful predator had replaced the obviously false guise. The quietude of that menace took all the air from the room.   ���Merchants?” Rhysand drawled, one eyebrow raised.   Nesta squeezed Elains hand and stared right back at the High Lord, head held high. “You’ll find our blood in your charter. Under the High Lord Rhain, on the sanctuary moon.”   “Rhys?” Feyre hissed, her hatred of being left out alive and well across the extreme beauty of her faery face. She looked more like Nesta now- sharper- old features carried over oddly: the freckles on the bridge of her nose bright, but gone from her hands. Taller, more graceful.   Still their baby sister who wanted to protect them, no matter what it did to them all.   But she also wasn’t looking at Elain or Nesta for an answer. “Acheron is one of the merchant families bound to the city?”   Like he’d known it all along- the smug prick, as through he knew anything about their family- Rhysand inclined his head.   Nesta’s glare was going to light the High Lord on fire if they didn’t change the subject soon, and Elain wasn’t particularly inclined to help. This was going to go the way so many talks with men- with lords did- if they couldn’t aim for understanding staying quiet and listening would have to do.   Elain painted on her most charming smile, widest eyes.   “Ships stopped getting passage before we could really learn more,”  She said, real frustration in her voice she didn’t force out, “Is it really as beautiful as they say?”   Feyre visibly softened.   Like a flower opening, Nesta and Lucien slid into the roles they’d made together to deal with the world, symmetry unspoken. Elain had never truly hated it before.   A week previous the hostess of a ball had referred to Nesta as a matron, like she was some guardian of the young, and Elain had explained to Lucien that it was a good thing.   It meant the nobles were accepting that Nesta- a beauty, an heiress, the real heir to their House in a just world- would never marry one of them. Matrons might usually be widows, but they didn’t have to be. Like Elain’s engagement to Lucien, Nesta was safe.   They’d all been safe, until her sister had brought home her new friends. Elain immediately stomped on the thought- Feyre didn’t mean them any harm. It was both the exact homecoming Elain had dreamt of, and feared. Her sister, so damned different and utterly the same it hurt.   She didn’t need to look to see Nesta’s perfect posture or quick steps bringing her to Elain’s side- that cold grace that high born humans took as impugnable. Anger only showed in her eyes, and from the day they’d had so far, wouldn’t be questioned.   At the same time, Lucien slouched closer, with confident insouciance that brought every eye to the room on him. Drawing fire.   “Beautiful,” Feyre agreed, perhaps grateful for the question, “The walls have stood for thousands of years. It’s safe, not like anything on this side of the Wall.”   “I could show you,” Rhysand offered in that silken voice, “In your mind, if you’d like to see where Feyre has been living.”   She was forcefully reminded of Luciens words. Rhysand is practically to faeries what high fae are to humans. Like her mind were a door he could walk through. Feyre was smiling at the offer, but Elain heard the threat.   “No,” Elain said, lightly, “Perhaps I’ll see it for myself someday.”   The huge bay windows were fogging with heat. No matter the ironclad control of his face, Lucien’s power was showing; no ice left in the air, just heat that smelled like a fresh lit fire and felt like the sun on her skin.   He was, after all, a singular listener.   They all had to be as Feyre began speaking in earnest. It was a story vast and tangled as the knot in Elain’s chest; loss, beautiful potential, and disaster on the horizon.   If the Night Court was to be believed, war was coming, and it would spare none of them. — Six hours into Feyre’s homecoming the bulk of the Acheron staff went home early, baskets of extra food in their arms and bottles of Lucien’s cider pressed into their hands, the promise of a warm, cozy night before them.   Elain watched them go and sighed.   It wouldn’t rouse any suspicion- Nesta and Elain had been in circumstance’s different from their birth for such a long time their ways had been set. It was fact- lauded, if sometimes laughed at- that their shared ladies maid was critically underworked, the entire staff of maids and footmen, gardeners and kitchen staff wildly overpaid.   That Elain would insist the first beautiful snowfall of the year should be time spent with family wasn’t a surprise.   Only those who lived on the estate remained. The head of the stables who bred horses as quick as they were clever who wouldn’t leave them to the storm. The gardener’s, settled in cottages made fairytale pretty with the weather.   Their head cook, who’d watched the proceedings with steely eyes before touching Elain’s cheek and taking her staff down to the head gardener’s house for a huge meal. She’d left behind food for them of course, as well, grumbled in her throaty burr to stay warm. If Rhysand wanted more potential human witnesses farther away, he could drag them off himself.   It was a strange thing, to sit before a High Lord whose very presence colored the air with menace- whose spymaster, she could not ignore had disappeared to somewhere-and listen to him describe that the Courts had to unite.   That Feyre might be a key- the child of every magic in their land.   Her sister spoke to him like a lover, treated him like a best friend, but laughed and said she worked for him. With a crown on her head.   It was very obvious, at least to Elain, that finding Lucien here- finding them less than ignorant to danger in their world- had thrown off whatever plan Feyre had for them.   A part of Elain wanted to scream. To demand a real answer of Feyre, to make it very clear they had plans and hopes of their own. But she also wanted to drag Feyre upstairs, to the plush, lovely bedroom she and Nesta had built for her. Show her the glass walled painting studio the next room over, ask every question she could think of about the life Feyre had build in the Night Court.   Never return to the sitting room where they other were still gathered- Nesta, frustrated and suspicious, Lucien treated like a threat. Friendly Cassian and revoltingly charming Rhysand. Feyre, who thought they were innocents to be shielded.   Alone, finally, Elain sank back against the long oak counter in the center of the kitchen, and let herself simply breathe and watch the snow as it fell through diamond-pained windows.   “Do you trust a word out his mouth?” Nesta growled from the doorway.   Elain sagged further down, allowed herself a long sigh before replying. “Not a bloody one. Lucien going to be okay alone?”   Waving a pale hand, Nesta sagged beside her. “He got Feyre talking about Spring. You know she never saw any of the territory but Tamlin’s house?” Much like Elain, Nesta could only manage to spit the High Lord of Springs name. It sounded like a curse, under this roof. “She’d forgive anything if Lucien keeps answering her questions. And stops flashing his ring at her.”   Tiredly, Elain found herself laughing, shoulder bumping Nesta’s as the shared slouch of comfort brought them to equal height.   “You didn’t tell her it was your idea.”   A single wave had escaped the braid wrapped around Nesta’s head. Darker than Elain’s hair and straighter than Feyre’s, it gleamed in the half light. Nesta curled it back in place before speaking, sharp face half shadowed. “You didn’t tell her you the two of you met in a garden and you invited him to tea.”  It felt like a century ago- Lucien’s careful concern and sad eyes. Stealing his weapons in a rush of madness that didn’t go away; she saw him every day, and still, Lucien’s presence was adrenaline and comfort in one.   Life without him seemed impossible.   “Could have told her I’m not going to marry him.” Elain pointed out.   “Aren’t you?” Nesta hissed, not angry- triumphant.   The word that escaped Elain was not one for a ladies vocabulary. All their plans- trade, hiding, protection- hinged on the three of them together. But the marriage itself was not something they spoke of.   Engagement traditions in gentry were ironclad.   They’d exchanged flowers and then rings in public. Lucien had ceremonially dueled Nesta for Elain’s hand- both in front of people and again in private, for the fun they got out of the mock sword fight. Already planned in a scant five days time they’d be handfast, in a month, married to follow.   It was the one thing Lucien and Elain never, ever, talked about.   Nesta, not unkindly, laughed. “He’d die for you, Elain. That’s not friendship.”   “I’d kill for him,” Elain whispered back, before straightening. “Gods know we might have to. What does Rhysand want?”   “Right now, all he’s getting is dinner.” They hadn’t spoken of it, wouldn’t in this unwarded room, but the High Lord felt dangerous. And Feyre was quite clearly in love with him.   Was a war that had nothing to do with them really more of a threat than illegal consorting with faeries the High Council of Queens were known to despise? — Lucien wasn’t sure Elain would be waiting for him.   On the scale of dinners Lucien had experienced with Feyre Archeron, the family reunion might have been just slightly more comfortable than her first night in the Spring Court. She’d been furious then- tonight, all three Acheron sister’s were sharp enough to wound.   Despite Elain directing the conversation with grace, Nesta restraining herself enough to snap only once at the Illyrian watching her with rapt attention, it went badly.   Badly enough Lucien was out in the snow, circling their summer meeting place in the foolish hope Elain would think of it, and come looking for peace. For conversation. For him.   It was six long paces before he found her, face tilted up into the snowfall, ice on the edges of her fur lined hood.   Lucien found he didn’t need to speak, simply held out his arm like a human galant. With an inclined head that he knew was both acknowledgment and joke- that reached down into the fire of his blood and sparked- Elain curled a thickly mittened hand above his elbow, returned his smile.   They didn’t speak until they’d crossed out of the garden. When the words came they were fast and shared: Elain thought Rhysand was a smug bastard, Lucien didn’t fully believe a word he said.   “He doesn’t mean Feyre harm,” Lucien mulled over how to explain, the word mates lead on his tongue, “But”-   “But keeping us alive for her and keeping us safe are different things?” Elain interrupted.   The empty road was thick with snow when they reached it, the whole world buried in quiet when the moon finally showed. They hadn’t run out of observations to trade, but the touch of Elain’s bare hand- freed from mittens to lace her fingers through his- was enough to stop the words in Lucien’s throat.   He took a deep breath, and warmed the air around them.   No laughter, no surprise, no reaction to magic at all anymore but to squeeze his hand.   The quiet held for an infinite time, Elain’s curls white in the moonlight. Could have been Winter fae but for the freckles, Spring but for the genuine depth in her eyes. Autumn, if they lived in Lucien’s dreams.   It was a spell itself, after this fraught, endless day. Magic, until they crested a hill and looked down upon an old millpond, frozen over, the ice gleaming with golden light. Faelight. The sound of their steps raised the face of the women who sat before it, bloodred hair impossibly bright in this white night, pale hands clutched tight. Lucien knew the shape of them- they’d smoothed his hair through childhood nightmares, pressed the first blade he’d ever possessed into his hands.   Lucien’s dead stop pulled Elain closer to his side.   The question was just shaping her mouth when he could speak, surprise and horror and happiness spearing right up under his ribs.   “Mother.” —- The Lady of Autumn rose.   Lucien still hadn’t moved, his grip on her hand frozen. It hurt, to look at his face just then- stripped bare, so surprised the shape was more of pain. She looked so much like him.   A breeze that smelled of apples roasting and the roar of fires blew back Elains hair as Luciens mother closed the distance between them, moving with liquid grace. She was the queen of a lost kingdom, might as well have been a story Elain had been told as child.   Beautiful. Beautiful as her son- red, red hair a ripple past her waist, wide golden eyes, skin like moonlight- but sad too.   A sadness that went deeper than that of her gaze locked on her long lost youngest son.   “You’re not really here,” Lucien said, utterly quiet.   For the first time, Elain realized the light pouring off her skin might not have simply been some part of her own being, but an act of magic. Lucien glowed like that too, a star held somewhere deep inside. It burned whatever it touched, but the Lady of Autumn emitted no heat.   She shook her head. “It’s a small piece of borrowed magic.” Close enough now to touch, her less than solid form dwarfed by Lucien. “The High Lord is otherwise occupied.”   “Mother,” Lucien breathed, and Elain saw the iron control he always had- the charm he slid on and off as easily as she did, the everyday centeredness that lived in Lucien’s sharp smile and dauntless eyes- give way to something old. Something agonized. “I don’t understand. How,” He shook his head, the faintest of tremors running down his arm to Elain’s hand. “How”-   Elain sprang into action. “My lady,” It was hard to execute the bob of a curtsy without moving further from Lucien, but Elain managed it, skirt held in one hand. “It’s an honor to meet you.”   Liquid golden eyes finally turned to her, gleaming like an owl, palpably, gloriously inhuman.”Well met, mortal,” She breathed, the faintest smile on her perfect mouth, everything and absolutely nothing like her son. “I am Sorcha.”   “Elain.”   “I believe I met your sister, once. The curse breaker.” Under the Mountain and held in sway of a sorceress who’d taken an entire country with her wiles- the pieces seemed impossible to fit together. Bowed or even bent, no hesitation or defeat was imaginable for this female. Sorcha, sorrowful or not, felt like power, an arcane, otherworldly danger, much like being in a room with Rhysand.   Elain fought to not look away from her ancient face. The taut tension of Lucien’s body was so complete she could feel it beside him. A moment needed, and Elain could give him that.   She inclined her head. “Yes, I believe your gift served her well.” No matter the depth in her eyes, the smile grew. “I would have been able to do more had the curse ended but a year later. She was lucky to save us, but worse is coming.”   “Mother,” Lucien’s voice was soft, so terribly soft, “You risk yourself to warn me of war?”   Ghostly, that hip length red hair brushed Elain’s arm, the illusion allowing no feeling. She hadn’t realized, caught in the moment, how close Sorcha had come.   “Oh, my little star,” The Lady of Autumn breathed, “Many things are about to come, not all of which I can tell you yet. But my binding to Autumn is finally at an end.”   Elain knew only pieces of the story; Lucien’s mother bound too young to a savage ruler. A marriage contract written in blood, the heirs that followed. And Lucien, finally, the one who among all the rest solely inherited her burning gifts.   Lucien’s hand convulsed in hers. “You’re going to be free?”   Sorcha’s wicked expression was every bit his too, for all that her features were honed more delicate and less lush. The air smelled like smoke, like herbs burning- Elain couldn’t identify a single one. “My darling, no Vanserra can be held forever.” She brushed a hand over Lucien’s cheek, sadness and hope endless between them. “You deserve the entire story, but time runs short, and there are things you must know.”   “Hybern is coming,” Elain said, her voice too sharp to her own ears.   The Lady of Autumn no more sounded like birdsong when she laughed, flashing a fanged mouth. “You are much more than a curse breaker’s sister, aren’t you?”   A warm hand landed between her shoulder blades, familiar. Still holding her hand, turning was required to make the motion, trading the grip of one hand for the other so fast Elain only tracked it with the change of calluses against her palm. Ridiculous- and comfort, perhaps not just her own.   “She’s Elain Archeron,” Lucien said, like her name meant something to this ageless queen.   “Indeed,” Sorcha raised her other hand to Elain’s cheek, the ghost of a touch. “The House of Oak embraces you, Elain Acheron. Hybern will ruin this land if given a chance. I’ll send word when I can, but if you need refuge- either of you- go to Day.”   Lucien frowned, but the light that made the visage of his mother pulsed, returned fainter.   “Remember what I told you Lucien, and live.”   Like she’d never been there at all, Sorcha faded into nothing.   The sounds of the night crept back to them- wind through the folly, the distant sound of horses calming for the night, followed by the new and faraway boom of Illyrian wings. Loudest of all, Elain’s racing pulse as Lucien didn’t move, barely seemed to so much as breathe.   Still as he’d been the day they’d found him, bleeding into their soil.   Slowly, heart not so much pounding as having settled sick in her throat, Elain leaned into the broad chest before her. Slower still, she settled her cheek against his fine mortal shirt, silk impossibly heated. She’d seen that warmth transmute, watched things catch fire by unintended cause of simply being near. It was a long, long time before Elain felt Lucien’s lungs fill again.   “She left something in your hair,” He finally said, voice so rough and deep that even the warmth of proximity didn’t keep goosebumps from Elain’s skin.   “What?”   Elain reached a cautious hand up, and felt- petals? Silken, dewy, full blooms bound in vine and something smoothly foreign, a circlet wound in her hair. Head tipped back, she didn’t have to ask the question to find Lucien looking down in answer, face stripped bare.   The hand on her back made the soft trip upward until Lucien was directing her fingertips. “Wild rose, monkshood, clematis, poison ivy,” Leaf and petal brushed her hand, until Elain was touching the shape of the loop itself, cool even beneath Lucien’s knife calluses, “Bone of the wild hunt,” Onto the other side, his eyes on hers, “Iron from the heart of the last great wyrm.”   “Bone and wrym?”   Lucien dropped her hand to scrub a palm over his face. Gold and wheat and bone gleaming in his own hair, he laughed, curling into her space as the sound carried relief and wildness from his ribs to hers.   “Elain,” He whispered, hope and reverence in one, “She left you the crown of the High Lord of Autumn.” — An hour later, sparks ricocheting in his veins like so much adrenaline, Lucien was behind the locked door of Elain’s bedroom, warding a hatbox with enough magic to destroy a city.   The two circlets his mother- his mother alive, escaping, unhurt- had left behind sat on Elain’s bed, nearly at eye level where he was crosslegged on the floor, burning symbols into cedar. The usual occupant of that unslept-in space was sprawled nearly as close, fingertips hovering over the crown Lucien had pulled from his hair like it might burn her. “Gold?” Elain asked, echoing his own thoughts with a painful clarity. “As in Day Court gold, for Day court asylum?”   “I don’t know,” He admitted, the last twist of fire arcing between his hands. “Day court gold, Autumn bone. It doesn’t make any sense."   Gold and wheat like the crown of the High Lord Lucien had never met, a territory he’d never so much as set foot in, bound to the rowan and bone he’d worn as Beron’s unacknowledged heir; earned, with the magic in his veins and death of his touch.   A rightness, a horror in Lucien’s hands- a missing piece it was hard to look away from, even now.   Elain passed it to him, scarred wrist silver in the living glow of the gold, like sunlight. Not like- actual sunlight, the gold forged by Day Court’s hand, the Spell-cleaver’s bloodline.   It wasn’t until he’d dropped it in the box, lid shut and magic locking with such finality that Lucien managed to look up and find those infinite brown eyes on his face.   “They’re both yours,” Elain said. She was sliding off the bed and onto the floor before he’d even finished shaking his head, skirt spilling over them both. “No. Lucien, it’s your birthright. It’s yours.”   She was feeling enough- not bothering to contain herself around him? Comfortable, the fire sang, and Lucien swallowed it down- to speak with her hands, pale fingers waving as she gestured between them. How many hours had Lucien spent with that careful grip on one arm? How many times had he kissed that palm over the last year, for the benefit of an audience?   He could have found the freckles blind.   “I was never really heir,” Lucien said carefully, waiting for the painful sympathy of her dark eyes.   Instead, Elain growled, so near a real snarl he swore for a heartbeat he could hear the reverb that could one only come from a faery throat, before grabbing his hand. Fearlessly- like those weren’t fire starters hands, like Lucien’s skin wasn’t still hotter than any living things should be.   “Beron’s fault is not yours,” Elain whispered back, utterly fierce. “You told me the power chooses the heir. Nothing that ancient prick does can change who you are.” Who he was. A faery who’d never belonged to anything or anywhere but here; with these mortal women, with this family right on the edge of war. Autumn undeniably- Lucien could call down the Wild Hunt from the sky, hear the wind through the bone trees even now if he tried, find a bloodlines heir with instinct alone- he was Autumn.   He would always be Autumn.   But he’d never wanted to rule, never really thought he would. The most powerful of Sorcha’s sons; but the gentry of that court had been shaped by Beron’s cruelty for eons, Lucien was not enough one of them to be High Lord.   Not an heir, not an emissary, not even the Acheron Lord: just Lucien Vanserra.   It was settled, he’d realized, as deep as the immortality locked is his bones, the fire pounding in his blood; Elain Acheron wore the crown of Autumn and leaned into his touch like she’d been born for it, and Lucien didn’t want anything else.   Certainty felt like bravery.   “It could still choose me,” He admitted, leaning closer, slowly enough that the entire motion was telegraphed. Elain sighed, the noise all temper, drifting through Lucien’s hair as it slid to curtain them both. “But she gave it to you for a reason, it’ll keep you safe.”   Impossibly, after this day of conflict with Feyre, with the cauldron damned Night Court, after this surreal magic drenched last hour and despite the exhaustion he smelt, clinging to her skin, Elain looked comfortable.   Curious, frustrated, eyes roaming his face- but utterly comfortable spilled on the floor, curved so close together their legs touched, the lamplight only reaching her face through a screen of red hair, glamour long forgotten.   “You don’t want to be High Lord,” She finally said, close enough he felt the words on his own mouth.   His lips quirked up without conscious permission. “I wanted to be heir,” Lucien said. “To be recognized. I wanted enough power to keep others safe- and that couldn’t be taken away. Autumn’s borders won’t accept me, but I could call on those forest’s from here and be answered.”   “To keep us safe?” The way she said it didn’t feel like a question.   There couldn’t be a way she didn’t know- Elain Acheron, a thousand times more clever than most realized. His lungs, his heart. And Nesta, his left hand, a sword and shield before them both.   Careful, like a child’s promise, Lucien hooked one pinky through hers. “I’d turn Hybern to ash if he looks our way.”   A joking tone had taken over, self protection if there ever was any. But Elain heard the truth.   She swung their joined hands, for all that there was barely room to move between them. “I’ll stab him in throat, you can burn the body,” Elain promised, looking down. “I imagine even faery kings can’t wield magic if they’re choking on blood.”   She was a savage in lace and velvet, her quick mortal heart loud in his ears.   Before he could weigh the action, Lucien snatched up the other crown, feeling the biting sting as it rejected him, burn sinking into his palms in the second it took to place that bone wreath on Elain’s head.   “Wear it,” Lucien whispered, feeling as though he were under enchantment himself, “And it will give you the strength to defeat your enemies.”   Her smile didn’t break the spell, but changed it to something softer. “The wheat,” She began, leaning back to see him fully. “The gold, it smelled like fire.”   What did Autumn and Day have in common? Nothing, everything- courts of old magic and deep nature, a power that could burn and bind.   He knew it before she said it. “Like your acorn.” Like his magic. Lucien didn’t know what it meant, anymore than he could say what was coming. They’d hide the crowns together, he knew. Wake up tomorrow in different beds, try to understand, to thwart whatever asinine plan Feyre and her chosen High Lord wanted them dragged into. Tell Nesta they’d been warned, try to plan for war and conflict.   Tuck away this secret between them, until it had meaning.   Autumn Court, Day Court, gods-forshaken Night Court- what did it matter?   Lucien belonged to Elain Archeron, and that wasn’t ever changing.

@breath-of-sindragosa @flxwer-petals @ladyvanserra @illyrianinterrasen@missanniewhimsy@tntwme@ourbooksuniverse @pitterpatterpot @thestarwhowishes @abillionlittlepieces @my-fan-side @the-eightofswords @wonderland–memories @ourbooksuniverse @cohen-theeleven

[annoshkii]

Hades

I love this story. It’s light and cute, but enough adventure to keep it interesting. 

Chapter 1/?

word count 5787

***Summary***

Cerberus has escaped from the underworld and befriended a young girl. The last thing that Hades expects is a simple retrieval to become so complicated.

Chapter 1

Hades was exhausted. It wasn’t easy listening to the souls of the damned stake their cases all day. Some people just didn’t want to accept the fact that they belonged in the Fields of punishment. And their justification for their actions? Ludacris.

“Oh I’m sorry my lord Hades, I would have tried to stop that bank robbery from happening but the barista had just called my name.”

Or

“I was going to pull that child out of the water but my phone rang.”

Or his personal favourite,

“I didn’t really abduct those people, I was adding them to my art collection!”

Humans had a very strong inbred denial system in place but after you’d been around for thousands of years, you can truly say that you have literally heard it all.

He walked silently up past the misty meadows of Asphodel. The two skeletons standing guard bowed so low as he passed that their skulls brushed the hard cobble path. His palace stood on the other side of the gates to Elysium, paradise. Up above him the Furies cackled and leered, cracking their fiery whips as they scanned the plains looking for an escaped soul they could devour.

“Please.” A withering shadow of a soul reached out and grasped at the foot of his black robes that swirled with the faces of the damned. “Pease my lord, grant me peace.”

Hades kicked the soul off with a disinterested expression and continued walking away.

“Please my lord!” The soul cried after him. Hades kept walking, above him the Furies screeched before swooping down and devouring the soul with a sickening snap.

“Be at peace then.” Hades mumbled under his breath.

Striding under the archway of his palace, the noises and screams of the many planes behind him faded away. His court yard was clocked in a layer of white mist, studded with white poplars and looming Cypress trees. To the right of the gate way sat a patch of pomegranate and mint plants that stretched off into the mist. Large blue fires burned in bazaars leading the way to his home. His palace was black as the night. Standing tall and imposing with large pillars lining the front mahogany door. The whole place screamed Hades, Lord of the Underworld.

Except the bright pink flower bed…

“Persephone!” He bellowed pushing open the heavy front doors.

“What?” Persephone was beautiful. Light and ethereal, with an array of flowers constantly braided through her hair. She was a complete contrast to her dark and dismal surroundings as she came down the magnificent white marble stairs.

“My love you can’t plant your flowers outside my palace. It ruins the look.” Hades said passing by her to enter his lounging room and sitting down in his favourite leather chair. Like the rest of the house it was Black with shades of white and grey flecked through the room. A grand fire place that sat in the center of the far wall burst into life the moment he entered. Casting ghostly white shadows around the room.

“First off, hello to you too. Second, it’s our palace. Third, this place is so gloomy! It looks like the bachelor pad of an over emotional Gothic teenager. You need colour.” She followed him in to the lounge standing beside him with her arms crossed. Despite being the goddess of springtime and flowers she was very fiery and stubborn. Hades was convinced that she was somehow the daughter of Hephaestus instead of Zeus. “It wouldn’t kill you to redecorate.”

Hades rubbed his eyes and sighed. “What else have you done?”

“Nothing yet.” She retorted. “But I have big plans for this place. You can’t keep me here six months out of the year and expect me to take it quietly.”

“Very well my dear, just don’t touch my case of shattered dreams.”

“I was going to paint it blue.” Hades sighed again defeated.

Persephone softened her expression as she kneeled down beside him taking his hand into hers. “Was it another tough day today.”

“The humans, they exhaust me.” Hades ran his free hand through his long black locks, letting them tumble to his shoulders. “I have half a mind to send them all to the Fields of Punishment just for inconveniencing me.”

“Perhaps tomorrow.” Persephone sympathized stroking his hand. “The servants have prepared a feast for us tonight and your son, Tiberius will be joining us.”

Huffing Hades pushed himself out of his chair and followed Persephone back into the main Atrium and into the dining room on the opposite wall. It was indeed a feast. The gigantic ornate mahogany table was laden full of food. Fried dates, roasted chicken, golden brown loaves of bread, thick branches of grapes, platers upon platers of cheese and thinly sliced meats, and a roasted lamb, perched upon a slight podium in the middle of the table. Thin wisps of servants fluttered around the room bringing plates of food and filling wine glasses for various guests at the table.

Tiberius, or Ti as he preferred, was a tall broad young man. His long dark hair pulled back into a bun revealing his strong jaw line.

“Father.” He said bowing as Hades entered the room.

“Tiberius my son.” Hades said grasping his shoulder. “I am delighted that you could join us this evening.”

“As am I father.”

Moving around, Hades placed himself at the head of the table holding out his hand for a glass of wine. All around him, members of his court took their seats. To his right sat Persephone. On his left was his minister Thanatos, next was Ti, followed by the judges Minos, and Rhadamanthys. Persephone kept stealing venomous looks at Askalaphos, who had perched at the farthest seat away from her.

Once everyone was seated Hades raised his glass in the air and turning it upside down so that the contents splattered on the floor.

“To justice. To the gods.” The words echoed around the room as everyone repeated the toast before spilling their drinks on the cold floor as well. Light conversation broke out around the table as everyone began to dig into their dinner. Ti was in a deep conversation with Thanatos about a recent escapee out of the doors of death. Persephone was mindlessly growing flowers on the skull candle holders. Just as Hades was about to dig into the roast lamb the door flew open.

Aeacus stood in the doorway panting.

“What is the meaning of this?” Hades demanded.

“My lord.” Aeacus panted. “It is Cerberus, he’s gone.”

The room turned Icy as everyone froze.

“Leave us.” Hades said coldly snapping his fingers. Instantly everyone evaporated into patches of dark smoke, except Persephone. The feast had completely disappeared as well.

“What do you mean Cerberus is gone.” Hades repeated.

“He left my lord. Wandered off and we can’t find him.” Aeacus trembled at the growing expression of rage on Hades face.

“You mean to tell me.” Hades said barely raising his voice. “That you have lost a monstrous three headed dog?”

“Y-y-yes my King.”

“YOU LOST!” Hades bellowed leaping to his feet making Aeacus cower before him. “My monstrous three headed dog! The Guardian of the Gates to the Underworld!”

“His fluffykins.” Persephone added in.”

“Not now my Queen.” Hades hissed. “You are incompetent at Best Aeacus but even you should have been able to stop such a large beast from just wandering off!”

“M-m-m-m-my King we believe that he has gone up to the mortal world.”

“You best pray that you are wrong. It will be chaos and destruction if Cerberus has ventured to the mortal world. Now leave me, before I rip your sole from your worthless body.” Aeacus hastily bowed before sprinting from the palace.

Hades sighed and dropped his head.

“What will you do?” Persephone asked coming beside to gently place a hand on his back.

“I must find him.”

 “Layla wake up! You’re going to be late!” Light was flooding through the single window. The curtains buffeted gently from the breeze coming in through the open window. Layla didn’t care if she was going to be late. School sucked. The kids sucked, the teachers sucked, everything just sucked.

Groaning she sat up and rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, before stretching. Who cared if you didn’t go to school?

“Layla! I won’t call again!” Her mother’s voice projected from the kitchen. Grumbling Layla swung her feet over the side and jumped off her bed. Thumping into the bathroom she flicked on the lights. Squinting at her reflection she saw her exhausted expression staring back at her. Stormy grey eyes riding atop purple bags and a mop of rich black hair that looked like it was attempting to extricate itself from her hair.

Grabbing a brush she tried in vain to brush her hair into submission. Next she ran the cold water, splashing some on her face before pulling out her tooth brush and going to war against her morning breath. Spitting out the excess and rinsing her mouth, Layla checked her reflection.

“I deem you, presentable.” She winked and pointed a finger gun at her reflection.

Shutting off the lights Layla made her way back into her room and pulled on a dark pair of jeans and a plain t-shirt that had what looked like paint splatters on it.

Oh well.

She raced down the stairs into the kitchen. Her step-father was sitting at the counter with a cup of coffee staring at his tablet. He was dressed for work in navy dress pants, a white button down with a smart looking tie. The steam from his coffee kept fogging up his glasses as he brought it up for a sip.

“Finally.” Layla’s mother said exasperatedly. “Here is your lunch. Now grab something and get going. Good god what is on your shirt?”  

She pushed a plain paper bag into Laylas arms and swooped down on her picking at her shirt.

“What? I like it like this.” Layla retorted.

“You look like one of those homeless bums.” Her mother swept back over to the sink and started viciously scrubs some pots.

“Good morning to you all as well.” Layla muttered grabbing a slice of bread that was sitting in the toasted and a banana. Shoving the paper bag in her back pack Layla threw on her shoes and marched out the door.

Letting out a big sigh Layla pulled out her head phones and turned on her music before starting the walk to school. This is how morning usually went now. Layla and her mother had moved here four months ago after her mother had married Todd. He was husband number four. Her mother had met him while on vacation, he was some hot shot finance guy or what not, Layla hadn’t been paying attention. Layla was the product of husband number two. Not that Layla had any memories of him. He had left while she was very young and her mother never talked about him. Something the kids at school had no intention of letting her forget. Layla liked to imagine that he was the kind of dad who took her to parades and would let her sit on his shoulders. But that probably wasn’t true.

On she marched passing through the waking suburbs. This neighbourhood made her sick. Appearances were everything here. The lawns were all perfectly mowed. The shrubs manicured to perfection. Not a single weed could be found in any flower bed. The houses themselves sat in perfect lines. Each painted beige with white porches and black roofs. So unoriginal. So bland. Just like the people who lived here. Adventure, spontaneity, different. They all seemed to be taboo words in this place. So Layla made it her personal mission to stick out like a sore thumb.

When other little girls wore pretty flowery dresses and floppy hats, Layla could be found stomping in a puddle in boots and mud splattered pants. Mothers spent hours crafting their hair into artful masterpieces, Layla counted it a miracle if she even bothered to brush her wild mane of hair. Needless to say it drove her mother crazy. But Layla was not bothered with the need to make everyone like her. People either loved her for who she was naturally or they could keep on stepping.    

But it would be nice to have some friends. Layla would never admit this to anyone, but there were many nights where she would be up crying silently into her pillow. Asking god why? Why couldn’t her mother just settle down? Why couldn’t she have a normal life?

But god never answered. So every morning Layla would paste on her confident face and march out into the world. Daring anyone to try and ell her to change.

The sidewalk became more and more crowded the closer Layla got to school. Shady Oak High school. Just as pompous and sterile as the name suggested. The only thing about it that baffled Layla to no end was that it wasn’t a private school.

Throngs of high schoolers were milling around. Everyone was split up into groups of four and five. Some lying on the grass, some just standing around in constantly morphing groups as people came and went. The school had all the classic social groups, the jocks and cheerleaders that ran the school, the nerds who won all the awards, and the artys kids who just did whatever. They were all friendly but cross pollination was forbidden. Layla didn’t join any of them, but everyone stared as she walked by. Instead she pushed open the front doors and marched inside heading straight for her locker. The hallways were covered in posters prompting the upcoming spring dance. Layla ignored it all.

Her locker was supposed to be located in the gym hall on the west side of the school. However, Layla, valuing her life and sanity, had found an empty one in a quiet side hallway somewhere near the science hall. The nerds were usually content to just throw her weird looks instead of outright bullying. Plus it was quiet.

Still listening to her music she clicked in her combination before yanking the door open. Immediately books and pencils fell out and scattered around her feet. To say her locker was full was an understatement. There wasn’t even room to place a thin sheet of paper! Old books and text books were crammed in the shelves. Coats that Layla had neglected to take home were crammed onto the hooks. And the bottom? She just didn’t touch that stuff. Loose pages of old projects and assignments, lost homework pages, and reports were crumpled in the bottom caked in dried mud from Layla sticking her dirty boots on them. Picking up the loose pencils and books around her she shoved them back inside.

The first class of the day was Math. Boring. Layla grudgingly dragged her feet into the classroom and dropped her bag beside her desk in the back before plopping down. Kids were steadily filing in chatting to each other as they sat in clumps. Finally Mr. Nelson, a tired looking middle aged man with a dangerous addiction to laser pointers.

“Good morning everyone. Take out your homework and put it in the basket for grading.” Mr. Nelson said without any emotion. Tapping an empty basket on his desk. All around Layla papers shuffled and chairs scraped as kids brought their finished work to the front.

“Layla.” Mr. Nelson called after everyone had sat down again. “Your homework please.”

“I didn’t do it.” Layla said yawning.

Somewhere in front Layla heard someone whisper, “Lazy Layla strikes again.” Followed by quiet giggling.

“See me after class.” Mr. Nelson said flatly. “Now today we are going to review the use of the Pythagorean theorem.” Layla immediately tuned out. Should she be paying attention? Probably, but that wasn’t going to happen. Math just wasn’t her forte and before she knew I, Layla had fallen asleep on her desk.

An hour later the harsh period bell rang waking her. Grabbing her books and bag Layla slipped out in the crowd before Mr. Nelson noticed.

The rest of the classes that day passed in a similar fashion. Layla tied to pay attention in most but she got confused or distracted very easily. Especially in English. I mean is it really necessary for a bunch of dumb teenagers to try and make sense of a bunch of jumbled up and confusing Shakespearean script? If Layla wanted to spend an hour hearing ‘ums’ and ‘aahs’ she would listen to a presidential speech.

At lunch time, Layla settled herself in the shade underneath on the big trees outside, pulling out the paper bag her mother had shoved into her arms that morning. It consisted of a sandwich with a single slice of cheese and meat in it and an apple. Layla sighed as she pulled out the apple and bit into it. Digging into her bag she brought out her sketch book and mindlessly flipped through it. Most of the content was mindless doodling. Finding and clear page she pulled out her pencil and began to sketch.

Behind her something growled. Layla sat up perplexed, was her mind playing tricks on her? Shaking her head she focused on her work again. But there was another growl, closer this time. Spinning around she saw a huge black dog standing a few paces behind her. The dog’s coat was dark as night and rippled in the sunlight as he moved closer, his teeth bared. He had a square Pitbull type face and his eyes looked like swirling pools of obsidian flecked with gold and silver.

“Hey pup.” Layla said slowly squatting down to be at the dogs level. The dog growled in response. Its growl seemed to echo three times. “You want some food?”

Layla felt behind her for her lunch bag. Pulling out the sad sandwich. Pulling out the slice of meat she held it out to the dog. Cautiously the dog snipped the air, drool sliding out of his mouth. Slowly he stepped closer and closer until his nose was pressed right up against the slice of meat. His ears pricked as he licked it. Then with a softness you would not have expected, the dog gently pulled the slice of meat from your hand before snapping it up. Licking his lips the dog looked at you expectantly and wagged his tail.

“Was that good?” Layla asked the dog smiling.

“Boof!” The dogs bark echoed in that strange way again but his tail was still wagging. A much happier expression on his face.

“Here.” Layla offered him the cheese. Again the dog gently took it from her hand before snapping it up and swallowing it. Same with the bread and then the apple core. “You’re a hungry muffin, aren’t you?”

“Woof, woof!” Layla settled herself down by the tree again expecting the dog to wander off. Instead the black dog turned a circle and curled up right beside her, his large head resting on her thigh. His beautiful eyes staring up at her.

Tentatively Layla stroked his soft head. The dog sighed and closed his eyes as she continued to stroke and scratch him.

“Who are your parents buddy?” You asked the dog. As far as you knew nobody in this neighbourhood owned a dog that looked like this. It was either labs, retrievers, or tiny purse puppies. The dog wore a thick black leather collar. On the tag it read ‘Cerberus’ and on the reverse side there was no phone number but instead an outline of an ancient Greek Spartan plum helmet.

“Nice to meet you Cerberus.” Layla said petting the dogs head again. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.”

Layla silently prayed that no one would come to claim the dog. She prayed that maybe, just maybe, she would finally have someone to go on adventures with.    

But the harsh ring of the bell brought Layla back to reality. Cerberus would most likely wander off while she was in classes or his owner would find him and bring him back home.

“Sorry big buy, but I have to go.” Cerberus whined as Layla shifted her legs. He stayed laying sleepily in the shade as Layla collected her things and made her way back towards the school. Finally noticing her absence Cerberus raised his giant head and watched her leave. A look of confusion on his face as he wondered where his new human was going without him.

Layla made her way into probably the only interesting class she had, Ancient Civilization. The class was taught by a young spritely man, Mr. Dalton or Mr. D as he preferred. He had a habit of breaking into character voices when he was telling the class stories. He had plastered the walls were covered in posters of old relics and long dead kings and queens. Unlike all the others, Mr. D was genuinely interested in the subject he taught and his enthusiasm was passed on to the students. One time he even brought in some real artifacts for them to touch.

Definitely one person who didn’t totally suck.

Picking her seat in the middle of the class Layla pulled out her books.

“Hey everyone!” Mr. D called out, his usual happy grin plastered on his face. “Today we are going to be learning about the Greek Gods!”

There was a collection of murmuring and groaning from everyone. Except Layla. She especially liked these types of lessons.

“Now who can tell me the names of the big three?” Layla lifted her hand and Mr. D pointed at her.

“Well… There’s Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades.” She answered.

“Correct.” Mr. D beamed at her. “Three brothers, whose parents were Rhea and the Titan Kronos. Now the myth goes that Kronos, who was power hungry, swallowed all his children whole because he feared that one day they would over throw him the hay he did his father. However, Rhea was obviously horrified that her husband did this so when Zeus was born she hid him, giving Kronos a rock swaddled in blankets instead.”

Layla sat forward, her head resting in her hands, completely fascinated by the story.

“When Zeus grew up.” Mr. D continued. “He worked with his mother to over throw Kronos by tricking him into drinking poison. Kronos then threw up all of Zeus’s brothers and sisters who then became the Olympians.”

“How can eleven fully grown people live inside a stomach?” Some one piped up.

“It’s called a myth for a reason Dylan. None of this is actually true.” One of Dylans friends replied.

“The three brothers were given powerful gifts for over throwing Kronos and bringing peace to the land. Zeus got his master bolt, Poseidon got his Trident, and Hades got the helmet of invisibility. But there was tension regarding who would rule over what. Does anyone know how this was settled?” No one answered. Many people just exchanged glances with their neighbours.

“They drew from a bag.” Layla said tentatively. Mr. D nodded encouragingly. “Um. They placed three stones in a bag. Then each one of them took turn pulling out a stone. Zeus got the sky, Poseidon got the sea, and Hades got the underworld.”

“Exactly.” Mr. D nodded, gesticulating wildly with his hands. “Zeus was crowned king of the Gods. Many would say that this was the first step that lead to Hades disdain towards his brothers and the other Olympians. Can anyone name any other Olympians?”

Layla meekly looked around her, not wanting to put her hand up a third time in one lesson. How humiliating would that be?

“Anyone? Yes Ms. Picket.” Mr. D pointed at a slinky blonde girl sitting three seats down from Layla.

“Athena the goddess of war.” She replied, tossing her long hair over her shoulder.

“That’s wrong.” Layla blurted out. The whole class turned and stared at her. Layla sank a couple inches down in her chair. “I just mean that Athena was the goddess of wisdom and strategy, not just out right war. That was Ares.”

“Who cares same difference?”      

All the other kids I the class started sniggering and shooting looks at Layla. She sank, if possible another couple inches in her chair. This is why she kept her mouth shut in class. Layla could feel her face get pinker as she kept her gaze resolutely on her books.

“Actually Ms. Dover is quite right. Athena may have at times been classified as more of a warrior goddess than others but she was not the literal personification of war.” Hearing Mr. D agree and call her by her last name did not do much in the way of making Layla feel better. Thankfully the day was almost over and Layla could get away soon. Kids around her were already starting to discreetly move their books into their bags.

“Now for homework tonight I want you each to come up and pick a piece of paper from the basket. Each piece of paper contains the name of a god, goddess, or mythical creature. I want each of you to write a brief description on them and then tell me how their origin shaped them into the beings that they came to be.” There was a groan of disapproval that ran through the students as they formed a line. Layla was the last to pick, with her luck she’d get some super obscure being that no one knew anything about. Unfolding the piece of paper she found the single word Hades written on it.

At least it would be an easy report.

The bell rang and there was a mad rush to the door. Students where emerging from classrooms, making the halls near impossible to maneuver. Layla did her best to weave in and out of the milling crowd. Several times a stray arm would knock into her but she paid no mind. After all no one else did.

Not even bothering to stop at her locker, Layla marched straight out the front doors. It was still a beautiful sunny day out. The sun was blazing but there was just enough wind to keep it  comfortable. Sticking in her ear buds Layla shouldered her back pack and walked off.

It was only 3. If she went home now there was a good chance that she could have the house to herself. Todd never came home any earlier than 5:30 and it was Tuesday which meant that her mom would be out having afternoon mani-pedis with the plastic gang. That was the name that Layla had coined for her mom’s friends. Three other suburban moms who had gotten so much work done, their bodies would decay three hundred years after the earth exploded. But no. Layla was in the mood for some fresh air and no people.    

The local Reservoir was by far Layla's favourite place in the whole neighbourhood. Layla had once spent an entire afternoon wandering around in there listening to the birds and frogs, stopping every now and then to sketch something. There was a single loop that ran around the perimeter of a large pond that most people stuck too. Layla had quickly become bored of it and ventured off into the bushes. She had done this so often that she was never concerned about getting lost anymore, and even if she did, Meh.

The entrance of the reservoir was practically empty as Layla meandered inside. Pulling off her ear buds she let the buzz and croaking of the frogs take over. A lone jogger was slowly making their way around the pond. Followed in hot pursuit by a bored looking dad pushing a baby stroller. Layla quickly diverted off the path and headed towards her favourite spot. She had found it a couple of weeks ago and it was heaven. Pushing aside stray branches and stepping over low bushes Layla forged ahead, listening for the babbling of the small creek. Everything was exactly as she had left it. Ducking underneath a fallen tree, Layla found herself in her quiet little hide away. It was a small clearing blanketed in soft grass, protected by a wall of prickly berry bushes. In the middle stood a lone tall maple tree with a thick bow that stretched to the sky. Once Layla had climbed all the way to the top and she could see for miles. The roots had contorted themselves perfectly to make a comfortable place to sit. A little creek cut through the far side of the clearing. It was small enough to jump over easily but the other side just wasn’t as nice. Pulling off her shoes Layla walked over to the base of the tree and flopped down on the ground. The grass was so incredibly comfy that Layla could sleep on it. Sunlight trickled through the thick crown of the maple tree covering the clearing in tiny patches. Layla was not looking forward to the day she had to pack up and leave again. Which was inevitable. Her mom would either grow tired of Todd or Todd would grow tired of her. It was a race to see who gave up first. Layla was betting on her mom.

The last marriage had lasted a record ten years before her mom filed for divorce. But it wasn’t a particularly pleasant ten years. His name had been Henry, but her mom insisted that Layla call him Dad. Which was alright with Layla, up until the day Henry let slip that he wasn’t actually her dad. He was a drunk and a gambler and just a down right piece of shit. Laylas earliest memory was of the three of them driving somewhere. Laylas mom was driving, Henry was in the passenger seat yelling, and Layla was strapped into her car seat in the back.

When she was ten, Layla had gone digging through her moms things looking for anything about her birth father. The only thing she had found was a picture of the two of them posing together on a beach.  He was handsome with a face that looked like it had been chiseled from marble covered with locks of jet black hair. At least she knew who to blame for her wild mane. In the picture he had been smiling down at her mom like she was the single most beautiful woman in the world. They were both laughing, Layla desperately wanted to know at what. He was wearing sunglasses but Layla would bet anything that he had stormy grey eyes just like Layla as well. On the back her mother had written St. Augustine Beach ’99. A year before Layla was born. One day Laylas mom had found the picture in Laylas room while she was cleaning. Layla had never seen her mom so furious. She had screamed at Layla for a solid hour. Then she tore the picture up into tiny pieces and threw it into the fire. From that moment on Layla had never asked about her birth father or argued the point that Henry was her dad.

Over head a couple birds were fluttering around and chirping angrily at each other. Pulling open he bag Layla pulled out her sketch book. She would not desecrate the sanctity of this place by doing homework! Gazing around she tried looked for some part of the clearing to speak to her. But the only thing that kept coming to mind was the black dog she had seen at lunch. He was probably the most beautiful creature she had ever seen. Fur blacker than the night, eyes that looked like pools of precious metal. Bringing her pencil to the paper Layla absent mindedly began to sketch.

 Hades fury had not subsided. All the fires in his kingdom now burned a venomous purple instead of their usual brilliant blue. His punishments were more brutal than usual. He had been forced to place two furies at the entrance to replace Cerberus. But they were not pleased with their new assignment, preferring to perch on top of the archway spying on those passing under. Hades wasn’t sure how long the solution would last. To top it all off, Thanatos had informed him earlier that morning that three souls had escaped to the living world. In his fury Hades had reduced a set of silver Aegean goblets to dust.

The last time Cerberus had left the underworld it had been because that pesky hero Hercules had lured him away for one of his menial tasks. But he had returned him within a day. Even still, that one day all hell had broken loose. It had already been three days and Hades was just barely keeping it together.

“Maybe you should call on your brothers to help.” Persephone was not stressed by the situation. She was going about her business remodeling the palace, while Hades sat around brooding. He let out a humourless laugh at the thought.

“When was the last time my family ever came to my aid? They are too busy with their squabbling and fawning over their precious hero’s to help. No, I will handle this myself.”

“So you said the first night. But you are still here.” Persephone sighed and began weaving a new flower crown.

“I am the God of the Underworld. I can not simply come and go as I please! I have a responsibility to keep serve justice to the souls of the damned and see them off to their after life.”

“You also have a host of sub servants and ministers who I’m sure you could intimidate into doing your work for you.” Persephone countered in a bored voice. Finishing the flower crown, she swept over and placed it gingerly on top of Hades head. The white and pink flowers instantly shriveled and died. “Think about how much fun it would be to scare Aeacus.”

Hades couldn’t help but grin a little. Making that useless weasel squirm a bit would make him feel better.

“Besides you could call upon your son Ti to help. I’m sure he would be honoured to be of assistance.”

“You are right as always my queen.” Hades captured on of her small hands in his and stroked it gently. She beamed at him radiantly before freeing herself and floating out of the room. Swiping the dead crown off his head, Hades marched over to a large stone basin that sat in the middle of the room. It was filled with swirling black liquid. After a moment the bold face of his son Tiberius formed in the black pool.

“Yes father?”

“I have a job for you my son.”

[reyavie]

Arthur was not in love with his wife. He was aware of it. Theirs had been a marriage of convenience, a business transaction between two noble families who wished to shackle their fates together. Arthur wasn’t even sure if it was in him to love as Guinevere wanted, consistent and passionate through the years, wanting and craving for the other above everyone else. It was such a difficult concept to undertake. Yet, whenever he saw this, a wife who pulled away and found her warmth with someone else, something in his heart cracked. Wasn’t it good that someone else gave her what he couldn’t? Wasn’t it selfish otherwise? Arthur could not explain his own emotions. Blood-red flashed in the corner of his eye as Morgan lowered by his side, long dark hair falling over her shoulder and partially shielding her eyes. She dressed simply, a blot of bright blood in the mid of more subdued colors. Course tanned skin, features which were strong and sharper than most, eyes of sky-blue which he recognized every day in his mirror crowned by braided dark hair. Even their mother had smiled at her entrance, an event which had dwindled to non-existence as the years passed and her similarity to Gorlois eclipsed the traces she had left on her eldest. Now that he thought about it, staring at the features they did not share, how come had he never asked her if that was bothersome? If that was hurtful? How come he had never told his mother she shouldn’t act in such a fashion? “Arthur.” Morgan’s voice was gentle, a whisper barely above the commotion of the room and her features were worried and even a little sad. “Do you wish for me to end it?” There was also hatred in her eyes. Sharp and cold and biting, he could feel it lingering in her every gesture, replacing the joy that was usually her guise. How come he couldn’t read her nearly as well as she seemed to read him? “They are your friends,” he heard himself say, tracing the signals of distress in her skin, in the little corner of her eye or the press of her lips. “And you are mine.” Her fingers maneuvered until they entwined into his. In her hold, the King could swear to feel magic running underneath their skin, singing softly in his ears of stories long-forgotten. “You are what is important to me. You are my family, my anchor. You are my King. Everything else is secondary,” she whispered in a manner that sounded very much like everyone else. “Do you want it?” Not even he knew that. Why should he be jealous anyway, Arthur wondered as he stared at the woman by his side. The world changed and moved, war ran through and took everything in its path and his sister lingered. He knew she had been offered kingdoms and states, riches and favors – those requests had gone through him, after all – and yet, she stayed. She killed for him and lived for him and healed, snarking like a wild thing whenever necessary. Never had he demanded her obedience. Never because he was never the King to her. He was Arthur. Her Arthur. Why should he be jealous when she, of all people, placed him above all others? “You’re mine. Who else would I need with you by my side?” She smiled. A true smile, wide and quick, as if afraid someone would notice and fault her for daring to show it. “Let them have their comfort, Morgan.” It was not true, the Arthur concluded as Morgan took over Guinevere’s throne and he found himself breathing more calmly. It was not true, he repeated as her fingers tightened around his and hatred and storm were buried underneath her skin until someone else dared to wound him. It was not true. He could love. If nothing else, the King could read that in her smile. ------arthur&morgan le fay

[brutuskorov]

betrayal never comes from the enemy...

(a character analysis)

basic information

FULL NAME: boris korov PRONUNCIATION: BO-ris KO-rov MEANING: boris - fight, fighter. REASONING: his father named him long before he was born. boris, fighter, if he was a boy. sezia, protector, if he’d been born a girl. for his father, his child (regardless of gender) was to be his legacy -- he meant for the name ‘korov’ to mean something. boris is not as ambitious as his father; he’s more of a follower than a leader, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t follow his father’s words. (it is lesser known that is mother called him borya, little snatches of affection he holds close to his chest.)  NICKNAME(S): brutus, borya PREFERRED NAME(S): brutus BIRTH DATE: december 23rd AGE: 33 ZODIAC: capricorn GENDER: male PRONOUNS: he/him/his ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: panromantic SEXUAL ORIENTATION: heterosexual (while boris has experienced attraction towards multiple genders, he only ever acts on it with women) NATIONALITY: russian ETHNICITY: alaskan native; kuyokan-athabascan CURRENT LOCATION: verona, italy LIVING CONDITIONS: simple & stark, though he has the means for a more luxurious life. TITLE(S): emissary

background

BIRTH PLACE: yekatrinburg, russia HOMETOWN: verona, italy (since he was a teen) SOCIAL CLASS: boris was born poor. his father earned well enough through his criminal dealings, but spent it just as quickly -- he was a man who enjoyed life and didn’t believe in the notion of saving. boris himself made his way up  EDUCATION LEVEL: boris’ education is haphazard and all over the place due to the instability of his father’s career. he completed his 12th year in italy, but went back to russia to spend some time in the conscripted army. boris didn’t return to school for a while, focusing more on mafia activities. he did return to school and started a degree in strategic management when he left verona, but dropped the program when he returned to the Montagues. FATHER: vadim korov MOTHER: juniper korov née locklear SIBLING(S): talia korov (deceased before boris’ birth) BIRTH ORDER: i. talia -- ii. boris CHILDREN: n/a PET(S): a moroccoan uromastyx named ‘lizard’ OTHER IMPORTANT RELATIVES: cousin -- ava locklear (located in america); niece -- sonya locklear (located in america) PREVIOUS RELATIONSHIPS: n/a ARRESTS?: a couple times for teenage stupidity, but his connections to the mafia meant he always got off PRISON TIME?: n/a

occupation & income

PRIMARY SOURCE OF INCOME: private military contractor through almaz-antey SECONDARY SOURCE OF INCOME: montague emissary TERTIARY SOURCE(S) OF INCOME: n/a APPROXIMATE AMOUNT PER YEAR: appx.  € 180,000 / year CONTENT WITH THEIR JOB (OR LACK THERE OF)?: boris knows he didn’t earn his job -- he was placed there with the intention of smoothing the way for montague goals. he’s specifically assigned to various pharmaceutical and drug companies where he intentionally suggests security plans that leave room for the montagues to take their share. it also allows him to play the part of a bodyguard when necessary. the job satisfies the hum under his skin that demands action but it isn’t exactly his passion.   PAST JOB(S): montague soldier SPENDING HABITS: he doesn’t really spend money beyond essentials. of course, at this point, essentials includes paying off contracted killers, bribing government officials, etc. picking apart a mafia empire isn’t cheap, but he doesn’t really spend money on himself. he’s not thrifty but his income to expenditure ratio means he ends up having plenty in his bank account. MOST VALUABLE POSSESSION: tucked in a cabinet by his flat’s front door is a getaway bag -- it contains burner phones, travel documents, everything he could need to run again.

skills & abilities

PHYSICAL STRENGTH: 8/10 OFFENSE: 7/10 DEFENSE: 7/10 SPEED: 7/10 INTELLIGENCE: 8/10 ACCURACY: 9/10 AGILITY: 6/10 STAMINA: 9/10 TEAMWORK: 5/10 TALENTS: tactics & strategy, far-sighted, detailed SHORTCOMINGS: disloyal, selfish, detached LANGUAGE(S) SPOKEN: russian (fluent), italian (fluent, but accented), english (passable) DRIVE?: yes JUMP-STAR A CAR?: yes CHANGE A FLAT TIRE?: yes RIDE A BICYCLE?: yes SWIM?: no PLAY AN INSTRUMENT?: no PLAY CHESS?: yes BRAID HAIR?: yes TIE A TIE?: no PICK A LOCK?: yes

physical appearance & characteristics

FACE CLAIM: martin sensmeier EYE COLOR: dark brown HAIR COLOR: black HAIR TYPE/STYLE: usually short -- he wore it in a buzzcut during his brief stint in military GLASSES/CONTACTS?: n/a DOMINANT HAND: right HEIGHT: 6′1″ WEIGHT: 75 kg BUILD: tall, solid -- not buff, but not lean either EXERCISE HABITS: he’s very regimented in his exercise -- runs early every morning, weight trains every other day, practices hand to hand fairly frequently. he likes moving in any form. SKIN TONE: dark brown with warm, coppery undertones  TATTOOS: though he’s often contemplated getting one, he hasn’t found a design he’d like to commit to PEIRCINGS: none MARKS/SCARS: a scar on his leg from jumping a barbed wire fence, a bullet scar on his shoulder, a couple others here and there he doesn’t even remember getting -- he fought too often to remember every scar NOTABLE FEATURES: high cheek bones and full lips; his gaze is very flat USUAL EXPRESSION: stoic, veering towards a scowl  CLOTHING STYLE: he gets cold easily, so he wears jackets well into summer. he prefers neutral tones. dark jeans, beige turtleneck and an army jacket is a very typical basic outfit that he’ll wear anywhere. JEWELRY: n/a. ALLERGIES: peanuts BODY TEMPERATURE: normal DIET: his diet is unhealthy in that he very rarely cooks for himself, but he does eat a variety of food and prefers high protein diets. PHYSICAL AILMENTS: n/a

psychology

JUNG TYPE: ISTJ JUNG SUBTYPE: Type A ENNEAGRAM TYPE: type 8 – the challenger MORAL ALIGNMENT: true neutral TEMPERAMENT: choleric ELEMENT: earth PRIMARY INTELLIGENCE TYPE: kinesthetic/spatial APPROXIMATE IQ: 110 MENTAL CONDITIONS/DISORDERS: n/a SOCIABILITY: introvert EMOTIONAL STABILITY: stable, his mood does not shift easily OBSESSION(S): damiano montague COMPULSION(S): he’s very particular about the state of things in his home. he likes it clean and neat. PHOBIA(S): n/a ADDICTION(S): he knows his father had a problem with gambling so he avoids it DRUG USE: he prefers alcohol to drugs ALCOHOL USE: he drinks to unwind, sticking to beers mostly. at parties he’ll go for dark liquors but he doesn’t particularly care for booze. PRONE TO VIOLENCE?: ha. yes. but he’s tempered his instincts well.

mannerisms

SPEECH STYLE: when he speaks, it is short and concise, never more than necessary. he will answer questions at face value and doesn’t elaborate unless asked. He takes lots of pauses and is slow to reveal his thoughts. ACCENT: his russian is flawless, his italian less so -- the words tend to come out a bit harsher. his english is passable with a strong russian accent. QUIRKS: if boris can walk somewhere instead of taking a vehicle, he will. he hates public transportation however, and prefers motorcycles to every other vehicle. HOBBIES: running, walking, listen to music HABITS: he runs every morning, immediately after waking up. he drinks his coffee black (he doesn’t like espresso). he wakes up at 5:45 am every morning, no matter what time he went to bed. boris is inherently a man of habit, he likes routines. NERVOUS TICKS: fist clenching and setting his jaw DRIVES/MOTIVATIONS: revenge, justice, respect, family FEARS: failure POSITIVE TRAITS: driven, reliable, dedicated, detailed NEGATIVE TRAITS: selfishness, fails to see bigger picture, disloyal SENSE OF HUMOR: sarcasm, understatements, subtle humor DO THEY CURSE OFTEN?: to emphasize a point. CATCHPHRASE(S): n/a

favorites

ACTIVITY: running ANIMAL: gazelle BEVERAGE: water BOOK: he doesn’t really read. CELEBRITY: natalie dormer COLOR:  navy blue DESIGNER: he doesn’t know designers.  FOOD: pierogies FLOWER: red poppies (his mother’s favorite) GEM: diamonds HOLIDAY: winter holidays in general MODE OF TRANSPORTATION: walking MOVIE: the good, the bad, the ugly MUSICAL ARTIST: jidenna QUOTE/SAYING: “no legacy is so rich as honesty.” SCENERY: wide open lakes that are frozen over SCENT: pine SPORT: boxing SPORTS TEAM: italian football TELEVISION SHOW: 24 WEATHER: cold & brisk VACATION DESTINATION: mountains

attitudes

GREATEST DREAM: destroying the montagues GREATEST FEAR: failing his father’s legacy MOST AT EASE WHEN: running LEAST AT EASE WHEN: attending fancy parties WORST POSSIBLE THING THAT COULD HAPPEN: getting caught in his schemes before he’s ready BIGGEST ACHIEVEMENT: returning to the montagues despite his betrayal BIGGEST REGRET: leaving in the first place -- he has to re-prove himself MOST EMBARRASSING MOMENT: when he was young, he once cried after falling. his father laughed so hard, he never cried over little things again. BIGGEST SECRET: he betrayed the montagues to a russian mob TOP PRIORITIES: slowly dismantling the montague empire

[fairywine]

Leitha

AO3 Link

“Between Neudörfl and Gattendorf, the Leitha River had formed the historic boundary between Austria and Hungary after 1048. The river become a symbol of the boundary so that the two halves of the dual monarchy were often referred to as Trans-Leithania (Hungary), and Cis-Leithania (Austria).” -Andrew Frank Burghardt, The Political Geography of Burgenland

“You won’t have to stay long. Just enough to be...seemly.”

Hungary turns her head from where she had been gazing out the gilt-framed window of the carriage. Outside the heart of Pest streams by, the buildings glowing with lights shining cheerfully in the night’s darkness. She lifts a steady brow at her prime minister, who to his credit meets it unflinchingly. But both she and Gyula Andrássy have been through enough to know there are far worse things to receive than a cool stare.

“I know what is needed of me, Count Andrássy.” Hungary rests gloved hands neatly in her lap, smooths out the finely embroidered half-apron that is part of her traditional court dress. A little over a year ago, and for centuries preceding it, the only aprons she usually wore had been plain white cotton, soft from frequent washings, a rag in one pocket and a knife in the other. A maid’s apron, suitable for a humble servant. Now look at her. “The Dual Monarchy need not fear any lapse in manners from the Kingdom of Hungary.”

Andrássy is too consummate a politician to let his feelings show, but Hungary knows what he’s thinking. That from the perspective of the western half of the empire it’s only a matter of time before the wild Magyars act out again.

“The compromise has managed to hold for a year,” Andrássy carefully says. “Tonight, we have passed out first great hurdle. What lies before us now is the importance of building upon what we’ve accomplished.”

Hungary can’t help but look outside again. It’s a balmy summer night in Pest, the streets thronged with people. Everywhere Hungary’s flag abounds, the peerlessly beautiful piros, fehér, zöld with her coat of arms center to declare its sovereignty to the world. Through the lavish shell of Andrássy’s carriage she can hear a lively csárdás being played on a violin, can see people dancing and children running around.

For all the festivities, the underlying emotion in the air is a tension pulled tight as piano wire. People are commemorating the first anniversary of Austria-Hungary more out of a sense of obligation than joy. Overall, even the brightest moods are shot through with an uneasy edge. By the standards of Magyar celebrations, June 8th, 1868 is a poor showing. As with so many things concerning her land, Hungary accepts this is the best anyone can do, given the circumstances.

“There’s no need for such reminders,” Hungary says. “Compared to what I’ve been through in the past, even this half-loaf of a union is like a happy dream. And once my authority is more fully settled, well…”

“Half-loaf?” Andrássy repeats.

“Better than none,” Hungary explains, earning a short but hearty laugh from the prime minister. “And already paying dividends. I can be polite and toast to the glory of the Osztrák-Magyar Monarchia if it means having what’s rightfully mine again.”

The carriage bumps a little on the last bit of road before they pass onto the awesome span of the Chain Bridge. The jostling is uncomfortable despite as well built a vehicle as Andrássy’s, more so when one is tightly corseted and layered up with what feels like a thousand starched petticoats. Hungary makes a mental note to remind her king that public works projects are a reliable way to build up local goodwill, specifically nice, smooth roads.

Andrássy inclines his dark head in agreement as they cross the Danube. “Especially once the matter of Croatia’s status is finalized. I have great hopes of the settlement we’ve arranged.”

“Which, God willing, shouldn’t be too much longer,” Hungary grouses, resting her head tiredly against the back of her seat. It makes the pins holding the elegant coiffure her hair has been braided stab into her scalp. But that’s mild compared to some of the headaches her southern Slavs have given her since the Compromise was made official. “Croatia demands so much from me he’s practically declared independence himself.”

“Horvát Királyság asks for all he can, knowing he will ultimately end up with much less,” Andrássy assures her. “You may stay confident knowing you ultimately hold the winning hand.”

The carriage leaves the Chain Bridge much more easily than it had entered, making the leftward turn on the road leading to the Royal Palace. Noticing Andrássy studying her, Hungary follows the path of his gaze to where it rests on her hands. Covered by her short-length evening gloves, the bulge of the ring on Hungary’s right hand is still unmistakable. A year’s time of wearing the band and she still feels the weight of it like an anchor.

“It is likewise encouraging that we’ve had no interference from,” a delicate pause, “Other quarters.”

Politicians will be politicians no matter what. Andrássy is exquisitely outfitted in his díszmagyar, mente coat draped over one shoulder, dolman shirt of fine silk and pants of rich velvet-a fairytale prince of medieval times. But his dark, intense eyes show he to be a thoroughly modern statesman beneath the pageantry. Under Andrássy’s süveg fur cap Hungary can practically see his mind roaring away, always examining every angle and choice. This happens often enough, the men who look and see a young maiden rather than the centuries old land she truly is, but it never stops being annoying. Or unwanted.

“My husband, you mean,” Hungary says directly. “No, Austria has been the very soul of reticence. I’ve barely seen him a handful of times since the wedding.”

Andrássy wants to probe more, it’s obvious. But how to do it while balancing his gentlemanly ideals-and to his adored Nation-seems to elude him. It’s just as well, as the carriage has finally completed its ascension up Castle Hill to pull into the main courtyard of the Royal Palace, its stately facade glowing brightly from within as well as the many light poles placed about the enclosure.

It takes only a moment for the guards to observe Andrássy’s coat of arms on his carriage door and ascertain they are not just in the presence of the prime minister but the Nation herself. Sweding, the vehicle’s door swings open to reveal a line of eight footmen on either side, at fullest attention for their most honored guests. Ever the Magyar gentleman, Andrássy helps Hungary out, an act she greatly appreciates considering the long train of her dress. A deep bow before holding his arm out for her to take, and Andrássy leads them both behind yet more footmen into the castle proper.

The Royal Palace has worn many faces since Hungary roamed the stone halls of the residence constructed by King Béla IV six hundred years ago as a young girl. (Who had been still firmly convinced she was a boy.)

It hadn’t lasted, but later kings had replaced the structure with newer palaces in the same location, following the artistic trends in vogue at the time of their respective reigns. King Sigismund had made it a Gothic masterpiece fit for the Holy Roman Emperor, Matthias Corvinus a Renaissance-influenced wonder for his Italian bride. All beautiful, in their own ways.

Then Mohács happened, and in the ensuing 158 year tug of war between Austria and Turkey over Hungary’s lands, the castle was destroyed down to practically nothing. Even the splendid Baroque building Maria Theresa had rise from the ruins had fallen to her ever-tragic luck. Like so much else, it had been a victim of Austria’s suppression of the 1848 rebellions. Yet restoration and reconstruction had their effect, the proud Neoclassical palace rather neatly mirroring Hungary’s own shift from servility to full autonomy and ruling half the empire.

Hungary can’t really say how she feels about it overall, not with the failures and sorrow of 1848 so fresh in her mind. At least it is preferable to ruination. Perhaps with time she can know her own heart on the subject, and maybe even grow to love it. The Royal Palace can’t help being what it is-it’s up to Hungary to make the most of things.

The hundreds of beeswax candles setting the interior aglow make the French Rococo-style glitter brilliantly. Between the crystals and lights and gold it feels like another world. A world whose reason for existing is to declare the power, wealth, and prestige of its owner. That said owner is ultimately her is a face Hungary still can’t fully wrap her head around. She has yet to abandon the natural reflex to look at such splendor and think of how much wax will be needed to make the mahogany wood gleam, how much soap and water to mop the marble, and plenty of rags for dusting every last blessed knickknack in the room.

“Are you ready?” Andrássy murmurs at a volume meant for Hungary’s ears alone. With a barely concealed jolt she realizes they’ve arrived at the main ballroom entrance, only moments to go before they’re announced. Not for the first time, the Nation is grateful for her prime minister’s natural attentiveness.

“Of course,” Hungary says, fixing a smile on her face that strikes an appropriate balance between brightness and dignity. Seeing little point in putting the moment off, Hungary gives a regal nod the pair of footmen waiting at attention. With a single smooth motion they swing open the gilt-laden double doors.

“Her Royal Apostolic Highless, the Lands of the Crown of Saint Stephen, the Kingdom of Hungary!”

There must be at least two hundred people in the ballroom, which is somehow even more intensely lit that the rest of the Royal Palace. Yet a worshipful silence falls upon them as one. Even the musicians falter for a moment in their playing of a Donizetti Quartetto before remembering themselves and returning to their instruments. Keenly aware of every eye, Hungary doesn’t let her calm smile slip.

“His Excellency the Right Honorable Count Gyula Andrássy de Csíkszentkirály et Krasznahorka!”

Hungary can easily see the entrance as the guests must. Andrássy, the very essence of the noble Magyar magnate. So darkly handsome with just a hint of danger in his smouldering gaze to contrast the opulence of his dress. Guiding in the Nation, so grand and beautiful in her court dress and veil, bearing a diamond and pearl tiara befitting her status as a royal land. The Kingdom of Hungary, having endured hundreds of years of humiliation and torment, finally being accorded the rank deserved to her by the will of God Himself. She can practically envision the tableau being painted, complete with title. Hungaria Being Guided By The Saving Hand Of Her Greatest Patriot.

Italics and all.

It’s not like Hungary doesn’t understand. To have their beloved Nation standing before them, clad in finery and commanding the respect, however willingly given, due to a Great Power...it’s a dream of centuries fulfilled. Falling short of the long prayed for independence, but at least a start in righting so many wrongs.

While the room is overflowing with the crème de la crème of Buda and Pest society-and thus anyone who’s anyone in Hungary-most have never seen their Nation with their own eyes. A concept of statehood made flesh and blood always takes adjusting to. But for those who have met Hungary, who have been by her during times far removed from the elegant gentility of the ballroom, it’s a tiring reaction. Mόr Perczel, only recently back from exile, had seen her bloodied and half-dead at the Battle of Temesvár. Given Hungary moonshine from his flask to dull the pain of the bullets being removed from her skin. Yet like all the others, revolution veterans and aristocrats alike, he looks upon her as if she’s some sort of goddess. Flawless. Divine.

It makes Hungary think of Austria, strangely. For all her husband’s myriad flaws (ones she’s accumulated quite the list of over centuries of living in his house), he’s at least never put her on a ridiculous pedestal. Certainly he’d have no sort of discomfit with this kind of pomp and importance. It does amuse Hungary to think of him up in Vienna for his own celebrations, having to take congratulations for a successful diminishing of his own power with lordly grace. How each anniversary felicitation must sting at proud, pretty Ausztria!

Hungary’s inner mirth proves fortifying to her spirits, and she is able to get through what seems like an endless stream of well-wishers without feeling miserable. And she does truly enjoy being among her people, especially those who so dearly love her. Ferenc Deák greets Hungary as gently as she was his own daughter. Mihály Zichy declares his desire to paint her, and her eyes can’t help but dance at his cheek. Even Franz Liszt makes a valiant effort at conversing in the Magyar tongue before giving up and switching to German.

Hungary does not mind this part of public engagements, but it is tiring. Helping herself to a glass of wonderful white wine from Neszemély off a passing waiter’s tray helps revive her. But there is still a rather glaring absence, one Hungary had hoped would be resolved by now.

“Her Royal Majesty has yet to make an appearance?” Hungary asks Deák quietly, taking advantage of the rare solitude they share.

“I understand she is to be expected in short order,” Deák says with a dignified shrug. “Of course, that is always what is said at events like as this.”

“Worry not, my dear friend,” Hungary says, an idea striking her. “Such instances are when those of my ilk prove most valuable.”

“Is that so?” Deák looks Hungary over skeptically, knowing well what her face looks like when she’s about to push propriety.

“I insist,” Hungary says, passing her empty glass off to yet another waiter. “It is nothing less than attending to my duties as a partner of the Dual Monarchy.”

Deák doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t stop Hungary’s discreet exit out of the ballroom either. After all, there are few who better know the relationship of country and monarch as he. In this, Hungary’s judgment should be deferred to. 

To some it might be surprising to have so few people around in such a large palace. Only those privileged enough to be frequent guests of the royal private apartments know that is the resident’s particular preference. When Hungary makes her way into the suit, she only sees two ladies-in-waiting in attendance. Just past them is the queen’s personal hairdresser Franziska Feifalik, tools of her trade held in white-gloved hands. Upon Hungary’s entrance all rise before falling into graceful curtsies.

“Kingdom of Hungary,” Franziska says in German, being one of the queen’s few servants who doesn’t speak Hungarian. “How may I be of service?”

“All I think I need is to follow you,” Hungary says lightly.

“I’m sure you wouldn’t even need to do that much, your Royal Highness,” Franziska smiles. “It is no great mystery.”

Franziska indeed guides Hungary through the royal quarters into the exact room she guessed she would end up. While it is as fantastically ornate as every other room in the palace, there are enough personal touches to give it a gentler, more inviting air. It’s a dream of nursery, eminently suitable for a tiny princess.

The most beautiful woman in the world is inside it.

Upon seeing Hungary, her impossibly perfect face relaxes into a smile so lovely the Nation momentarily loses the ability to remember what words are.  Or how one puts them together coherently. Thankfully her reflexes remain, and Hungary dips into a deep curtsey before the Empress of Austria and her own Queen.

“Ah, my dearest Hungary,” Elisabeth says softly in her flawless Hungarian, pressing a gentle kiss to her cheek. “As always, it is so good to see you.”

“Indeed, Sisi,” Hungary says with equal quietness, glad to dispense with the needed demonstration of formality. The queen is one of her truest and deepest friends. The adoration of the Magyar people for the “Beautiful Providence” of the land is so strong it can overwhelm Hungary as a person. But she truly treasures the intimacy, and knows Elisabeth does too. As one they lean over the cradle where the Archduchess Marie Valerie sleeps as soundly as any other infant.

“I know I should have made my appearance already,” Elisabeth says, brushing the faintest touch across her daughter’s forehead. “One look at her sweet face and I couldn’t break away for anything.”

“I wouldn’t either from such an angel,” Hungary agrees. Elisabeth has endured so much loneliness, misery, and deep loss, the kind that transformed Franz Joseph’s naive Wittelsbach bride into the brilliant, distant diamond of a women she is today. For now at least, her face glows with a rare joy that makes her already incredible beauty almost impossible to withstand.  Hungary can only pray that it lasts, for the strong woman who has proven to be the great salvation of the Hungarians.

“I can already see so much of Franzi in her face,” Elisabeth says, and even Hungary couldn’t really discern the true emotion in her tone.

“I’ll have to think on that next time I see his Imperial and Royal Majesty,” Hungary offers neutrally. “I’m due for a meeting in Vienna next week.”

“How stalwart you are, dear Hungary. To bear the burden of dealing with both your husband and mine at the same time.” With one last caress of her daughter’s downy hair, Elisabeth sits down in a nearby chair. A tall woman, this makes it much easier for Franziska to do some final touch-ups on her famously long, lustrous, chestnut-brown hair. As usual it is pulled up in elaborate, heavy braids, through with the adept hairdresser has wound several pearls. Examining the queen with an artist’s critical eyes, Franziska sets about making the tiny changes necessary to take the style from merely beautiful to sublime.

“I hope things have been...acceptable, with Austria,” Elisabeth adds, dark eyes looking compassionately at Hungary. The Nation is well aware how familiar her queen is with unhappiness in a marriage. It is just one of the many sorrows Sisi has been plagued with since joining the House of Habsburg.

“I got everything I hoped for out of my first wedding anniversary,” Hungary says honestly. “I still have my status, attended to my people, and spent time with you, my Queen.”

“I suppose that is enough,” Elisabeth replies. Of course she understands.

“Austria probably still hasn’t recovering from having to bend his will a fraction. If he has brought out poetry and flowers I might have fallen over with shock,” Hungary says, smiling a little to ease her dear friend.

There had been times in the past where Austria has been kind. Even sweet and tender. Counting off sheep to his maid and wards so they could sleep. The times when he would listen to Hungary sing as she worked, trying not to make obvious he was listening and liked it. Helping bandage up the wounds she had received kicking Prussia out during the War of Austrian Succession. Making such grand promises under Maria Theresa’s reign, ones that moved her heart as easily as a green girl’s.

If only Hungary could have married him a century ago. She had such hope then, such wonderful dreams. Had been ready to let ‘Austria, sir’ all the way into her heart. If only he had kept his promises, instead of letting the problems of his empire fester as he bound Hungary tighter.

Which leads them to here and now. A thousand years, and she and Austria can’t even talk to each other without a government mandate involved. It wasn’t what Hungary would have ever hoped for. But like so much else, it’s what she’s got.

Elisabeth rises, hair ministrations complete, and Hungary links arms with her.

“Now let me show my dedication and loyalty by escorting my exquisite queen to her most adoring citizens,” Hungary says grandly. It will be enjoyable, and a welcome respite of the impossible boil of emotions thinking of Austria always puts her into.

Hopefully.

By the time Hungary makes it back to the home she has in western Buda, her head rings a little with the weight of her hair, and much more with too much wine imbibed and unavoidable tobacco smoke breathed in. She barely remembers to wave Andrássy’s carriage off before her butler lets her in. He, her maids, and the house itself had all been wedding gifts, befitting the grandness of a full partner in a Great Power. More likely because the whole of Austria would probably die of mortification to have their Nation married to someone living in a tidy but small country house in outer Pest who dressed and cleaned for herself.

Still, Hungary’s grateful for it in this instance. Her every need is immediately seen to: butler taking her thin silk shawl, one maid escorting Hungary up to her bedroom to help her undress while another brings up a tray with an steaming cup of coffee and some crackers. Hungary downs it as her maid carefully removes her expensive jewelry to be safely locked away. The beverage does take the edge off her headache, at least.

“I hope the celebrations went well, your Highness,” the maid says cheerfully, setting the end of Hungary’s train to the part of her dress where she fastens it up and out of the way. It makes it less likely to be stepped on during her tasks, as well as easier for Hungary to sit during them. Doing so, the Nation looks into her dressing room mirror. Still beautifully clad, a perfect Magyar princess. But what is she now, anyway? Not a stranger to herself, but not holding all the answers either.

“Yes, very,” Hungary responds, realizing she let the question hang for far too long. Lost in her work, the girl just hums in response. Carefully she removes pin after pin from Hungary’s hair, leaving it to tumble down to waist in a mass of cinnamon-hued waves. The style the humble Habsburg maid had worn, but combined with the finest court dress available in all the Lands of the Crown of Saint Stephen. Suddenly, Hungary can barely breathe, the edges of her vision going black.

“I’m going outside for some air,” Hungary says abruptly, rushing to stand. Startled, her lady’s maid only has time for a squeak before the Nation flees the dressing room. Dashing down the stairs, she shoves the front door open to head into the gentle night. Chest heaving, Hungary looks around, takes in the quest of Buda in the late hour. Only faint noises from the occasional passing carriage disrupt the silence.

Instinct wins. Hungary runs. Runs in the way of Nations, beings who are people and state but also the earth. Who can shrink leagues down to nothing, who can cross their territories in minutes and continents in a hour. There is nothing in her mind but flight, heading west. Esztergom, Tatabánya, Komárno, Győr, all blur before Hungary’s eyes before disappearing just as quickly. The mindless panic starts to lessen around Sopron, and by the time she reaches the woods of Királyhida, the Nation has slowed to a normal walking pace.

Immediately, the pain of running so hard in a corset makes itself known, even if Hungary doesn’t lace herself as obsessively tight as her queen. Somewhere along the way her dainty dancing slippers fell off, leaving her stockings torn and feet bleeding from several cuts. With a groan, Hungary tears the useless hose off and tosses them aside along with her garter ribbons. Then a couple of petticoats for good measure, since if she’s going to look a fright it may as well be a comfortable one.

Hungary pats down her hair in what is probably a futile effort, and ruefully surveys her gown. Grass and mud stains dot the hem, and on her left there’s a rip about as long as her palm. Hungary isn’t really worried-her staff is clever and skilled enough to repair the damage-just annoyed she couldn’t at least have kept things together long enough to change into a less expensive and delicate dressing gown. She sighs, feeling the weight of everything on her shoulder get just a little bit heavier.

Hungary should return to Buda, but...it’s so nice out, so peaceful. Just sitting down for a moment and letting her aching body recover sounds heavenly. In the distance, she can hear the sound of running water. Hungary knows it well, has known it nearly her entire existence. It is but a short walk through the dark woods to reach the river.

The Leitha streams by as it has for millennia, shimmering like fine blue silk under the fat waxing moon. It’s been a dry year, the water much lower from the banks than it usually is, but even that doesn’t diminish the sight. There’s an outcropping of nice, flat rocks right at the edge of the waters. Hungary imagines children jumping off them on hot summer days, fishermen resting while patiently waiting for their lines to tug. It makes her smile a little, and after carefully gathering her dress up and sitting down she takes inspiration from the Királyhida locals and dips in her feet.

Nothing can describe how refreshing and cool the Leitha waters feel against Hungary’s sore feet and calves. Away from the frenzy of her daily life, with the peaceful woods around her and the simple pleasure of a river-soak, the Nation closes her eyes and lets the tension of the anniversary drain away.

A rustle snaps Hungary out of her comfortable reverie. Not loud, but standing out amidst the ambient noises of nature. The night has been such she’s tempted to dismiss what she sees, but no. There is Austria on the western bank of the Leitha, every bit the impeccable Imperial aristocrat in his gala uniform. Collar starched, whites crisp, medals polished to a gleam only his evening shoes match in sheer shininess. It makes her feel the total disarray she’s in all the more keenly.

“Austria, sir-” Hungary stops herself forcefully, pressing her lips together. She’s not a maid anymore, dammit. The last thing she should be doing is stammering at her husband like scullery wench caught above stairs, regardless of how messy she looks. She’s Austria’s equal now, and will act it.

“Good evening, Austria,” Hungary tries again, calm and polite. “I hope your anniversary festivities were enjoyable.”

This looks like about the last reaction her spouse expects, but he rallies near instantly.

“Very much indeed, thank you,” Austria answers, nothing in his voice indicating his personal feelings on the matter. He may as well have mentioned the weather for all the emotion he’s displayed. Violet eyes flick up and down, examining her with glowing alarm. “Are you in need of assistance?”

No withering comment on Hungary’s less than perfect appearance? Pre-marriage Austria (pre-this specific marriage, she mentally amends) would have never let that slide. Dishevelment had always indicated serious character flaws in his ordered world.

“I’m fine.” Hungary draws her knees up to her chest, and though Austria looks politely away he definitely takes a moment to do so.

“You were throwing your,” Austria pauses. Some aspects of Nationhood are beyond the ability of any language to capture, even for Nations themselves. “Your land-authority about with great abandon. When I felt you heading in the direction of the border I thought you were under attack.”

“Attack?” Hungary echoes, looking down at herself, then adjusting to what it must look like from her husband’s perspective. Suddenly his reaction made much more sense.

“I could not imagine you would come so near my half of the empire otherwise.”

“...it was just...something I needed to do,” Hungary says, really not wishing to explain her actions in great detail. She winces slightly as her still raw soles rub painfully on the stone. The cuts she had gotten must be deeper than she thought. For a Nation it’ll be no time at all to heal, but none of them are immune to pain. “I’ll be off in a bit. You don’t need to worry about anything.”

“You are my wife. It would be remiss of me not to be concerned,” Austria says. His tone is still even, but Hungary recognizes the look on his face. Austria is worked up about the situation. And a worked up Austria can be very, very unpredictable.

Sure enough, Hungary proves to be correct. Austria pulls off his gloves, tucking them neatly into his belt. Despite his stiff uniform he manages to kneel down and start unlacing his shoes with great speed.

“What are you doing?!” Hungary yelps, jaw actually dropping when Austria pulls off his shoes and socks.

“Merely being sensible,” Austria says, holding the articles in the crook of his arm. “Even on a warm night leather would take a while drying out, to say nothing of the condition it would be left in. And walking in wet socks is simply unpleasant.”

Beyond astonished, Hungary can only watch with eyes that must be saucer huge. Austria-fastidious, immaculate Austria-strolls into the Leitha with as much nonchalance as if he were walking along the Ringstraße. They’re at one of the shallower points of the river, the dry year lowering the level even more, but Austria still ends up soaked up to his knees. Hungary can’t help it and lightly slaps her cheek. The very real twinge of pain proves this isn’t some hallucination brought on by oxygen loss via running in a tight corset. Even then she can barely believe its real.

Austria emerges from the river and sets foot on the eastern bank-Hungary’s side of the Leitha. Setting his things down on another rock, her husband motions her over silently as he kneels.

“Your foot, if you please,” Austria says in response to her blank look. “One at a time.”

“They’re wet,” Hungary says in feeble protest, but lifts her left leg up anyway. Right now it at least means Austria isn’t looking at her face, gone crimson with the force of her blushing.

Almighty God, what a fool Hungary is. Having complicated feelings about Austria, a Gordian-knot like tangle of emotions and memories both good and bad, is one thing. Her most powerful neighbor, one she shares a direct border with. Naturally their fates would always be linked, one way or another.

But for all the past they share, the injuries and indignities Hungary has endured because of Austria...she never learns. One gentlemanly act, one of those rare moments where he lets the iron-clad armor of his rank and power relax, and the anger starts slipping away. And a great kingdom, a warrior who had been so fearsome people had prayed to God to be spare from her arrows, is reduced to a maiden with chest fluttering and head filled with rosy, hopeful dreams.

How many times had Austria made his promises, only to forget them at best or break them at worst? And how many times had Hungary fallen for it? The only thing that is different now is Austria hasn’t found a way to wiggle out of his obligations. At least, not so far.

It’s cool reasoning. Hungary only wishes her racing heart wouldunderstand what her mind does. Staring at the top of Austria’s dark head, bent over while long pianist’s fingers handle her with such care, makes any sort of progress on this front impossible. His right hand grips her calf to hold it steady, wedding band cool on her hot skin, and  Hungary’s embarrassment multiplies tenfold. Which is beyond ridiculous, given Austria has, to put it politely, definitely had his hands on more than a bare leg in the past. At least during the times things were good between them.

“It seems your cuts are not very deep,” Austria says, mercifully unaware of Hungary’s line of thought. “Clean as well.”

“I’d have never guessed from how you were fussing,” Hungary says as Austria checks her other foot. She’s not eager to get back home home on them, but she’s definitely been able to ignore worse under harder conditions. “Marriage hasn’t made me soft yet.”

“Oh, I do pray not,” Austria murmurs. His face is hard to see from the angle she’s at, but Hungary is positive she catches a faint smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “It is a great shame, but unlike your other enemies I do not think you will be able to take your frying pan and pound your feet into submission.”

Hungary’s eyes narrow to green slits, but Austria pays her dangerous expression no mind. Taking out a handkerchief from his pocket, Austria unfolds it all the way before gripping it firmly at the middlemost portion of the top. It’s a beautiful piece of snowy linen, elegantly embroidered with a scarlet Ö monogram, and when her husband rips it neatly in half Hungary can’t help her cry of dismay.

“It is merely a handkerchief,” Austria says, looking surprised. Which means his eyes lift a fraction of a second before falling into their usual place of stately calm. Carefully he winds a strip of linen around Hungary’s left then right foot, after which he examines the results critically. “Fortunately you have small feet and it was just enough fabric, or this might have not worked out so well.”

Hungary stares down at her bound feet, which do feel better for the impromptu bandages. The Ö stands out like a brand, but can she even argue it doesn’t have some justification? If Hungary was able to be truly independent and stand on her own without Austria in the picture, she would have done so successfully by now. Instead here she is, lost by the river and having to be bailed out by her husband again. To Hungary’s horror, her eyes start to well up. Not here, not in front of him.

“Thank you for your h-help,” Hungary says, and oh God her voice chokes up. Austria starts, and there are very few things Hungary wouldn’t give right now to just throw herself in the Leitha and never come out again. “I-it was very...very…”

The one time Austria actually looks flustered and Hungary can’t even savor it. His mouth opens and shuts several times as she fails to get herself under control. Austria stands, and for a second Hungary thinks he’s about to leave her to her mortification. Then he sits next to her on the rock, as gingerly if she’s a stack of dynamite and he’s a lit match. Then Austria slips a hand underneath the flap of his bright white Field Marshal dress jacket and pulls out a silver flask to hold to Hungary silently.

On an evening less filled with strangeness Hungary would have been utterly dumbfounded. But their one year anniversary has decidedly not fit into that category, and so she wipes hard at her eyes before grabbing the flask. The Marillenschnaps Is very good, richly scented with the aroma of ripe apricots, sliding smoothly down the throat even as it lights a fire in the blood. So good in fact, Hungary Decides to compliment it by taking another swig, and then a third. She passes it back to Austria, who polishes off the rest of it.

“I didn't want to marry you and you didn't want to marry me,” Hungary says. There is no rancor to be heard in her words, and she feels none. It's a truth, plain and simple. If anything it's a relief to not to keep it locked away, when the two of them know better. She stares at the Leitha foggily, the schnapps being quite a bit stronger than she had credited. Hungary only wishes Austria had a second flask secreted somewhere on his Imperial person.

“An accurate summation,” Austria agrees, looking for a second something like melancholy. He gives his head a quick toss, evidently also feeling the effects of the apricot spirits. “Which brings us to the question at the heart of the matter. Where do you want to go from here?”

“I don't know,” Hungary says honestly. “And even if I did, it would only make a difference if it complimented what you want.”

One hundred years ago. If only they could have worked out the Compromise then. Hungary would have run into Austria's arms as joyfully as any bride, Maria Teresa smiling down at them both as the benevolent mother-Queen. It might not have been all she wanted, but still plenty enough.

“Just think of one thing, of the here and now. If you can,” Austria says, almost as if he needs her to do it for them both. To voice what he could never bring himself to.

“ I'd like... I'd like to be able to talk with you like this again. without needing alcohol, or me losing my slippers and looking like I crashed right into a bush,” Hungary answers slowly. She thinks of Franz Joseph and Elisabeth, how the love once there withered without understanding and balance to make it flourish. Thinks of her beautiful queen, who has suffered such misery, and the emperor in his loneliness. Too far apart now to ever reconnect on a marital level.

Hungry doesn't know if she could let herself love Austria with the whole of her wild heart. But she doesn't want to live a life of coldness, tied to a distant stranger who she used to know. Truly falling is too much to dream of now. What isn't then?

“Can we try being a better husband and wife?”

Austria looks at her, face unguarded for once.

“Neither of us is naive enough to hope for... for human things, a human marriage,” Hungary elaborates. This is what things have come to for them, the Magyar warrior who isn't brave enough to say ‘love’. “But I can try to be a good partner to you. If you're a good partner to me.”

Austria absorbs this silently, removing his glasses. His hand drifts towards his pocket before he evidently recalls his handkerchief is currently on his wife's person. He settles instead for wiping the lenses on his jacket before returning them to the bridge of his nose.

“Then we will both make the effort, and…” Austria thinks. “Here at the Leitha, a year from now. We will meet and decide what step to take next.”

It's not the world, but they're much too wizened by this point to make the lofty promises of starry-eyed romantics. This plan, however, is believable. Sensible. Not much to lose, but potentially much to gain. Hungary nods in approval, holding her arm out as boldly as any man. Austria hesitates for a moment, but reaches out to clasp her hand in his. Husband and wife shake on their plan, and to hope.

“Happy anniversary,” Hungary says, and if her smile is small it is also genuine. Her  brow knits slightly as she looks up at the sky, trying to judge the time.” I think it's till the day.”

“For another four minutes and...sixteen seconds more,”Austria confirms, checking his pocket watch.

“I suppose I owe you an anniversary gift,” Hungary muses, wiggling her feet in their former-handkerchief bound glory. “Not that I have anything much on me at the moment.”

“Perhaps a kiss, then?”  

Hungary turns to Austria in a flash, but a single glance reveals her husband to be in total seriousness. Well, whatever his angle, the least she can do is match it.

“One. And I pick where.”

“To be renegotiated in a year's time,” Austria counters. Hungary thinks it over before nodding her assent to his terms.

“My right hand, for however long is left in the day.”

“A minute and forty-nine seconds,” Austria murmurs, snapping the light of his pocket watch shut. “If you are ready?”

Hungary holds out her hand, still gloved in fine, thin, white kid leather. Austria takes it, long, nimble fingers dancing over her palm Like he wanted to memorize the feel of it. To her surprise, Austria doesn't merely take his kiss and be done with it. Instead, he glides slightly past her wrist, to the small line of pearls buttoning it up tightly.

“Austria,” Hungary starts, blush swiftly reviving. Her husband merely hums, undoing one button at a time with no sense of haste. “You only have-”

“ I know the time. Any good musician has an innate sense of its flow,” Austria says, with a calm that's nearly infuriating compared to the little sparks Hungary feels when his bare fingers brush against the tender skin of her inner arm. “I assure you, I will keep to our terms.”

Hungary wants to point out she should have had the sense to define said terms much more stringently. But the retort refuses to form as Austria slowly loosens the glove’s fingers one by one, sliding it off with what feels like infinite slowness.

Now that Hungary's hand is bare to the world-bare but for her wedding ring- Austria takes it in his own. It's a hand that still holds the history of Hungary's previous station: sword calluses, rein-marks, dry spots from doing the laundry in huge boiling copper pots. He grips her hand reverently, lifting it gently to his mouth.  

Hungary shivers as she feels the air of the tiny sigh Austria lets out. Then he finally presses soft lips to her hand, and lightning runs straight up and down her spine. Damn him for playing so unfairly, and her for so easily giving into it!

Austria slowly separates from her hand, still letting it rest in his. Their eyes lock, and for a single, crystalline-fragile moment there is no one else in the world but the two of them.

“I think you must have gone over your time,” Hungary says, barely recognizing her voice for how breathy it's become.

“Actually, I had five more seconds,” Austria tells her after taking a look at his watch. Not his voice has gotten somewhat breathy too and dropped noticeably goes a long way to making Hungary feel better about her own reaction. “And now, midnight.”

Much like Cinderella, the magic ends at the stroke of midnight. Austria and Hungary look at each other ruefully, a tacit acknowledgement that  their time in the woods is over. For now.

Hungary makes a point to slip her own glove back on, but allows Austria to rebutton it simply because it's hard to do on her own. Despite the quiet intimacy having passed, her body feels lighter than it has in a long, long time. her feet don't hurt nearly as badly as before, which helps.

“Would you care to be escorted back to Buda?” Austria asks courteously, face showing he already knows what the answer will be.

“No, I'll take myself home,” Hungary says before adding, “This time.”

However this ends up working out, Hungary doesn't think she'll ever forget the look of delighted joy that flashes over Austria's face before disappearing in the blink of an eye.

“Then farewell,” Austria says, with a bow so elegant it would make any courtier burst into tears of joyful appreciation.

“Until next we meet,” Hungary responds and curtsies in return, quite nicely considering the mess of her appearance.

Good-byes exchanged, Austria turns to the west.  Hungary turns to the east. the temptation to glance backwards one more time reigns, but neither knows if the other gives in to it. Another moment passes, and then the bank by the river is empty as if no one had ever been there at all. The Leitha flows on as it always has, patiently keeping its place of sanctuary safe until a year's time has passed once more.

Me: AusHun Week! So great! I can’t wait to write some stuff for one of my favorite ships ever! Me: *writes a bittersweet character study of Hungarian history in which Austria doesn’t even appear till the last third, twice* Me: I’m so good at this. :) :) :)

Anyway, as much as AusHun is a hardcore Ship of Ships for me and I love Cute Domestic Old Marrieds AusHun, to say their relationship has had its ups and downs would be a considerable understatement. And the circumstances leading to the Compromise of 1867 definitely stemmed from one of the worse lows of Austro-Hungarian relations. To say Austria came down on the Hungarian rebels during the Hungarian War of Independence in 1848 like a ton of bricks would be unkind to the bricks. Hungary was this close to breaking free, enough that if Austria hadn’t managed to get reinforcements from Russia to tag in she would have done it. And then he executed the rebel generals, put out death warrants for those who managed to escape like Andrássy and Kossuth, and stripped Hungary of her ancient rights and constitution to rule her under brutal martial law.

And thus things might have bopped merrily along for Austria except for a little one-two whammy called the Austro-Prussian War and the Second Italian War of Independence. His empire being on the verge of total collapse as well as shut out from the German Confederation Prussia had unified put Austria in a conciliatory sort of mood, for some reason, and negotiations with the Magyars were opened. Hungary, for her part saw an opportunity with a limited window of time in Austria’s weak position. Still remembering how easily her army had been routed by Russia’s, and recognizing if she didn’t make a move the one or more of the many Slav groups in the Kingdom of Hungary would move to deal with the Austrians instead, was also open to a settlement.

That anything would have even been agreed was far from a given. Though Emperor Franz Joseph recognized an agreement with Hungary was needed to keep the Austrian Empire from absolutely splintering, he was and always would be a hardcore autocrat who viewed giving up even a fraction of his authority as blasphemy against his divine office. The vast majority of (the Magyar part of) Hungary wanted nothing less than full independence, and had very fresh memories of the 1848 rebellions as well as a strong hatred for Austria. (The Slav parts of Hungary, as well as the Romanian parts, were shit out of luck and stuck in a state that argued for freedom and self-determination...if you were a Magyar, and keep dreaming for that autonomy otherwise. Except don’t, because it’s not going to happen. Now go and practice Hungarian some more!

(As for Croatia (or Horvát Királyság/Kingdom of Croatia as Andrássy calls him here) was the only minority group in the Kingdom of Hungary who did have something of a protected, autonomous status, being that Croatia actually entered a personal union with Hungary in 1102 instead of being conquered. After the Austro-Hungarian Compromise was passed, a separate Compromise was arranged between Hungary and Croatia, resulting the creation of the Kingdom of Croatia-Slavonia. Which was liked in Croatia even less than the Austro-Hungarian Compromise was in Hungary.)

But fortunately for Hungary, she had two absolutely brilliant and indispensable statesmen, Ferenc Deák and Gyula Andrássy, who were both pragmatists who felt a sustained autonomous Hungarian state would only be possible as long as defense and foreign affairs were shared with Austria. Even more fortunately, Hungary had a vital advocate in Empress Elisabeth of Austria, who had fallen in love with the land of Hungary and the Magyar culture and was relentless in seeing Hungary’s cause advanced to her husband Franz Joseph. And thus the Austro-Hungarian Compromise was reached, signed by Deák and Andrássy and ratified by the restored Hungarian Diet on May 29th, 1867, and officially capped off with the crowning of Franz Joseph and Elisabeth as King and Queen of Hungary on June 8th, 1867.

Even though the deal was done, tensions were still high and remained that way for a long time. Ask anyone familiar with Austro-Hungarian history who the Compromise was a better deal for (or if it was a good deal period, and if it just fueled the problems that utterly crumbled Austria-Hungary in WW1 or if those problems would have just happened anyway) and you’ll get a different answer every time. I wasn’t able to find what specifically was done to celebrate the first anniversary of the Compromise, but presumably the occasion was marked so yay for artistic license.

Piros, fehér, zöld is the red, white, green of the Hungarian tricolor. The stripes were made horizontal to avoid being confused with the Italian flag. The Dual-Monarchy era flag also had the Hungarian coat-of-arms right in the center.

Technically speaking, Buda Castle was just known as the Royal Place for most of its history, including during the Dual Monarchy.

Díszmagyar is the traditional Hungarian court dress, and very beautiful. The dress Hungary is wearing here is this one, originally worn by the Countess György Majláth to the original coronation of Franz Joseph in 1867. Hey, the Nation deserves the most swag dress at her anniversary party, after all.

I think most Hungary fans know about the Battle of Mohács in 1526 against the Ottoman Empire, but it absolutely can’t be stated enough how utterly devastating it was for the Kingdom of Hungary.  In a single day the kingdom was torn into three, the king was dead, much of the nobility had been killed as well as the at least 14,000 soldiers who also died in combat, and the entire country was basically free for the taking-which the Ottomans and Habsburgs did. It would take nearly four hundred years for Hungary to become fully independent again. The only thing remotely comparable in Hungarian history was the Treaty of Trianon after its loss in World War I, which saw Hungary stripped of two-thirds of lands it had possessed for centuries, and is still a very sore point for Hungarians today.

I went back and forth on how the Kingdom of Hungary should be addressed in a formal situation, the people who think of these things having never thought how the Nation itself would need to be called. I settled on “Highness” as an appropriate title for an immediate member of the royal family-though really wouldn’t the royal family be members of Hungary? “Apostolic” in the title is specific to the Kingdom of Hungary alone. I did my best? I’m also not sure if Andrássy’s address is accurate either, considering he was both the prime minister and a count, but this was my best approximation.

“The Lands of the Crown of Saint Stephen” was the official title of the Hungarian half of Austria-Hungary.

Mihály Zichy was a Hungarian painter who did do more traditional portraiture, but is probably better known for his considerably more naughty drawings. (Which I actually find quite wonderful). Just be aware if you decided to google them with SafeSearch off.

Franz Liszt was born in a German speaking part of Hungary and was never able to speak the language (though he tried to learn), but very much thought of himself as a Magyar and a Hungarian patriot.

Elisabeth of Austria was the Empress of Austria and Queen of Hungary. And she really was the most beautiful woman in the world. Just look at her! Unfortunately, the minute she met her cousin (oh, royalty)/the Emperor of Austria Franz Joseph in 1853 (at a meeting that was supposed to cement an engagement between him and her sister Helene), and he decided he only wanted to marry Elisabeth, her life was set upon a course of stifling misery and eventual tragedy. Sisi as she was known (and NOT SISSI, which she never referred to herself by), had grown up in a very relaxed, informal household under her father the Duke Maximilian Joseph in Bavaria. (Seriously, take some time to read about it, it’s pretty wild). A shy, naive, fifteen year old country duchess from Bavaria was thrust into role of Empress of Austria in a little over eight months.

It went about as well as one would expect. Sisi was utterly isolated at the Austrian court, not comfortable around crowds and formal situations, and in general treated as an child unfit for her role. This was compounded by her mother-in-law/aunt, the Archduchess Sophie, who never hid her opinion of Elisabeth as anything more than a vessel to produce heirs and acted as Empress in official functions as well as politically more than the actual Empress. Even more unfortunately, for all Franz Joseph loved Elisabeth (and did for the rest his life, long after any chance of mutual romance was dead), he never understood her, her needs, or that he should make any sort of compromises on his end to make their relationship work. Franz Joseph was always quick to defer to his mother over his wife, including the part where Sophie essentially took Elisabeth’s first three children away from her and raised them herself. As you can guess, this not only made things worse, but engineered a huge disconnect between Elisabeth and most of her children that would have severe consequences later.

After the Crown Prince Rudolf was born, leaving Elisabeth free of the responsibility to produce any more heirs, the older, wiser, and more cynical Empress had by this point acquired the fortitude and political capital to do as she pleased. Restless by nature, she traveled constantly and avoided Vienna and her husband at all costs. The only thing that brought her back was the cause of Hungary. She had fallen for the wilder, romantic country, one very much in tune with the sensitive and dreamy Elisabeth compared to rigid, traditional Austria. Recognizing they’d have a powerful advocate in Elisabeth, who at this point was at the peak of her beauty and enormously popular in Hungary, Deák and Andrássy in particular (who she become close with to the point they were rumored to be lovers, though nothing has ever been proven) reached out to her. Acting as an intermediary between Austria and Hungary, Elisabeth was absolutely essential to making the Compromise happen and seem a legitimate deal for Hungary even in its unpopularity.

Part of this assistance was agreeing to have another child. Elisabeth quickly became pregnant after the Compromise was passed, and more significantly chose to give birth to her child at Buda Castle. It was the first time a royal child had been born in Hungary in centuries, and the notion was seriously raised that had it been a boy the child could have become king of an independent Hungary, separating it from Austria. As a girl was born, the Archduchess Marie Valerie, it was a non-issue. (Ironically, Marie Valerie, who was born in Hungary, baptised in Buda, and only allowed to speak Hungarian to her mother, grew to have a severe apathy for Hungary in part because of the persistent rumor that Andrássy was her real father. Even as she grew up to strongly resemble Franz Joseph and the rumor died, the apathy lasted. But they’ve still kept the bridge with her name on it between Hungary and Slovakia, which I guess is nice?)

If you somehow couldn’t tell Sisi is one of my two favorite historical figures, by the way...well yeah, she is. (The other is Valdemar Atterdag, for the curious).

Királyhida is the now-Austrian town of Bruckneudorf, but in the Dual Monarchy days was in a German-speaking region of western Hungary. Regardless of the local language preferences, the town was required to have Magyar name.

@emperorfranzjoseph: @ErzherzogtumÖsterreich  bitch stole my look #ÖsterRUDE #whoworeitbetter #fieldmarshaleleganza

I figured “Austria, sir” would serve as a nice substitution for “Austria-san” as far as tone and place of social rank is concerned. And yes, over many centuries Austria and Hungary have done the do with each other. If you don’t think Austria was in boner city after seeing Hungary wail on Prussia during the War of Austria Succession, well, congrats on being totally wrong.

Thank you to all who read this fic and all the brave souls who actually got all through the notes section. You guys are the real MVPs. And I swear I’ll try to do an actual happy AusHun that features a kiss racier than the hand...someday...