#and the au version happened a decade later and said what if we made that better world that we dream of the world that we're living in right

[greatcometcas]

- I HAVE HOPE (David Byrne, One Fine Day, American Utopia) || insp.

[elsanna-shenanigans]

December 2023/January 2024 Contest Submission #7: Snow Diplomacy

Words: ca. 5,000  Setting: modern diplomacy AU  Lemon: lime CW: none

There was something to be said about the places where real power lived, it was not in the grand and lavish halls of government. It often was to be found in chambers like this, boring conference room. Where for the better part of a week the Norwegian delegation had tried to smooth out negotiations related to trade and tariffs. The primary goal was to guarantee a steady supply of spice into the European free trade agreement area. The last treaty was set to sunset in about two years and not wanting to deal with a tight deadline, Norway had sent a pre-emptive mission to China to set in place a framework that would last for another decade at least.

Looking across the table Anna saw an equally bored counterpart tapping his pen on the copy of the agreement. She knew the document like the back of her hand, she had written at least two drafts of it. The finalised version had been passed off to the diplomatic mission to check it for localization and finished it for the meetings they were in now.

“Dear minister, I understand that there have been issues that have arisen with the review on your side?” the ambassador spoke before the interpreter repeated it back in Mandarin. It were these moments that she wished that she had picked a different career path in the diplomatic office. She enjoyed seeing the tense discussions between nations happen, however sitting here for what felt like forever wasn’t it.

As soon as the Chinese minister of trade finished his statement, she perked up as their interpreter translated it into Norwegian again. She noted down the main notes that were brought up. She’d type up a comprehensive review of it later that evening, but for now shorthand would do.

“…as stated before we appreciate the Kingdom of Norway’s commitment to the independence of Chinese internal politics…” she nearly rolled her eyes as her sister tapped her foot to her heel. Glancing over she could see Elsa leafing through the proposed trade agreement. Even without speaking she knew what her sister had meant with it, ‘you can’t roll your eyes at the Chinese trade minister in a meeting.’ Or something to that avail.

Trying to focus on something else, she started to listen to the ticks of the clock on the wall. Counting all the way to twenty, she returned her attention back to the person who was speaking. Catching up on the conversation she noted that despites best efforts on their side no real progress had been made since they had entered the conference room that morning.

Quickly writing a note on the corner of the page she pushed it to her side so her sister could see it, ‘tariff free salmon?’ It was part of the options that had been on the table a couple weeks ago when they had been briefed on this mission but had gotten cut in one of the earlier drafts of the agreement.

Her sister looked at it and then crossed out the question mark, confirming the new direction they were going to take as soon as the entourage would be debriefing in the Norwegian compound. Elsa on her part pulled out another piece of paper and wrote a couple words on it. Her handwriting was far nicer than Anna’s, but she didn’t have to take notes throughout the entire meeting and for one she was the only one that had to be able to read them. Folding it  in two she slipped it towards the ambassador who was nodding along with the Chinese response, glancing at the text before slipping it into his copy of the agreement.

“Dear minister, I feel the need to close this meeting for the day. It’s been a rather long process today and I fear that unless we feed ourselves something this evening we might not make it back .” With the message being translated, and with nods from the other side of the table they all got up and were escorted out of the conference room towards the several cars that the Embassy had provided them.

The drive back was mostly spent in silence, with Anna typing away at the meeting minutes that would be added to the documentation that this trip has racked up so far. She was pretty sure that she got all the main points as she handed the laptop off to one of the other embassy staff members. Letting them compare their own notes to make sure nothing was missing in the report.

After getting it approved she returned it back to her bag as she let out a sigh. It had been a long day, even with them being in the country for nearly a week still wasn’t doing wonders to the seven-hour time difference. At least they had been given a twin suite to stay in for the duration of these negotiations. Not that they spend much time alone on either side of the complex. The current setup left most of the working area on Elsa’s side and what had been shown as her side was mostly used for leisure.

Which brought her back to the present, looking over at her sister she could see that the early hours were having an equal effect. Mostly people would have thought that she was just resting her eyes, but Anna wasn’t most people. Spending the better part of a decade living together in small shitty apartments as they worked their way up the ladder of diplomacy, they knew each other in and out.

As someone was about to announce their arrival she raised her finger to her lips as she nodded to her sister, “I’m just gonna take her back to her room, I’ll be back later after she’s done with her beauty nap.”

“Not that I’d need that,” her sister quipped as she fluttered open her eyes, she didn’t look as tired as she had when she had gotten into the car. But there definitely were some dark circles that were forming under her eyes.

“Na, you need a nap princess,” she quipped as they exited the car and left the rest of the delegation to grab some food in the cafeteria. They probably should grab something too, but for the moment both of them were done with the day. Anna knew that Elsa could have sat in that meeting for another five hours if the occasion had called for it. Though now, as they had left the tiredness was rapidly taking over her body.

“I’m fine Anna.”

“I’m sure you are, but we both need to at the very least lay down for like an hour.”

“That does sound like a nice proposition,” Elsa said as she swiped her card next to the elevator. The doors opened on an empty well-lit room. Leaning on one of the sides she watched as her sister tapped on the floor number. They had learned the hard way a couple years ago that cameras in elevators sometimes did have someone watching the feeds. So, in silence they rode up until their floor opened up for them.

Opening the door on her side Anna pushed her sister in before closing the door behind her. The lights stayed off as she quickly pulled off her shoes as she heard a poof from across the room. Looking up she could see the outline of her sister laying sideways across the bed. ‘I’m fine, my ass,’ she thought as she slipped out of her shirt and threw her bra onto one of the chairs. For a moment she was considering trying to get out of her pants but decided against it.

“Set an alarm for like an hour,” her sister demanded as she herself started to worm out of the sweater she had been wearing. Tossing it vaguely off the bed she rolled on her back.

“Can you get my shoes?” Elsa asked her as she started to undo the buttons on her shirt.

“Sure, but that’s another point for me then.”

“Sweetie, I’m tired as shit, first a nap then we grab some food. After that I will do whatever you want, but for now sleep,” Elsa said as she stretched her arms above her head.

“Sounds like a plan,“ Anna said as she laid next to her sister as they shuffled around for a moment to get comfortable. She ended up being the big spoon and cradled her sister as they both drifted off to sleep. The darkness of the room quickly faded as they lost sight of the way their body was laying on the mattress and they slipped deeper and deeper into the darkness of sleep.

“Beep!”

“…”

“Beep!”

“Why does the alarm sound like it’s a call?” a groggy Elsa asked as she opened her eyes.

“BEEP!”

Gathering her thoughts Anna opened her eyes and reached for her phone. It didn’t feel like a sixty-minute nap, glancing at the number that was calling she suddenly shot up.

“BEEP!”

“It’s mom,” she said as she threw the phone over to Elsa. Between the two of them at least she still had her boobs covered. It was strange being in your early thirties but still feeling like you’re, a teenager sneaking around when parents are in the situation.

“Hey mom,” Elsa answered as Anna threw on a sleepshirt she had brought with her for a more comfortable setting.

“No, you caught us just before we headed off to bed. Still keeping busy with business,” she explained as she got up from the bed and walked over to her own side of the suite.

“Anna was in the bathroom, so I grabbed her phone, you want her now?”  she asked as she grabbed one of her own shirts. Anna watched her pull it over her head as she continued to speak, intermittently humming in agreement as she started to make a couple of coffees in their room’s bar area.

“I think it’s gonna be a couple more days, but we should be home for yule. I doubt it will last that long. Either they’ll agree, or we’ll capitulate and find some other way to get the deal done,” lifting her face from the phone she called out to her. “It was mom, just checking in with us.”

“All right, I’ll talk to her later then,” Anna said as she took one of the cups that Elsa had prepared. While this was the kind of smoke and mirrors teenagers tried to get away with, they had nearly perfected it. Both of them didn’t really care about relations outside of their friendship for the majority of their childhood. Always part of the group but never the best friend of anyone in it. The two of them were more often seen together than not. And one fateful night at midnight she had taken the chance, while all their friends had gone outside to watch the fireworks Anna had slid up next to her sister.

“You got someone for midnight?” she had asked her, knowing full well that all the other people were standing outside.

“Maybe, but I doubt it would happen,” Elsa had told her as turned to face her.

Outside their friends started to count down from ten as the new year came closer and closer.

“You never know,” she said as she started to close the gap, “anything can happen on new year.”

Somewhere in the distance cheers erupted as fireworks were shot into the sky, but all the sound was dampened as they both locked eyes with one another.

“Happy new year,” Elsa said as Anna smooched her. There was a little surprise in her sisters’ eyes but quickly she closed them and leaned into the kiss.

“Dreams can come true,” Anna muttered as they leaned back for a moment.

“That they do,” Elsa responded as she kissed her again.

Both of them had decided to not break the news to their parents that they were in a gay incestuous relationship. The chance that they would disown them, but they didn’t want to sit through like five years of awkward family dinners.

Returning back to the present Elsa motioned for her to come closer as she handed her phone back to her. With a quick peck on her cheek, she left the room to grab something else to wear.

“Hi mom,” Anna greeted her, “how’re you and dad?”

“We’re doing all right kiddo, just wanted to check in on my kids. You didn’t call yesterday so we got worried you guys would be stuck for far longer than planned there.” She sounded happy, probably placated by the conversation she had had with Elsa before.

“I don’t know mom; I can’t tell you specifics but either we’re gonna get this done in the next couple of days or we are just gonna go home without doing it.”

“I’m sure you guys will figure it out, can’t let the streak die now you’ve hit a hard problem for once.”

“I don’t think that having successful diplomatic missions is a kind of streak…” she started to explain before her mom cut in.

“If I can put it on my fridge I’m counting it,” if anything her mom had a sense of humour. Even when they were kids their drawings and tests had stuck around on the family fridge for ages. She had kinda thought it would stop when they graduated from elementary school but as by wonder their assignments where stuck to the door with slightly stronger magnets all the way up to the master’s thesis her sister had written. It had been a solid hundred pages thick and had finally fallen to the floor five days after their mom had put all the magnets on it.

“You can do whatever you want mom,” she said as she looked over at Elsa as she entered the room again with a note, ‘I’m gonna grab a couple of sandwiches for later, want the usual?’ giving her a nod, her sister headed out to venture into the evening air of Beijing.

“Your sister said you hadn’t had a chance to explore the city yet, are they really just carting you to and from meeting there? I thought that they would even allow for a day of rest in between the negotiations.”

“Well, they did for the rest of the embassy staff, but we arrived only on the day of the first official negotiations, so we skipped past the banquet they held in honour of the deep and trusted relationship between our two countries,” she explained.

“Sounds like they were trying to placate the other people into being more amicable for the negotiations.”

“It’s possible, but it’s more likely that the minister needed an excuse to have a possible reason to spend a lot of money above board, though if anyone asks you about that I didn’t say anything.”

“Your secret is safe with me sweetheart, I doubt that the Chinese audit of their internal government structure would venture all the way out to us to check a receipt,” she joked. It was kind of a funny sight, a set of black cars pulling up on their childhood home as agents of the Chinese government tried their best to interview their mother.

“Anyway,” Anna said to change the topic away from possible liable stories that could be pulled out of context by some kind of wiretap, “How’s dad holding up? Last time I spoke to him he had been isolating the roof of the cabin near Lommedalen.”

“Oh, he’s fine. He’s out there somewhere with the young bucks teaching them how old men used to hunt. Namly with a crate of beer and a wallet to pay a butcher for the meat of a deer.”

“I hope he’s not pulling Kristof along too much,” Anna said with a smile. It had been kind of funny seeing one of her friends’ become friends with her dad. If it had been someone else she might have thought it was because her dad wanted a son to hang out with and teach all the tricks of the trade.

But in her youth he had been delighted when she wanted to join him out in the forest for days at a time, they had hiked for so long her sister had gotten worried and nearly called the emergency services to check up on them. Their mom had managed to calm her for long enough that she could call their dad on his special satellite phone. With a couple of words from him and a lot from her Elsa had been convinced that she wasn’t killed out there by a bear or something similar.

“I’m sure the lad is fine; he’s been popping in frequently whenever you girls hop around the world for weeks at a time,” the tone was playful, but Anna knew that there was something implied there. If it had been different she might have even considered it, but now it was way past that decision.

“I’m glad that dad has someone else to hang out with than uncle Oaken.”

“Me too, they were probably going to go insane if it was just the two of them out there.”

The click of the lock let her know that Elsa had returned, she came in with her back to the door holding a couple plates of food in her hands.

“I’m gonna have to leave you, we still have a bunch to do and it’s getting late here,” she told her mom.

“Of course, tell your sister I love her.”

“Of course.”

“And I also love you, don’t think I forgot,” their mom said as she disconnected the call.

“Love you too,” Anna said to the death line.

“Anything interesting?” Elsa asked her as she put the plates on the table.

“Kristoff is off drinking with dad and Oaken, we should probably send him a thank you for taking that bullet.”

“I thought he liked going out with them?”

“I mean he does, but having to listen to Oaken snore after he’s drunk isn’t fun for anyone. Did you know that the first time…”

“You spent the night with them, you thought there was a motorbike approaching your camping space? No, you haven’t told me about that a million times already,” Elsa said with a chuckle.

“You weren’t there Elsa, the man’s got an engine in his throat somewhere.” She protested as she took in the food her sister had gathered. It was mainly a couple of sandwiches that the chefs at the compound made around the clock. Diplomacy didn’t keep a clock so neither did the working schedule of the personnel here.

Taking a first bite really revealed how hungry she had been. Quickly finished the sandwich as she took the cup with noodles. In about ten minutes the two of them finished off most of the food, a couple of bottles of water were the only thing left of the massacre.

“You up to review the old proposal and see if we can fit it into the negotiations for tomorrow?” Elsa asked her as they sat back on their chairs.

“I’m down to run through it, but I doubt that we can even rewrite the negotiation proposal in one night. We might, and I say might here, be able to get the cliffs notes to the local public servants for them to write up the text overnight.”

“I’ll text Neils to give them a heads-up,” Elsa said as she pulled out her phone.

“Sure, but you do realise that we have about eleven hours until we’re back in that conference room again? I’m still pretty sure I can give you the large lines that the salmon concessions were about, but it’s gonna be a lot of cramming to get it done in time.”

“We’ve done more with less,” Elsa winked at her, “at least we had a forty-five-minute nap and food this time.”

She hated to admit that her sister had her death to rights at that moment, she knew that they could do it. It was going to be a long night and maybe even one where sleep would be forgotten but if it worked they could be on their way home in two days. For a well-deserved week of nothing.

“I’m not hearing any more complaints so… I’m gonna say four for the first draft that the offices downstairs can start working on then?” she asked her.

“Yeah sure but let them know it’s gonna be a rough first draft, and that I need you to check it over again before it goes to the ambassador’s morning briefing.” She thought for a moment, “The printing room is past the ambassador’s residence right?”

“I think so, you wanna break the news to him already?”

“Strike when the iron is hot,” Anna reasoned as she stood up.

“Send the files to the printer, both the first draft, the concessions draft and whatever else might be relevant, see if we still have that Finish treaty on file. I want to make sure that we aren’t crossing them by accident.”

“Will do, I’ll get started reading the text so I’m on the same page as well.”

“Great,” she let out a sigh and gave her sister a kiss on her forehead, “be good.”

“Aren’t I always,” Elsa told her as she stuck out her tongue, “Go, we are burning time.”

Leaving the suite behind Anna took a moment to centre herself again, the list of tasks she had to do was easy. Find the ambassador or his assistant, then know that there was going to be a shift in the strategy in line with the note that they had passed him earlier that day, convince him that they would do everything they could not to anger their partners across the table, find the printer room and grab the documents.

Rushing downstairs, she followed the helpful arrows that dotted around the compound. The residence was a small building set in one of the more secluded parts of the structure. She had been told it was the living spaces of the senior officials that often spend years in their assignment. The privacy away from work was a welcome addition to the office there had been assigned.

She was lucky enough to bump into him as she came around the corner, and without much trouble she got the go ahead to make whatever chances they seemed fit to make this deal work. He also was helpful enough to get his assistant to show her the communal printing office.

He was a young girl who had recently graduated and was setting her first steps in the diplomatic world. She reminded Anna of herself nearly a decade earlier, she also got told by Niels as she walked back to her suite that Elsa had called ahead and that there was going to be a couple people on standby for them to drop the draft off with.

Returning back to the suite was rather quick, the ride up the elevator was spent mostly skimming back through the draft that Cassandra had dropped on her desk a month ago. She had taken point on writing the barebone version of the treaty, which lucky for them also included the concessions that the Norwegian Kingdom had been willing to give the Chinese government.

Walking back into their rooms, she found Elsa sitting like a gremlin, having pulled one of her legs onto the chair as she was scrolling through the lengthy document Anna held in her arms.

“One day you’re gonna get stuck like that,” she announced her presence as she dropped the relevant document next to her sister. “Here, now you can highlight it so we both can make sense of this nonsense.”

“Didn’t you say you wrote part of this?” Elsa asked her as she grabbed the pile of paper and leafed though it to get her position back.

“I didn’t say it was well written, it was a rough draft that didn’t make it.”

And like that they settled in passing only a couple of words between them for about an hour as they read and reviewed the contents of the four documents that were laying on the table. Where they had started out as pristine stacks of paper held together by a couple of strings, they rapidly where annotated and coloured in with several highlighters.

Elsa preferred to underline the text she wanted to come back to where Anna just drew a line next to the part in ink. To anyone but them it would have seemed like someone was purposely destroying the paper in rapid speed. For them though they knew exactly what they were looking for. The concessions were in essence just a symbolic expansion on the trade that Norway already did with the rest of the world. Their Export was nearly a hundred and fifty billion kroner for seafood, the percentage coming from China was a not insignificant percentage of that total. From the preliminary projections there was another fifteen to twenty billion kroner to be found if the export to them would be done more friendly.

There was of course the chance that other nations would step to the world trade organisation, but Anna doubted that anyone would really be willing to take that step. Norway kept relatively good relations with most nations around the world, be it from direct diplomacy to funding humanitarian aid. If things were to boil over she was pretty sure that it could be dealt with before other drastic actions were taken.

“So, what we’re willing to offer is the additional cost that we ask of countries of importing Norwegian Salmon to be waived for the People’s Republic of China, in exchange to be first among nations to bit on spices that they export to the rest of the world?” Elsa asked when she dropped one of the stacks on the unused bed on her side of the suite.

“Essentially, I think we can push for a guarantee of quantities of the product, but I doubt we have to do that. It would be nice, but it would also be a hassle if we didn’t have the need for spice for some reason and a metric boatload was to be stowed away with no use,” Anna confirmed.

“Let’s hope they bite,” Elsa said as she started to write down the main points that Anna was going to put into diplomacy shorthand, so it could be passed off as a rough draft. Between the two of them they managed to finish the document a quarter to four in the morning. Sending the mail off to the office Anna suggested that the two of them needed some fresh air. Or at least some air that wasn’t working for six hours straight in a room while consuming copious amounts of coffee.

“One day we’re gonna think we were mad for working like this,” Elsa told her as she took her arm in hers.

“I think that now,” Anna responded as she leaned into her sister as they entered the nearly deserted courtyard of the embassy’s compound. From where they were standing they could see the office where their draft had come in from. Three people were backlit by computer screens as they started the arduous process of cutting up an existing trade agreement and retrofitting it with an entirely new part.

“Well, at least we have fun,” Elsa continued. Choosing to ignore Anna’s comment for the moment. Looking up they were disappointed that the night sky here was more a shade of grey rather than the deep dark it was at home.

“At least I’m here with you to have that fun,” Anna conceded.

They both stood there in silence as they watched a far-off blinking light cross over them in the sky. It was nice out, not too cold, just a nice breeze bringing in the cool air from high above.

“Do you think they’ll go for it?” Elsa asked her after a moment, her voice had been sudden, as if she had started to doze off while standing up.

“I hope so, otherwise Friedrich is going to be having an aneurysm,” she joked about their boss back in Norway.

“Eh, that’s the least of my worries.”

“Yeah, but really it’s a great deal for them, if they make it out of the negotiations with the treaty as it is they can probably become the dominant trade partner for all Norwegian seafood in the region.”

“Wanna head back to nap or do you wanna wait here for them to finish up?” Elsa asked her as she nodded over at the offices.

“Bed, the great attractor,” she mused. “You can be big spoon this time around.” With that they headed back and managed to take off all their clothes as they ducked underneath the covers. Looking at their phone they saw it only ten past four in the morning. If they wanted to make sure that the document was of quality they would have to get it at around seven, and then brief the ambassador on it at a quarter to eight as they drove over to the Chinese ministry.

As soon as the phone went off Anna wanted to crush it between her fingers. Elsa besides her had slowly started to get up herself. Neither of them were going to be having a fun day, they realised as Elsa walked into the shower and blasted herself with cold water.

They made their way to the offices where Niels was waiting for them, a stack of paper in hand and a small box on top of it.

“I’m not accepting anything until they sign that,” Elsa said as he tried to hand her the box.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he spoke as he handed the document over to Anna. She gave it a once over as she nodded to her sister.

“Let’s go make this happen.”

[lichtecht]

this is a continuation of my thoughts from this post about justus & den nichtraucher + „married for 30 years“

i did write it at 1am and it is a whole garbled mix of english and german, but that’s how my brain works and i don’t think it conveys the same point if i try to translate it. sorry :(

something something ALMOST.

they were ALMOST something and then it was ripped away from them and they were torn apart and they lost each other.

they still wear the rings they exchanged, 30 years later.

when people notice it and ask if they’re married or ask about their wife or something like that, they always play it off and say it’s a sentimental thing, ein geschenk von einem alten bekannten. sowas in der art 

they still wear the rings they exchanged, when they were so young, so much younger than they are now, and maybe it’s too late? maybe all those years DIDN'T go by without trace, maybe everything is different now, maybe everything has changed and he doesn’t feel the same as he felt all those years ago?

but he’s still wearing the ring. 

both of them are still wearing the ring.

(something something THE LOVE IS STILL THERE SYMBOLIZED BY THE RINGS THEY GAVE EACH OTHER AS A PROMISE WHEN THAT WAS ALL THEY COULD DO, THERE WAS SO MUCH UNSAID BUT THEY GAVE EACH OTHER A SILENT PROMISE-

wait. something something johnny/martin, nachdem sie den justus und den nichtraucher zusammenbringen, am zaun - wo sie sich die hand geben und ein stummes versprechen, dass sich mit worten gar nicht ausdrücken lässt.

OH MEIN GOTT WHAT IF THE PARALLELS

something something justus/nichtraucher & johnny/martin parallels 

i never really noticed that before someone pointed out that was apparently what they were going for in the 2003 film??

but oh my god what if parallels…

i need to think about this some more.

wenn martin wie der justus ist, dann ist johnny wie der nichtraucher 

martin / justus parallels ist klar, martin hat sich den justus als vorbild genommen

und something something „der justus is everyone’s dad but especially martins and the nichtraucher is everyone’s dad but especially johnnys“ (von @is-this-taken-too-questionmark)

where was i going

right

but just imagine

der justus und der nichtraucher meet again and it’s like in the book because the book is superior which i also like because it’s so open ended. it’s so intimate. they reunite and martin and johnny immediately know to give them their space.

i also like that it was just a martin/johnny thing to plan that. in all the adaptations i’ve watched they take the whole gang with them and everyone watches.

meanwhile in the book it’s so private and intimate (like i said)

i’m just saying when you consider every adaptation the version where it made the most sense for them to kiss would be the book. because they were alone. no one else around. and we leave so anything could have happened really 

i imagine it like 

they spent quite some time catching up. crying probably. maybe not talking about feelings yet cause. you know. they just found each other again after decades. don’t wanna ruin that. 

but both of them notice the ring is still on the others hand. and they don’t bring it up because „well, ich will nichts überstürzen. das muss ja gar nichts bedeuten. i’d better not get my hopes up.“ but they both steal little glances at it while they sit in the eisenbahnwaggon and talk and drink tea.

and then they go out?

i don’t fully remember how it went, i really need to reread.

but they go out. just to the lokal the nichtraucher plays at. just as friends, of course. just as friends. even if there was something more it’d be way too dangerous in 1930s germany.

(ohh unrelated aber an dieser stelle fällt mir die szene aus dem 1954 film ein, wo die beiden auf dem nachhauseweg eine schneeballschlacht machen… unterhalten die sich im buch auch über den briefkasten, der da immer noch steht? ist das canon oder hab ich mir das ausgedacht?)

jedenfalls!! 

die ringe symbolisieren das stumme versprechen. parallels to the silent promise between johnny and martin.

dass sie die ringe nach all den jahren noch tragen ist das symbol dafür, dass sie immer noch nacheinander suchen/aufeinander warten/sich nacheinander sehnen/einander nicht vergessen können etc. -> dass sie sich immer noch lieben!!

ich denk aber grad auch, so ein ring wär vielleicht sogar ein gutes cover für einen queeren menschen zu dieser zeit? ein ehering, den er nie abnimmt und über dessen geschichte er nicht reden will? oh, der ärmste hat seine frau verloren… (hat der nichtraucher ja auch)

(da muss ich auch überlegen. der nichtraucher war ja verheiratet. die frau ist bei der geburt gestorben, wenn ich mich recht erinnere. und danach war der nichtraucher so am boden zerstört, dass er verschwunden ist. (wohin eigentlich? ich muss rereaden…)

der justus war ebenfalls am boden zerstört. 

fragt sich nur, wie mein „married for 30 years“ da reinpassen würde.

wahrscheinlich gar nicht so wirklich.

der nichtraucher war verheiratet. er liebte seine frau. (bi king.) da war schon irgendwie was mit johann, aber darüber hat er lieber nicht nachgedacht. johann was a little bit heartbroken deep inside. but he loved his friend more than he cared about his own heartache (bc i’m a sucker for this painful yearning/pining shit >:3)

years and decades later. robert returns to the town, not knowing that johann was right there. 

(did they seriously just live in the same town for years probably and never notice??)

maybe robert returned because he felt the ache too. he missed johann. and so, maybe subconsciously, maybe intentionally, he returns to the town they both went to school together. 

and he’s happy in his little eisenbahnwaggon. he befriends the kids from the internat (man, now i wanna write about how the boys and the nichtraucher became friends…). this is basically all in the book.

johann stayed in this town. (is that book accurate. check!!)

on one hand, because of his job as a teacher. you know the story. you know why that was important to him. but maybe (just maybe) he also stayed for robert? maybe he hoped they would both find their way back here after all those years?

(and they did!!)

ok thinking about people’s reactions to the ring again….

der justus ist unverheiratet. (er ist schwul)

und der nichtraucher ist zu isoliert, als dass leute oft nach dem ring fragen würden. die jungs fragen einmal, als sie zu besuch sind. und der nichtraucher erzählt, das sei ein andenken an einen alten freund, den er verloren habe. oder vielleicht sagt er sogar, er ist von einer verlorenen liebe?! keeping it genderneutral and ambiguous.

[„ach. diesen ring habe ich vor langer zeit von einer verlorenen liebe bekommen. ich kann mich einfach nicht davon trennen.“]

don’t know what the justus would say. vielleicht fragt ihn einer der jungs irgendwann: „sagen sie mal, dr bökh. ich wollte sie bloß fragen - warum tragen sie eigentlich einen ring, wenn sie nicht verheiratet sind?“

keine ahnung, wie der justus darauf antwortet. er reagiert mit einem milden lächeln und sagt etwas ähnliches wie der nichtraucher. vielleicht etwas wie „dieser ring ist ein versprechen, dass ich vor langer zeit gegeben habe.“

(side note: potential shipname; justraucher (lmao))

vielleicht figuren martin und johnny es heraus, weil sie wieder bemerken, wie die teile zusammenpassen

okay!! back on point!!

maybe it makes more sense in a 2003 movie way?

young 17-year old bob und johann in the 60s.

they give each other a promise, although they never quite kiss. and that promise is kept, even when bob runs away and leaves johann with everything in his wake.

und manchmal ist johann wirklich sauer auf robert. wie er ihn sitzen gelassen hat. und er überlegt, den ring abzunehmen- aber dann tut er es nicht. 

er ist ja auch nicht wirklich wütend auf robert. er versteht, warum er tat, was er tat. dafür kennen sie sich viel zu gut. und am meisten vermisst er ihn eigentlich. besonders wenn er den ring anguckt. aber trotzdem -oder deshalb- bleibt der ring. das ist schließlich alles, was er noch so wirklich übrig hat von bob. 

auch, wenn sein herz gebrochen wurde- dieses versprechen hat er noch. er hat es noch. an seinem finger. tag und nacht.

der punkt ist, ihm wurde das herz gebrochen. deshalb rastet er so aus, als die kinder mit dem „fliegenden klassenzimmer“ ankommen - das reißt alte wunden auf. aber vielleicht ist das ja etwas gutes…?

„ich wüsste übrigens auch gern, was los ist.“, sagt kathrin sanft, als die kinder in seinem büro stehen.

und während er erzählt, die ganze geschichte - na gut, die halbe. einige dinge kann er einfach nicht teilen - da huscht kathrins blick zu dem ring an seiner hand und verständnis spült über ihr gesicht.

(dem ring, der der grund ist, warum er keinen ehering für kathrin an die hand nehmen wollte. 

wait, what if johann/nichtraucher/kathrin und johann hat nicht nur zwei hände sondern auch zwei ringe)

und als sie sich dann wieder treffen und johann sieht, dass auch robert nach all den jahren den ring noch trägt-

da ist das ein zweites versprechen. ein versprechen, dass das erste niemals gebrochen wird.

(and yes of course they kiss. and no, the kids aren’t there, because these men deserve some privacy goddamn)

ok i think i’m done for now

how many words were that 

NOPE ANOTHER!!

»something between exes and old friends and former lovers and „married for 30 years“«

meaning:

exes : there was something back then. like there actually *was* something, not an almost. or maybe an almost? there are a lot of almosts. that’s why i’m saying „something between“

old friends : think canon. book canon. old friend.

former lovers : kinda like exes but the implications are less bitterness and more heartache because they were torn apart instead of willfully leaving.

married for 30 years : that dynamic, like they’ve known each other for a lifetime. it feels so natural, despite having been apart for 30 years.

(imagine; (not necessarily justus/nichtraucher, maybe reddie, but i’m talking about justraucher hier.

when they can finally get married at like 50 or 60; „well technically you have to add the years we were apart! we gave each other a promise, we even have rings.“ (oh my god what if they used the VERY SAME RINGS if they got married) (i’m not too much of a marriage fic fan but i could make an exception if this is good))

[feanorianethicsdepartment]

time travel aus, amirite? since we’ve all decided to start talking about our ideas, i thought i’d throw my hat into the ring. i’ve actually had this idea for a while, i just wasn’t sure what to do with it because i barely have the patience for one-shots, let alone the continuous plotted longfic this would need

it’s not my idea, of course, i’m incapable of original thought. it’s based off this can-i-really-call-it-a-genre-if-it’s-two-fics-with-the-same-premise where some combination of maedhros, maglor, elros, and elrond land in the blessed realm before - even the unchaining, in my take, when the ambarussa are still children and the world is blissful. it’s more specifically my take on this fic, which takes elrond and elros from very early in their captivity and maedhros from just before the silmaril theft and maglor from several centuries into the second age. i just plugged my own characterisations into it, and, uh. the specific setup this not-genre uses is that maitimo and makalaurë *~mysteriously disappear,~* throwing their extended family into chaos, blah blah blah, and then a few decades later -

well. with my characterisations, we have a nightmare hellbeast who’s burned up everything he used to be in singular pursuit of an unreachable goal and has carved his very self into a weapon, a completely drained beaten-up husk barely cognisant of reality past the screaming in his mind who’s so utterly broken it’s debatable if he even counts as an elda, and two extremely young extremely traumatised children in a completely unfamiliar land- and skyscape whose only adult they can maybe-kind-of trust is currently bleeding from the eyes and shrieking wordless notes of utter despair

yeah, this au’s Fun. elrond and elros have maybe eight words of quenya between them, most of which are obscene, maedhros will act completely normal until he suddenly stabs himself in the arm because can’t this stupid hallucination end already, he has a character arc to tank, and maglor seems completely unaware he’s not still on the beach having the same cyclic arguments with the ghosts of the people he failed. the elves of valinor aren’t completely unprepared to deal with this, at least not the ones who remember cuiviénen, but it’s still a massive shock to see two of the children they came to the land of the gods to protect twisted and scarred like the worst victims of the dark. especially since noone can figure out why

so yeah. i have trouble finishing oneshot collections, so i doubt i’ll ever write this out in full, but i do have a lot of Scenes. fëanáro staring in utter horror at the oath, whispering ‘i made this.’ elros and elrond’s somewhat hole-filled explanation of their backstory devolving into a sindarin argument, and when the family asks tyelkormo what they’re talking about he freezes before saying ‘they’re arguing about whether maitimo killed their mother.’ the moment maglor finally managed to get through what happened after they got the silmarils to maedhros, who immediately switches from off-the-cuff self-harm to well-planned suicide attempts. the five-minute period the family hellspawn’s working theory was ‘they’re maitimo and makalaurë from an alternate universe where we’re evil’ (‘is there an evil version of me??? does he eat kids???????’ - tyelko) finwë going full bulldoze taniquetil in the background. fun times, might write some snippets in the future

but i like to think through the mechanics of this kind of time travel story too much, so i started wondering where maitimo and makalaurë, yanno, went. i quickly came to the conclusion that they probably swapped places with their evil future selves, giving me three time travel aus for the price of one! technically four but (a) i’m not sure if or with who the twins would swap and (b) if they did their alternate selves are probably having a really bad time and i don’t particularly want to think about it. the stories maitimo and makalaurë are in... they’re not necessarily any happier, but they are a lot more wtftastic

maitimo falls asleep under the light of the trees, on a relaxing retreat from the demands of court life and family-induced disasters. he wakes up in a world that’s almost completely dark, surrounded by plants he’s never seen before and wearing clothing designed for a much warmer climate, the scent of death in the air. now permanently separated from all his old problems, maitimo rapidly acquires several exciting new ones, including but not limited to:

everyone he ever loved being dead or worse

the lone possible exception, his last surviving little brother, being an almost unrecognisable blood-drenched kinslayer who hates everything in the universe especially himself

said blood-drenched kinslayer almost immediately imprinting on him like a grouchy murderous duckling

his future self having apparently wanted to kill even more people, why

getting dogpiled by like thirty dudes in full armour the instant they showed up at the army of the west’s camp to surrender

getting soul-scanned by eönw two minutes later. not fun

arafinwë pulling him into an enormous hug and then bursting into tears

the subsequent explanation as to just what happened to him and his brothers, which somehow got worse after he’d already thought they’d hit rock bottom like four separate times

proceeding to lose a staring contest with findaráto

the way everyone in camp looks at him like he’s an incredibly dangerous wild animal that might bite at any time

how if half of what arafinwë said is true he can’t even blame them, fuck, fuck

the twin half-elven(?????????????) princes he and his brother apparently kidnapped and held hostage for years, inflicting unimaginable cruelties as far as anyone knows

his first meeting with the kids happening when elrond broke into where they were holding maglor to scream at him in very loud very fast very angry sindarin for like half an hour

maglor just staring at him, eyes wide, ears pinned back, the whole time, and then trying to maul the first guard who mocked him for it

getting saddled with kinslayer containment duties in the aftermath of that whole incident

elrond punching him in the collarbone when he tried to apologise, shouting ‘you weren’t there, don’t you dare try to tell me what it was like’

elros’ visible half second of pure terror after the blow hit home

elros then using recognisable techniques from maitimo’s debate team circuit during a speech to the edain

like, clearly some shit did happen, but it’s obviously not what the local leadership’s afraid of

this sour-faced scar-covered warrior slipping out of the shadows in an unpopulated part of camp, kneeling before him, intoning ‘the swords of the host remain at your disposal my lord’ and then immediately vanishing

he didn’t recognise them until after they’d left but they were definitely one of his philosophy club friends, what even

just generally having woken up in a future a thousand times worse than his darkest nightmares

his natural instinct is to try and fix things, but how?? what’s even left to fix????

maglor sometimes goes into these unhinged desperate spiralling rambles directed at the older brother who exists in his head rather than the one in front of his eyes. whatever’s left of maitimo’s biggest little brother is clearly in so much pain

all the things he’s trying extremely hard not to think about because if he slows down enough to he’s pretty sure he’ll collapse

all the people he’s never met who hate him for pretty understandable reasons and whose social structure he now has to learn to have any hope of making it out of All This

the edain’s collective insistence on calling him pasthros

curufinwë isn’t even a hundred how does he have a kid

makalaurë, on the other hand, wakes up on a beach beneath a giant glowing orb. finding himself in a land so much barer than what he knows, among people whose souls don’t even work like his, his initial working theory is he’s been abducted by aliens

[four-rabbit]

My best friend died in the 90′

Ok, so, this is part of an ghost AU that I have and probably will be talking about in the future, where Virgil is a ghost and them and Remus are best friends, (this is not the main plot but anyway, like I said, I'll talk about it in later)

However, while this doesn't happen, please have this oneshot about Remus and Virgil meeting each other

Summary: Remus never had any friends, but that changed when he decided to go to the cemetery in the middle of the night, just to meet Virgil, a kid that besides being just as weird as Remus, happens to be dead.

(For a little bit of context: in this fanfic Remus comes from a family where eveyone can speak to ghosts, on his mom side, at least, but unlike Roman, Remus was never able to talk to a ghost before meeting Virgil)

Characters: Remus Sanders, Virgil sanders, mentions to Roman Sanders

Warnings: swearing (specifically a kid swearing), discussions of death, mentions of a fight and bullying.

Obs: in this au Virgil uses exclusively they/them pronouns and Remus uses he/it. This is not a genderbend version of Remus.

I've always been the weird child so it seemed appropriate that my first friend had been dead for more than a decade.

It's a funny story: I had gotten to another fight, I even lost a tooth that day and probably would have lost two if I hadn't run away the moment the fucking coward that called himself a bully invited his friends for help. I may be fast but I can only bite so many people at once.

I didn't want to go home because Roman would be worried and my parents would be angry, which was the usual, but getting bullied was also the usual, didn't mean that I couldn't get tired of it, that's why I decided to go to the cemetery I mean, why not? 

I knew I was far from my house because it took me less than ten minutes to reach it. My parents moved to as far as possible from there the moment Roman was born, the guy can't stand even getting closer to it, which I founded stupid at the time. I would give anything to have the stupid paranormal sensitivity that he was so afraid of instead of being the disappointment of the family.

Turns out he was right for being afraid. 

After a quick look I confirmed that there was no other living soul at the cemetery besides me, so I smiled and sat on the closest gravestone. Mom always said that we should respect the dead and their resting place or else they would teach us a lesson or whatever but I was fine with that because I had decided a long ago that If a ghost showed themself to me it would be the coolest freaking thing ever. I kicked the gravestone weakly, as if knocking on a door. That thought made me giggle as I imagined a ghost appearing in pajamas, angry at me for disturbing them that late at night. I kicked again, this time a little harder. 

"Stop that" someone mumbled besides me. I immediately got to my feet, thinking that the gravedigger had seen me but fortunately I didn't see an angry adult, but a kid. They were using a black hoodie and had equally dark hair falling on their face. They were pale as a dead body, fat and tall, basically the opposite of me, an unhealthily skinny latino little shit. I snorted.

"What are you gonna do about it?" I kicked the gravestone once more. They seemed startled, backing up a little. 

"You- you can see me?"

"Why wouldn't- OH MY GOD YOU'RE A GHOST?!" I screamed not even caring if someone could hear me. Virgil cared. 

"Sshh! I-" they seemed disconcerted but gave up with a sigh "Yes, I'm" 

"Oh! Holy shit! Is that your gravestone?! Is that why you appeared when I kicked it?!" I jumped in excitement, getting close to them to take a closer look at my most recent discovery. 

"No, I just don't think you should kick it. It's disrespectful" 

"Yeah, whatever! Oh my god I can't believe I'm seeing a ghost! Suck it, mom, I knew I could do it too!" I exclaimed to nothing in particular as if she could hear me. "What's your name?"

"No- look, I'm sorry, I didn't think you could see me, I just- I should go" they said in the classic "I want to get rid of you" that everyone used after talking to me for more than five minutes. I started to get desperate, this was my first time seeing a ghost, I wouldn't let them leave that easily.

"No, don't go! I promise that I'm cool! Sorry for kicking your friend's gravestone, I don't know, please stay!" I begged and I guess my irresistible cuteness touched their heart because they turned to look at me again.

"He's not my friend," Virgil explained. "Just an old ghost that doesn't like to be bothered." they looked down shyly and I thought that was cute. "My name is Virgil. What's yours?" 

"My name-" I always hated to tell people my deadname, I just didn't know why at the time "You can call me the Duke because my name is shit I really hate it y'know, it really sucks ass" They probably raised an eyebrow, it was hard to tell with all that hair failing on their face, but didn't say anything besides:

"Why not the duchess?"

"Because I don't want to" replied, crossing my arms as if challenging them to disagree. Virgil looked me up and down, processing my appearance. I was using dirty green legs, a black dress that my mom insisted that I wore for school and an old all star. Their eyes stopped at my face, with my bloody nose and the missing tooth. "What happened to your face?"

"Oh yeah I got into a fight! But it's cool, I'm not afraid of those assholes" now they seemed worried.

"Why did you get into a fight?"

"Just the usual, he stole my lunch, pushed me out of my bike, called me some bad words and I bit him. Y'know everyone thinks blood is so gross but I kinda like the taste." I looked at them, trying to see their reactions. I couldn't see their eyes but I'm sure they widened as Virgil got closer, saying in the same worried tone that Roman used:

"You should be careful! Have you told your parents?! Do you have any friends to walk with you? Or you could tell a teacher! No, forget it, teachers never help, at least not when I was alive. Is there anyone you can trust to protect you?"

"Wow, chill, I can take care of myself"

"I'm serious, Duke!" I rolled my eyes. I hated when people treated me as some fragile girl that couldn't take care of herself. Turned out I just hated that people treated me like a girl. 

"Why do you care? I just met you" 

"Because-" Virgil changed their mind mid phrase. Can't blame them, I wouldn't share my backstory and the reason I died that easily either if I was a ghost. "You seem nice, I don't want you to get hurt" I don't think anyone had ever called me nice by that time. Weird, gross, disturbing, problem child, ungracious I had always heard, but nice was new, even Roman just called me "cool" or "brave" at best. So, of course, I got defensive. 

"Hm. Want me to tell you what he, Peter by the way, is the name of the asshole, yeah, he's a big asshole, what Peter and his friends called me?!" Again, Virgil barely reacted to my swearing and I was starting to get frustrated, it was always an easy way to get some fun reactions, especially from adults.

"Not really…" as they would learn in the years that followed, that kind of phrase rarely stopped me from speaking. 

"He called me a bitch! That's when I bit him, actually, he was like, listen here you little bitch and he pointed his finger at my face and I bit it and I almost ripped it off I swear!" I looked at them, waiting for their reaction, already imagining what it would be. I was young but I had lived enough to mainly aim for negative responses just because they were better than no response at all. Virgil stayed in silence for longer than I wanted which was like the most boring response. 

"How old are you, Duke?"

"I'm going to be nine in three months! How old are you?"

"I died when I was ten." 

"Cool! I was never friends with an older kid!" I was never friends with anyone besides Roman, but anyway. "I mean, you're my friend, right?" They didn't answer immediately, but then Virgil opened a smile and probably decided they were going to protect that little chaotic gremlin.

"Yeah, I guess I’m.”

[theseptemberist]

I couldn’t copy the emoji :( but write a prompt based on a song that makes you feel nostalgic I think it was? The last lil emoji ❤️🥰

For this ask game.

Ohh thank you! 🥺 This is a weird kind of nostalgia but the first song that jumped to mind is The Writing's On the Wall by OK Go. The person I dated all through high school played it for me the last time we ever saw each other before I left town for college, and even nearly a decade later it still stirs those first breakup emotions.

Apropos, the song is about someone who can see that their relationship with the person they love is beyond repair but wants one more night together for old time's sake. So here's an Obikin version of that with lots of angst under the cut lol.

This would be an au where maybe Mace did put Palpatine under arrest so he survived to stand trial. And it's bad for Anakin, because even though his Fall was averted Palpatine gets revenge by telling the Galaxy that Anakin was lined up to be his apprentice along with every secret he'd confided in him over the years.

Some still believe in Anakin and find his love story with Padme romantic while others drag his name through the mud and even say that he or all the Jedi should stand trial alongside Palpatine. It's an absolute mess, a media circus, and everyone agrees that it would be best for Anakin to just... quietly leave the order.

This includes Obi-Wan. Because he wants Anakin to be happy. He wants what's best for him. And he's also so, so angry that Anakin got married and had children and didn't tell him, that Anakin let a Sith Lord pour poison into his ear until he nearly destroyed everything they'd worked so hard to defend. Clearly he isn't good for Anakin and never was so Anakin should just leave and go be where he belongs, far away from Obi-Wan.

And how Anakin acts after the decision is made only validates this. He's cold and distant, so Obi-Wan is cold and distant right back. And Anakin is so angry too because if Obi-Wan cared about him the way he claims to, he would be fighting for Anakin to stay. But he hasn't even said he'll miss him when he's gone!

So they've barely even been talking, and then the night before Anakin is set to depart for Naboo Obi-Wan oh so casually asks him if he'd like a drink. For old time's sake. And Anakin agrees, because all he wants is to have his best friend back, just for a little bit.

So they get tipsy, and it's awkward at first but then almost nice as they slip back into the rhythm of their banter like old clothes. For a while they just don't talk about what's going to happen, and then Obi-Wan makes some offhanded remark about how Anakin must be happy he can leave to be with his wife. Not even a pointed one, but Anakin responds with a bitter laugh.

That's when Obi-Wan finds out that theirs isn't the only relationship that's been strained by all this, that things with Anakin and Padme have been rocky lately, that they'd come to an agreement where Anakin could stay with her so he could be a real father to their children but that they weren't together, not really.

By this point, they're both beyond tipsy and Anakin is falling against Obi-Wan's side and murmuring no one wants me around anymore, not even you. And Obi-Wan shakes his head and says no, Anakin, of course I do and Anakin replies you don't, you really don't know.

At first Obi-Wan doesn't know what he's talking about because he thinks he really knows all Anakin's secrets by now, really, but then Anakin kisses him and it's clumsy and warm and real. They're certainly too drunk for this, so Obi-Wan gently pushes his shoulders back, but then tears start to well up and Anakin sniffles please, Master, please don't make me leave.

And Anakin means forever, but Obi-Wan hears tonight. He knows it's wrong and he knows Anakin might regret this but, Force, it's the first time since he can remember that he knows what to do to make Anakin happy.

So, he decides, he'll take Anakin to bed. Even if it's the last thing that they do together.

[queen-scribbles]

The Long Burning Torch ch 2

Oh, look, there more! :D Second chapter for my Ryn/Red 20s AU brought you by @shepherds-of-haven ‘s summer event 

------

True to his word, Red called just a couple days later--with supremely perfect timing, too; Xaeryn had just returned from following a lead. She was in the process of unpinning her hat when the telephone rang and she ll but dove across the room, hatpin in hand, to answer it.

“Shrike Investigations,” she said with that borderline-cheerful professionalism people expected from anyone running a business.

“Xaeryn?” He sounded curious verging on concerned. “Everything alright?”

“Oh, hittin’ on all eight,” she assured him with a breathless laugh. “I just got back from chasing down a lead.” She left off how literal that was this time as she glared at the mud on her shoes. “He was... more help than he meant to be, I think. I’m just grateful it didn’t turn into another dead-end.”

Red laughed. “Glad to hear it.” The line crackled a bit in the moment’s silence before he continued, “I had a chance to do some research, turned up a few interesting things.”

Generally interesting, or Red-interesting? Xaeryn wondered with a fond smile, remembering his fascination with even the minutiae of everything he read. “Like what?” 

“At least some of what happened to the pendent after the Solimer lost it, and it’s a bit of a mess.” He laughed again, sheepishly this time, and Xaeryn pictured him running a hand through his hair. “It’s better explained in person. Should I come to you--”

“I’ll come there,” Xaeryn offered. “You’re doing me a favor, it’s the least I can do. And besides” --she grinned, even knowing he couldn’t see her-- “it’s a long drive and I wouldn’t want you to forget any of your notes.”

There was a long-suffering sigh, punctuated by a chuckle that made the line pop. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

“No more than you let me live down the apple tree,” she retorted sweetly. “Does it work for me to come today? The guild’s getting antsy with the exhibit date drawing closer, but if you’re busy...”

“I have a lecture in... just under an hour.” Red paused, likely doing the same travel time vs lecture time calculations she was. “If you left soon, you’d probably get here just as I’m finishing, we could talk after?”

“Sounds good to me,” Xaeryn said scraping mud off her shoe against the chair leg. “I’ll see you in a couple hours, then.”

“Mm, see you then.”

She took a moment examining her shoes after they hung up and decided it would be best to change them before she left. Wouldn’t want to be tracking mud through Solhadur’s halls.

---

She couldn’t entirely bite back a laugh when she arrived and found Red behind his desk, the pencil woven between his fingers tapping against one of the three books open across the desk’s surface. “Well, I just lost a five lyss wager.”

“Huh?” His hair fell in his eyes when he looked up. “Over what?”

Xaeryn smiled as she leaned against the edge of the desk. “I was certain you would get carried away with jawing about whatever your lecture was on and I would be here first. Fortunately it was a wager with myself” --she leaned over to peek at what he was reading--”so there’s no real loss.”

Red laughed and nudged one of the books toward her. “Normally you would have won. I thought of something I wanted to double-check before you got here, so I made sure to end on time. The students thank you for that, by the way.”

She snickered and skimmed through the presented history text. “They’re most welcome. What did you learn?”

Red pushed out of his chair and circled the desk to give them the same angle on the book she held. “There’s a decade or so immediately after its loss that’s unaccounted for, but there are records from travelers who mention encountering a warlord deep in Jalis territory with a pendent that sounds an awful lot like Solimer’s torch. Here.” He leaned over to flip a few pages back from where she was and pointed at a sketched illustration.

While rudimentary in nature, it did bear a striking resemblance to the photographs Mr. Syndran had given her. Xaeryn hummed a quiet agreement, noting the sketched pendent seemed to be on an armband rather than loose as it was now, as she started reading the relevant text around the illustration. 

“Lean on details,” she frowned, tracing a finger over the words as she read.

“That one is,” Red agreed. “They were more concerned with other things, barely mention the pendent in their description of the warlord. It’s just the only one with an illustration.” He tugged the book away from her, swapped it for one of the others. “Going off the description, I think this is the same piece. But you can draw your own conclusions.” He sat in one of the chairs and Xaeryn stayed perched on the edge of the desk, one foot swinging idly a few inches off the ground as she read.

From the sound of it--bronze coiled around a jet black stone, said to be its owner’s lucky talisman--she was inclined to agree with Red.  The territory of this warlord, however, was rather far from the usual routes ascribed to the Solimer’s desert travels. How did it get there? she mused. Likely during the decade it had vanished, but she couldn’t even begin to guess the method. She’ was just finishing with the account when she caught Red smiling out of the corner of her eye.

She let the book dip to look at him instead. “What?”

Red’s eyes twinkled as he nodded at the hem of her mid-calf skirt. “That lead you mentioned chasing earlier wouldn’t have involved mud puddles, would it?”

Xaeryn followed his gaze and groaned at the mud staining the dusky rose fabric. “I wasn’t expecting him to run,” she muttered, flicking at the mud with one hand as she moved to the other chair.

“Your suspects usually just wait around, obligingly, for you to interrogate them, then?” 

She rolled  her eyes at his teasing tone and briefly debated whacking him with the book. “He wasn’t a suspect, he was a witness,” she retorted primly, setting the book back on his desk. “Potentially. Though with how cagey he was being, it wouldn’t surprise me if he was guilty of something.”

“A mystery for another day,” Red said with a grin.

“Precisely. As for today’s mystery, have you found anything more recent than this?” She tapped the book. “It’s still several hundred years ago.”

“Not much, and some of it’s contradictory; that’s part of why I said in person was better.” He ran one hand through his hair. “That territory is so deep in the Jalis desert, not many go there and come out again. Those who don’t live there frequently die visiting.”

“Charming place,” Xaeryn said dryly.

“Mmhm. It makes getting records difficult, to say the least. There’s a mention of this warlord’s territory being conquered by another, but no mention of what was taken as potential spoils, and the next thing I’ve found resembling Solimer’s torch is is when it was discovered in the grave of a different chieftain, name unknown--though there are theories--a hundred years ago and almost two hundred miles from where the nearest previous records indicated it being.”

“How’s a chieftain’s name unknown?” she frowned. 

“He was buried with the honors afforded warlords and chieftains, but any record of his identity had worn off in the desert wind, if it was there in the first place,” Red explained.

“And these theories about who he was?” 

“Numerous and with various levels of support,” he said wryly. “But if you want the longer version...?”

Xaeryn chuckled. “Always.” 

They spent the next hour or so discussing the myriad guesses people had made as to this mystery chieftain’s name, as well as the other details Red had unearthed about the pendent, and various sources’ credibility. They only got caught up in one or two rabbit trails of good-natured debate over peer review and scholarly reputation or historical patterns of desert travel. (Which was pretty good for them.)

“There are a lot of gaps,” Red acknowledged, thumbing the pages of one book. “But I have a lot more I can read to help with filling them in.” He twirled one hand to gesture at the shelves that lined the room.

“You don’t have to-”

“Xaeryn, have you ever known me to be unhappy reading a book?” he asked with a warm smile.

“Well, no,” Xaeryn laughed. “But you’re so busy now, Headmaster.”

Red arched a brow but didn’t further protest her use of the title. “I always have time for you,” he said with a shrug, then cleared his throat and pushed to his feet even as her heart pounded and she sternly informed herself he hadn’t meant it like that. (She was grateful his circling the desk meant he missed the moment of broken composure that surely flashed across her face.) “And research is even more fun when it’s for a purpose. Bottom line for you so far...” He picked up his dropped pencil and started shuffling through everything on his desk in search of paper.

She grinned and held out her notepad. “Here.”

He flashed a sheepish smile as he took it. “Thank you.” He flipped to the first blank page and started writing as he talked. “Descendants of either that unknown chieftain or the one whose wife originally found the torch would have the strongest claims of ownership.”

“If I can find them,” Xaeryn said dryly. “And if one of them’s not already the owner on record who lent the pendent to the exhibit.” She bit her lower lip. “I think I need to talk to Mr. Syndran again.”

And depending on what he told her, her own research into genealogy might be called for.

“Probably your best next step.” Red finished writing and handed back her notepad, several pages scrawled with bullet-points summation of what he’d found.  “Here you go.”

“Thank you.” Xaeryn smiled when she saw the notes were in their shorthand.  “Nice touch.”

He smiled and raised one shoulder in a shrug. “It takes less space, and you did say this is a secret...”

“Very true.” She flipped the pad closed and tucked it back in her handbag. “I really do appreciate your help, this wasn’t a a small request, and you got me some answers in very short order.”

“I’m not done reading, Xaeryn,” Red said, voice rife with amusement. He waved at the surrounding shelves again. “Like I said, there’s a lot more to check.”

I always have time for you.

“As long as you don’t mind, I would love to hear anything else you learn,” Xaeryn said with a smile. Far be it from her to stand between Liefred Antiqua and a research project he was excited about. She’d sooner snatch an ice cream away from a child. 

“I’ll call if I find anything else useful,” Red promised, already shifting toward one bookshelf.

She nodded, biting back a laugh and hoping he had a very loose definition of the word ‘useful’. “I’ll look forward to that, then.” Her neck and ears warmed and she hastily added, “more information is always helpful.” She stood, flicking at the stubborn mud on her skirt again. Next time she went interview-hunting, she was wearing trousers. “Though you have me off to an excellent start.” She headed for the door, paused with her hand on the knob. “Thank you for that, Liefred.”

“Anytime.” He leaned against the corner of his desk. “You can still call me Red, y’know, Xaeryn. Everyone does, so it’s hardly going to seem too familiar.”

True as that might be here at Solhadur, Haven was a different story. And she wouldn’t want to slip up. “I’ll keep that in mind,” Xaeryn said softly. “Until next time?”

“Mm-hm.” Something flickered in his eyes as he rubbed the back of his neck, then flashed her an easy smile. “I’ll look forward to it, then. I’m glad we reconnected.”

She smiled back as she twisted the knob. “Me, too.”

She didn’t have many friends, it was good to get one of the best ones back.

---

It was edging toward evening when Xaeryn made it back to her office. Which made it a bit of a surprise --fortuitous as it was-- to find Mr. Syndran waiting for her.

“Did we have a meeting I forgot about?” she asked apologetically as she unlocked the door. (They hadn’t, she was positive, but it was a diplomatic way of probing for why he was here.)

“We did not,” Mr. Syndran replied, arching a brow in a knowing look. “I had some other business in the area and decided to stop by in person to see how you are coming along, Miss Shrike.”

Xaeryn laughed and gestured toward the same chair he’d sat in on his first visit. “Then you have very good timing, instincts, or both, Mr. Syndran. I had some things I wanted to ask you; background information.”

His brow creased ever so slightly. “Should you not be far beyond mere background information? Have you not made progress?”

She sighed and sat in her chair behind the desk, pulling her notepad from her handbag and turning to a blank page. “Not of the ‘I’ve narrowed it down to two blocks, I just don’t know which house’ variety, no.” She tapped her pen against the desk. “But I have leads on suspects.”

Syndran gave a grunt that may have been displeasure. “And your questions for me?”

“Like I said; clarifying background information. When the Couriers were contracted to handle transport, how much were you told about the pieces?”

“Only the relevant details.” He brushed invisible lint off his sleeve. “Each one’s value, recorded owner, any special care instructions.”

Xaeryn nodded, pen poised over her pad. “I don’t suppose you recall the owner listed for the pendent?”

He paused to think a moment. “I’d have to have my secretary check to be completely certain, but I believe it was a Ms. Aescar. The name didn’t ring any bells for me.”

“And would I need to speak with the Hall of History and Culture if I wanted to find out how to contact her, or do you know?”

Syndran shook his head. “Whitestone Couriers were merely transporting the relics, Miss Shrike. Any communication with the owners was the concern of the museum curators. Why would you need to talk to her?”

“I might not,” Xaeryn said, scribbling the information down. “I just like to have all my chickens in the coop ahead of time, so there’s no scrambling if something winds up time-sensitive down the road.”

“Smart.” Syndran gave a nod of approval. “So long as you don’t spend so much time preparing for unlikely eventualities that you lose more promising leads.”

She back back a tart ‘I know how to do my job’ and nodded. “Of course.”

He paused a moment, lips pursed in thought. “I did have a wonder, Miss Shrike.”

Xaeryn cocked her head. “Oh?”

“Given the... likelihood this theft occurred somewhere between city customs and the museum and the utter lack of details my drivers have been able to provide about that stretch of the journey” --his expression soured-- “would it be possible for you to... revisit the scene with your abilities?” His brows arched meaningfully.  “You are Argentis, are you not? The benefit of hindsight might allow you to pick up on something relevant that didn’t register in the moment for my people.”

She tapped her pen against her notepad. “I can give it a go, Mr. Syndran, but I’m more a Scryer than a Sage; my strongest talent is finding things in the present, not viewing the past. Though this is the recent past,” she mused. “Perhaps recent enough that with a focus from the caravan I’d have decent luck.”

“I’ll see what I can find for you.” Mr. Syndran pushed to his feet. “Anything in particular that will work best?”

“For viewing the past like this... something from the event is necessary, and the closer to central it is, the clearer a picture I’ll be able to get.” She leaned back in her chair. “Frankly, if you don’t mind my doing so, coming to the Couriers’ garage and using one of the trucks as my touchstone would work best.”

“Oh, that’s very doable,” he said with a nod. “As it’s getting late, what say we do it tomorrow?”

“Nine AM?” Xaeryn suggested.

“Acceptable.” He headed for the door. “I shall see you then, Miss Shrike.”

“See you then, Mr. Syndran.” Xaeryn waited until the door closed behind him to let out a slow breath. Scrying was easy enough, even if she didn’t always succeed, but peering into the past was usually a draining exercise for her. Mr. Syndran was correct, though; it was very likely the best way to glean new leads. Even if it meant she’d need a nap after.

She pushed to her feet and locked the door. One more glance over her notes before she called it a night. So it was fresh in her mind and she could mull it over.

She tried not to get too distracted by the difference between her small, crowded shorthand and Red’s larger, loose scrawl--he had a dreamer’s handwriting, which she’d teased him about when they were younger(he’d rolled his eyes but hadn’t denied it). The memory had her smiling all through dinner.

---

The weather was nice enough the next day Xaeryn opted to walk to the Whitestone Couriers’ garage, though she did take an umbrella in case the rain that hadn’t threatened the last few days decided to make an appearance. Mr. Syndran was waiting for her, looking all the more proper in these rough-shod surroundings. 

“Right on time, Miss Shrike,” he said with a tight smile. “This way.” He led her at a brisk pace to a gleaming black truck, the canvas cover a near-immaculate tan. “This is the one that was carrying the crate with the pendent, among other things.”

“Right.” Xaeryn circled to the passenger side, letting her fingers trail over the cool metal until they rested on the door. “I can’t make any promises, but let’s see if we can find anything useful.”

She pressed her hand flat against the side of the truck and murmured the correct ritual, felt her magic rise to do as she bade.

The scene around her--Mr. Syndran, the garage, everything but the truck--faded into shadow. Her view shifted, as if she were riding shotgun in the truck or hanging out the window as it crept through Haven’s streets. Tings were flickery and dim, the colors bled out and faded as she looked around. I don’t know how long I can hold this. Xaeryn peered intently at  what she could see of the surroundings, the other vehicles, the people, buildings, noting everything she could, no matter how mundane. A woman with a red hat, brim hiding most of her face. A young boy and his dog watching the caravan with interest. A man with vivid green eye and a small smile lounging against a wall, following the trucks’ progress from under his slouched cap. The cat that almost darted in front of the preceding truck before it spooked. The flapper with an armful of bracelets, glancing surreptitiously across the street-

The scene flickered sharply, her grasp on the ritual fading, the images slipping away--

And Xaeryn was back in the garage, leaning against the truck as her knees went to jelly. The few prior occasions she’d played the sage had left her feeling like she stood up too fast when they ended, and this was no exception.

“Are you alright, Miss Shrike?” Mr. Syndran gestured to a nearby worker who’d stopped to gawp and the man scuttled off.

“Just fine,” she said with a nod, turning to sit on the truck’s running board as she tugged out her notepad and rapidly scrawled out everything she’d seen. “Sage work can be taxing if it’s not your main talent, that’s all.”

He watched in silence as she scribbled down the vision’s contents, only speaking again when she finished. “Did you see anything of note?”

“Nothing too blatant, or it would have stood out even to the drivers,” Xaeryn said, leaning her head back against the truck. “But there were some passers-by that caught my attention...”

Mr. Syndran listened to her descriptions with utmost focus, but interrupted when she reached the green-eyes lounger. “Do you remember any other details about him?” he demanded, his hands twitching to a fractionally tighter grip on the head of his walking stick.

“Tall,” Xaeryn said slowly. The worker Syndran had sent away returned with a tumbler of water, which she accepted with a nod of thanks as she dug through the memory. “I think brown hair, but he was wearing a hat. Bright red vest, blue and green scarf ‘round his neck-”

“Thieves guild,” Syndran muttered. Despite the distaste on the words, a panther-like grin curved his lips. “I should have known.” The distaste shifted to satisfaction. “That would be your next lead, Miss Shrike.”

Xaeryn arched a brow. “Do tell.”

“Thieves guild has been a thorn in our side for years,” Syndran explained, “They aren’t even a true guild; more a loose association of ruffians and cutpurses who only call themselves such in another jape at legitimate businesses.” He sniffed. “They make their base in the warrened streets of Ashtown, but I believe I have worked out where their true headquarters are concealed. I can give you some direction, if you’re recovered enough to follow me to my office?”

She nodded, pushed to her feet. “Lead the way.”

It was good to have something tangible to pursue. Hopefully the weather would hold so she could follow it up now. Ashtown was no fun in the rain.

[earnestly-endlessly]

Hi love! Merry Christmas! I hope you are having an amazing Christmas!

I was wondering if as a Christmas gift you could make a cherik rec of enemies to lovers and/or friends to lovers?

🎅🏻🎄✨

A very, very belated Christmas to you. I had a very nice (though a bit busy) Christmas. I’m so sorry that this took me this long to answer but I took extra care to make this list. There are a LOT of great fics out there with both of those themes. I’m sure that I’ve missed some excellent ones but I do have quite an extensive list for you. I hope you enjoy!!

Enemies/Rivals to Lovers

Wasteland – FuryRed

Summary: After Shaw succeeded in his plan to unleash nuclear war, Erik could only watch in horror as the world completely fell apart. Atom bombs. Sentinels roaming the country. Mutants being rounded up and forced into death camps. These were dark days, indeed.

Countless lives were lost in the war that followed, until the remaining mutants and humans scattered across the land- each just waiting for an opportunity to eliminate the other side.

Erik was confident that the Brotherhood would emerge victorious, but what he hadn’t counted on was the human resistance acquiring a mutant as their leader- a telepath, who insisted that humanity and mutantkind could one day live in peace…

Few experience (what you really are) – flightingflame

Summary: Magneto despises the humans that experiment on and enslave his kind. Recaptured after escaping the lab where he spent his youth, he finds himself bought by a rich man whose household is full of mutants. But Charles is keeping secrets of his own, and while he’s a dangerous man, he’s a powerful one to have on your side.

Sink or Swim – endingthemes

Summary: Erik is a struggling single dad of three kids with a burning hatred for Sebastian Shaw, the man who wronged him years ago. He’s tried to move on with his life, but a run-in with Shaw’s rude, spoiled omega, Charles, drags up old anger.

When Charles ends up in the hospital after an accident, Erik goes to confront him only to find that Charles has amnesia. In the confusion, Charles mistakenly assumes that Erik is his mate.

Erik knows he should clear up the misunderstanding, but how can he pass up this perfect chance for a little revenge?

(An Overboard AU)

The Skin Outside Is Taking You For A Ride – blarfkey

Summary: The fights between Charles Xavier and Erik Lehnsherr are legendary, and after four years Principal McTaggart is sick of it. After their most recent screaming match in debate club, Principal McTaggart gives Erik and Charles an ultimatum: they must help Raven work on the Senior play and the next fight that breaks out between them will result in expulsion.

Forced to be civil for the first time in their lives, Erik and Charles must reconcile their tumultuous rivalry with the new versions of each other they slowly discover.

The Burdens We Long to Carry – arcapelago (arcanewinter)

Summary: When mutant-supporter and ally President Kennedy is assassinated and all pro-mutant progress is dismantled, Charles is no longer so confident that he's on the right side, and extends his hand to Erik after a year of animosity. They settle tentatively into their old partnership, but not everything is the same as it was--and not everything can be. When Hank develops a metal frame to move the lower half of Charles' body for him if he wants it, Erik offers the use of his mind and his ability in order to make it work. Both find out what they're willing to do for each other, and neither knows if it'll be enough to keep them together.

Robbers – dsrobertson

Summary: 1933. Bank robber AU.

The Bureau of Investigation are after Public Enemy Number Two, bank robber Erik Lehnsherr. Charles Xavier is fiancé to Special Agent Moira MacTaggart. A closet homosexual, Charles visits the Manhattan pansy club scene and meets Max Eisenhardt. Only as time goes on, Max Eisenhardt turns out to be Erik Lehnsherr. Public Enemy Number Two.

Charles learns exactly what happens when you accidentally fall in love with a male bank robber in 1930s America.

Warning: Bring your tissues for this one. 

Enemies With Benefits – bettysofia

Summary: Casual sex with your sworn enemy gets tricky once feelings get involved.

For the Roses – Nausicaa (ignusphoenicis)

Summary: After an accident left him paralyzed below the waist, former elite track star Charles Xavier needs a new hobby. His longtime rival, the German runner Erik Lehnsherr, might just be that hobby.

Note: Unfinished but worth a read.

Friends to Lovers

Best-laid plans – ikeracity

Summary: Charles decides that the best way to confess his feelings to his best friend is to surprise Erik at his apartment, naked, wearing nothing but a bow. It's perhaps one of Charles's worst ideas--or his best.

For The Record – endingthemes

Summary: As prominent figures in the mutant rights movement, activists Charles Xavier and Erik Lehnsherr are pretty much household names. When a romance scandal between them breaks, their celebrity reaches new heights, and though the increased exposure is great, there’s a big problem -- the two of them are just friends.

Too bad no one believes them.

A Winter in New York – nextraordinaire

Summary: Charles and Erik have been childhood friends for as long as they can remember – Erik, living with his mother in Queens, and Charles in the big mansion in Westchester. For all, expect themselves, it was just natural progression that they'd end up together.

A series of ficlets from the same universe – can be read as separate and are out of chronological order.

Resolutions - Black_Betty

Summary: Charles ends the year with honesty and courage and by finally telling his best friend how he feels about him.

Or he would have, if Erik had bothered to show up.

Love Story – Sophia_Bee

Summary: Charles and Erik are best friends, until they're not. A love story in three parts.

In the Bleak Midwinter – keire_ke

Summary: It is not easy to find out, well into the second decade of the twenty-first century, that your mother arranged a marriage for you. It is even less easy to convince her that you have no interest in the very fertile Magda, she of the wide hips and lustrous auburn hair. Fortunately, with a good friend at his side over the holiday weekend, Erik is sure he will prevail.

Speech Making – phalangine

Summary: Modern Emma AU- Charles Xavier, accomplished matchmaker and headmaster of North America’s preeminent school for mutants, intends to add another notch to his belt: setting up his friend Moira. His oldest friend, Erik, has doubts about this plan.

Charles doesn’t share them.

Made To Be Broken – Yahtzee

Summary: Charles makes a New Year's Resolution:

“No more straight men,” Charles repeated as he began scrolling through the apartment directory for Emma’s name. “No more futility. No more pointless hoping and heartbreak. In 2013, I never want to hear the words ‘exception,’ ‘experimenting’ or ‘phase.’ If, God forbid, I hear ‘bicurious’ even once, I may take a hostage.”

Then he goes into the party, and Erik is there.

Math Reasons – pearl_o, pocky_slash

Summary: "Mom says Erik always knows what he wants, it just sometimes takes him a little while to actually realize it," Ruth said.

Charles fell in love with Erik the first night they met, the first week of freshman year. Two years of friendship, adventures, arguments, hijinks, secrets, and summer visits later, Erik is starting to catch up.

I ♥ NY (It’s My Friends I’m Not Sure Of) – oddegg

Summary: Erik is a single, successful man who likes quick sex with no strings attached. Then, he meets college professor Charles and it's love at first sight, at least for him. Charles, who heard of Erik's notorious ways, wants nothing to do with him besides being friends. Cue Erik bending over backwards to steal Charles' heart.

Love Medley – ikeracity

Summary: Charles and Erik have been friends and roommates for two years. They've also, coincidentally, been in love with each other for two years. Neither of them has ever had the courage to admit it to the other, but Erik's new friendship with Magda and an untimely accident forces them to confront their feelings once and for all.

A Road Trip to Pennsylvania – Aainiouu

Summary: For a year Charles has nurtured the biggest and most embarrassing crush known to man towards Erik. They are friends and roommates and when Erik asks Charles to accompany him to home on Thanksgiving of course Charles goes.

[buckybarnesbingo]

Titles Game

Tonight I'm Going Back to My Old Ways - suggested by @steverogersnotebook

@somesortofitalianroast - Bucky didn’t usually go for straight guys. Not since Brock in college, anyway. But tonight, all he could see was the blond across the bar. He was laughing with his friends, and he was gorgeous. Muscles for days, a body Bucky wanted to climb like a tree, and a wonderful smile that was a combination of Hallmark wholesome and downright dirty that shouldn’t have worked, but did. The piercing blue eyes just sealed the deal: Bucky was going to get him in his bed. (there would definitely be a tag in there about how they need to communicate and how Steve's not straight)

@wolfnprey - Bucky had settled down after he started a family. Everything told him he didn't deserve happiness, but he was beyond listening. Until some old ghosts showed up. Literal ghosts, and they were hellbent on making sure Bucky's life was upended. He'd buried the necronamicon in the basement ten years ago, but now he was digging it up with the help of his old partner. If only Steve was forgiving.

@steverogersnotebook - (Early recovering Bucky) finds it hard to come to terms with the modern Brooklyn, seeks out night clubs and smokes like a chimney in an effort to feel the way he remembers feeling.

@ribbonsflyingoutthewindow - Their relationship had been strained in a way that Bucky was pretty sure couple's therapy couldn't fix. Not that he had tried. He wasn't about to unload all of his trauma concerning not being his old self anymore on some poor middle-aged Brooklynite mother of three even if she did have a degree that supposedly helped. There was no way she was prepared to help a brainwashed assassin with a fault list from Coney Island to hell and back again. So instead he'd unloaded all of that on Natasha. As a best friend, she was legally obligated to listen to him anyway. And besides, she was cheaper; she could be bought with a whine and a wine. However, talking to Natasha also meant he got the cold, hard truth that his relationship was suffering not because he'd forgotten who he was and became a brainwashed assassin for decades, but because he'd forgotten who Steve was and hadn't spent a lot of time figuring it out again. So per his therapist's (Natasha's, whatever) advice, Bucky's getting back to his roots and rebecoming the man who knew everything about Steve Rogers and hoping that maybe somewhere along the line, he can figure out what it was that made the two of them work so perfectly together.

More under the cut!

Down the rabbit hole - suggested by @liquidlightz

@phoenixgryphon - MCU Nat going down the rabbit hole that is pre Cap2 TWS information

@steverogersnotebook - An edgy Alice AU where bucky meets the OUAT version of the mad hatter.

@somesortofitalianroast - Bucky wasn’t sure how, but he was constantly seeing the same figure out of the corner of his eye. A tall, muscular blonde, who seemed as though he wasn’t quite there, which was why Bucky was sure he was imagining the man, or confusing multiple tall muscular blonds. They weren’t as uncommon as one would think, and Bucky was so tired, so he decided not to worry about the blond. Until the day he literally fell down a rabbit hole - in Brooklyn, of all places - and ended up in another version of New York.

@wolfnprey -  Stripper AU. Nat drags Bucky to Down the Rabbit Hole for a particular stripper named Alice who is a beefy blond with bright blue eyes.

@bookdragon13 - Or alternatively: Steve goes to Storybrooke during his quest to find Bucky and meets Jefferson. Steve immediately goes “Bucky?” And Jefferson, in his sassy way, says “who the hell is Bucky?” But proceeds to use his hat to help Steve find his Bucky, if only to meet his lookalike Whether or not this becomes angsty, I’m not sure

@psychiccatpanda - Bucky In the 21st Century:  After spending too much time on the internet trying to figure out what some of the things he’d been hearing about really were, Bucky wishes he’d trusted Tony when he said, “Snowflake, there’s whole swaths of the interwebs you don’t want to know.  Trust me, please?”  Now, six and a half hours later, he knew that there was Avengers fan fiction (and what that consisted of) and Avengers cosplay porn.  He wasn’t sure what to do with this information.  But maybe he just needed to do some more research. After a snack.

@liquidlightz - Alpine was very protective.  Bucky loved gardening and he'd planted many different flowers, but there was a fat rabbit that kept popping by and eating all the best tulips, daylilies, you name it.  Bucky was hesitant to harm the creature, but Alpine was having no more of it.  She chased said rabbit down its hole and Bucky had to dig her back out.

@ribbonsflyingoutthewindow - Bucky’s family owned a farm so he'd had a plethora of pets his entire life, but when he'd moved to the big city, Bucky had stuffed Top Hat the white rabbit in her carrier and told her they were headed for the adventure of a lifetime, no looking back. And truth be told, sometimes New York was lonely. But the other truth was he didn't miss Indiana at all. He loved New York, but he'd never regretted his move more than the day he came home to discover Top Hat not in her enclosure. He had to go door to door on the entire floor and maybe the floor above and below his. Everyone had to help find his missing long-eared, fluffy-tailed best friend. Cue everyone in Bucky's apartment complex searching the entire building for one white rabbit trying to pull her own disappearing act. And cue Bucky searching for a rabbit, but finding maybe a little more along the way.

You pull hope from defeat in the night - suggested by @somesortofitalianroast

@steverogersnotebook - After a terrible loss on a mission, Bucky and [strained relationship/preferred pairing] are nearly wiped out themselves. One has to get out and get help for the other before it's too late for them too. In dragging the injured party to safety, promises made in supplication reignite hope for a resolution.

@somesortofitalianroast - (pre-serum!steve/Winter Soldier!Bucky) After exhausting missions, there’s nothing Steve likes better than hooking up with a guy at a bar, preferably one who would believe him when he said he wouldn’t break. Tonight, he chose the guy carefully, a big, beefy brunet with thighs for days and something about him that made him look gentle. One night turned into another. And another. And another…. Who said hookups couldn’t lead to love?

@bookdragon13 - Just when Bucky was feeling his lowest, walking around Brooklyn at night, he hears a faint meowing. Bucky finds the white kitten and takes it to the local vet. Afterwards, he couldn’t just leave the white fur ball behind, adopting her and giving her the name Alpine. With Alpine around, Bucky couldn’t help but start feeling like he could climb out of the hole he’d dug himself in. He can’t help but laugh at Alpine’s antics and when he’s having a bad day, she cuddles with Bucky as he rubs his fingers through her fur

@liquidlightz - Bucky had written off more cheques than his body could cash, yet again.  Losing badly at poker and getting beaten down for failing to pay up.  This night was turning out better than the last, as he found himself in the hands of a gorgeous Doctor with gentle hands who seemed to enjoy his attempts at flirting through bloodied teeth.  Things might be looking up, he was going to go all in and take another chance tonight.

@wolfarrowepz - (Winterhawk, hockey AU)The Avengers were eliminated in the second round of the playoffs.... less than a third of the team had been with them when they won the championship 3 years ago. Now all Bucky wants to do is go home and sulk and ice his knee in peace. Clint has decided he needs to come to dinner with the team to show all the rookies and new guys to show them that losing isn't the end of the world. Fuck it all if Bucky will do whatever Clint asks. Bucky he liked him since they joined the team together as rookies. Clint is 100% oblivious to every move Bucky makes but if Clint asks him to do something he will. Clint on the other hand is convinced Bucky isn't into him. Cue pining and the inevitable "of course I Like you, you dope!" moment.

With Steel and Silver Burning Heart - suggested by @ibelieveinturtles

@steverogersnotebook - Dragon trainer AU, Steve goes to slay the dragon, Bucky's the dragon trainer. They meet, they clash, they enemies to friends to lovers.

@phoenixgryphon - big beefy bucky the blacksmith.  who builds broadswords to bring in the bills

@somesortofitalianroast - (Regency!AU) James Barnes was well aware that he was the Marquis of Buchannan in name only. With no money left in the estates coiffers and three younger sisters - the oldest a mere year before her official debut - to support, he was desperate. Desperate enough to approach the new Duke of Brooklyn - a known rake with a history of getting in duels - with an offer: he supplies the cash for Rebecca’s debutante and in return, he gets James. But what happens when the purely financial relationship is no longer purely financial?

@liquidlightz - Bucky was not amused when the blade pierced his heart.  Fuck, that hurt! "You asshole", he berated his not-looking-so-hot-now date on the other end of that dagger, "I thought we were having a good time." Bucky had to thank his lucky stars, and not his wits, that this hunter was a moron and that blade was cheap metal and not silver.  He should, maybe, start being a little more discerning in his hookups.

@bookdragon13 - As a Knight of the Realm, Bucky was sworn to protect the royal family. He didn’t mean to fall in love with the Princess in the process. Neither did Bucky realize he was a jealous man, until he saw another knight, Brock, try to kiss the Princess, with her unwilling. Bucky immediately called Brock out, challenging him to a duel. When Brock was wounded, Bucky threatened that if Brock tried anything with Her Royal Highness again, he wouldn’t be so lenient.

[anika-ann]

Errare Humanum Est: Bonus

God Is Not a Woman (but He’s Plotting Anyway)

Type: series, soulmate AU series  (part 1, part 2)  x Supernatural

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader   Word count: 2910

Summary: Bucky’s trying to fit into the Tower and some might be trying to make it easy for him. And then he drops the bombshell on you and things get even crazier than before.

Warnings: swearing, brief talk on religion, fluff, crack-ish humour

A/N: Admittedly, this is some kind of a strange one-shot of which I’m not sure it exactly fits, but… enjoy? 

Story masterlist

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Things weren’t all sunshine and rainbows only. Bucky’s return to the world was… tough. You only knew little of what had happened to him through the decades, but it was enough of a horror story even without the details.

Bucky’s relationship with the team of Avengers was complicated too. Steve was as ecstatic and heart-broken as when you had popped up alive and that was all that needed to be said. Clint was a rather easy-going guy with a reputation of not judging people by their worst mistakes and as a man who had once been mind-controlled by an alien (…what?), he was willing to accept Bucky with a strange kind of sympathy.

As it turned out, Bucky and Natasha had actually crossed their paths before briefly, but once again, that was all you learned, both hers and his moments in the past too dark to share. Bruce was keeping his distance, more of a shyness than fear or disgust if you could take a guess and Thor was off the planet, not meeting the other supersoldier just yet.

Tony… Tony wasn’t fond of Bucky. He found a footage of another Winter Soldier killing his parents and while it hadn’t been Bucky himself, Tony’s hatred needed an out and despite trying, he simply couldn’t manage treating Bucky exactly nice. He still let him live in the Tower though, so that definitely counted for something; for a lot, actually.

There were many people with trust issues when it came to Bucky and that included himself – he didn’t trust his mind still, even with the mysterious man helping him and he most definitely didn’t forgive himself for the lives he had taken. The ghosts of his past haunted him at night, in his dreams the most. But he was slowly healing.

Steve was helping a lot, sometimes trying too much maybe, which was why the former assassin sought Sam Wilson rather than his best friends at times. He came to you occasionally too; however, he seemed to feel as if you were off limits, because you were Steve’s gal. He was gradually losing that stupid attitude though and his teasing side came out to play, making you blush becoming his new hobby. Exactly what you needed with all the mess happening around, i.e. the aftermath of your resurrection.

It took Bucky about two months to mention the name.

It happened casually, just dropping the bombshell no one had seen coming. Bucky was actually showing Steve how to upgrade the newest version of some software you weren’t entirely sure what was for; both supersoldiers had to do their fair share of adjusting and while for Bucky it often was people, for Steve it was sometimes… technology despite him being able to pick up on things very quickly.

Steve thanked him and for the millionth time, you heard the ominous sentence: “It’s good to have you back, Buck. Whoever that guy was, I’ll always be grateful.”

“He told me to call him Chuck.”

The words were simple, really, nothing out of ordinary for untrained ears. Except it had you both you and Steve choke on your own spit.

A frown appeared on Bucky’s face, confusion with a hint of alarm before he rolled his eyes at your antics. “What? I know, it’s kinda dorky-“

Yeah, that was not it.

A chilling suspicion crept up your spine and while it was not necessarily ominous, it sure as hell felt like the ground was shaking under your feet, proving you that a sense of control over your life was nothing but a ridiculous illusion.

“Steve? How about we make a phone call?”

Five minutes later, you were video-chatting with the Winchester duo, explaining them your concerns. Bucky was with you and Steve but didn’t engage that much since he never really met either Sam or Dean, rather wary of them.

A photo of a dorky looking man indeed, with cute dark curls around his head and a full beard, appeared on the screen, replacing the video-feed.

“Did he look like this?” Sam asked, tension audible in his voice. It still had nothing to the disbelief in Bucky’s.

“Yeah, that’s him,” the supersoldier confirmed, narrowing his eyes, which didn’t quite disguised how incredulous he was. “How did you-?”

“Is it… him?” you interrupted them, strange tingling sensation in your fingertips, light nausea tickling your stomach.

Was there any coincidence in his world left? What the hell did all of this mean? Was Steve just a lucky guy, God’s favourite, or… or was there a larger scheme, one you weren’t able to see just yet?

It reminded you of the talk you had had with Sam Wilson what felt like ages ago, about people having two soulmates, you coming back from the death and about things that were beyond your understanding happening more and more often. This might actually prove your silly theory right. Not to mention the fact that the death of Tony’s parents was delivered by another Winter Soldier, conveniently at the same time Bucky had been having troubles with the mechanics of his metal arm, hence not being suitable for the task – what were the chances of that?

It seemed that every single thing happening had played an important role in something, ending up with your trio sitting right here and now and… that was not a very comfortable discovery.

“Oh yeah, that’s God,” Dean hummed casually and when the picture disappeared, revealing the brothers again, you saw him take a bite of a cheeseburger as if this was a talk about the fucking weather.

“God?” Bucky parroted dully and you bit your cheek, feeling guilty for not quite having explained to him why you wanted to talk to the Winchesters and what had been your suspicion; now proved right.

“Yeah,” Sam supplied helpfully, only to have Bucky repeat the word as if he was testing the taste of it on his tongue.

“A god.”

“The God, actually. Our Lord is one of kind,” Castiel appeared on the screen as well, offering a small wave that you reciprocated, too shocked to say hi.

“Except he has a sister, apparently,” Steve stated, checking with the hunters and they nodded in approval. “So you’re not denying it? You think… ugh, that The Chuck saved him.”

You made a face at his wording, but… yeah. The Chuck. The God named Chuck had saved both Bucky and you. It was official. But why? What the hell was your life anymore?

How cute and bold of you to call your life yours, you thought darkly.

“H’d weed’l,” Dean mumbled with his mouth full and shrugged. With effort, you translated it into ‘heard weirded’, which was… fair.

“You think God, capital G, saved me. Why the heck would he do that?” Bucky spitted out exasperatedly, clearly not happy about the revelation.

Eh. Revelation.

Steve tensed at your side at Bucky’s doubts, but said nothing.

“Why not?” Sam questioned, offering a small smile. Dean remained quiet, while Castiel tilted his head, seemingly curious.

“What’s the matter? Don’t you think you deserve to be saved?”

“Yeaaaah, let’s not go there,” you interjected when you noticed Bucky’s chest heaving and words in Russian spilling from his lips soundlessly.  Steve sighed, but apparently assessed it was better to let Bucky deal with the facts alone first. “Thanks for confirming our suspicions.”

“Did I do something wrong?” Castiel asked, sounding adorably confused and guilty.

“No, Castiel. It is just a lot to take it.” Understatement of the fucking year. “Speaking of which – I have a question.”

“Shoot,” Dean encouraged you, but his eyes narrowed in suspicion as the corners of your lips twitched.

“When you told me about the, eh, lovely things that walk this world... you didn’t mention a scarecrow.”

“…huh?”

Their confusion seemed pretty real to you, but you had to admit you were probably being too vague. So you decided to ask a direct question.

“Alright, sorry. This might sound stupid, but… there was this series of books Jarvis found online? I wouldn’t think much of it, except the characters are named Sam and Dean, they do hunt monsters and if I’m being honest, they definitely do act like you. So I just thought… you know. Stranger things happened…“

During your ramble, the friendly faces of the brothers gradually twisted into a disgusted grimace and you had your answer, much to your astonishment.

“I swear, Sam, I’m going to murder Becky. I’m going to kill her and kill her dead,” Dean sputtered and Sam just closed his eyes, his lips a thin line. “I can’t believe you almost married-“

Wait, what? That sounded even more interesting that the books! Though kinda private. Then again, the books described Winchesters’ lives in awful detail as far as you knew. And ended when Dean literally went to hell, so…

“How much of that thing you read?” Sam asked tiredly, his expression screaming annoyance.

You shrugged. “Not much. Kinda changes the experience when you have a good reason to believe it’s all true. Clint’s hooked, though,” you admitted, hoping it wasn’t showing how much you were enjoying the teasing.

On one hand, this was hilarious. On the other, well…

“Did you sell your story to the writer?” you pried, simply out of curiosity. No judgement there; they had enough shit in their lives as it was, being short on money was not helping, so why not use what they got.

“No!” Sam blurted out too eagerly, then cleared his throat. “No. But you’re going to like this. Carver Edlund is a penname. I give you one guess on what his ‘real’ name is.”

You squinted at the screen, not following why Sam made the air quotes.

“No clue...?”

“Chuck Shirley,” Dean announced, grinning, somehow managing to balance smugness and annoyance on his face.

“Huh?”

“Wait—Chuck? Why do I think this isn’t a coincidence?” Steve stepped in, which caused your head to snap at him.

Surely, he wasn’t implying that-

“Oh yeah. It’s exactly what you think,” Dean assured you, finishing his burger while you and Steve remained silent, simply at loss of words. What…? “You know, when people say God works in mysterious ways, they have no friggin’ idea,” he added resolutely, wiping his mouth, balling his napkin and throwing it direction of what you assumed was a trashcan; judging by the disappointed frown on his face and the hands thrown up by Sam, he missed.

So. God was a writer.  

God went by a penname, writing about Sam’s and Dean’s lives to make his living at some point.

It actually made sense; this whole thing, the grand scheme you were thinking about earlier, it sounded awfully like a plot of a freaking novel. No, scratch that, not a novel – an epos about Steve’s life, with features of a soap-opera. You did not enjoy being one of the characters, but apparently you had no choice.

There was literally nothing that would surprise you at this point. Seriously.

“Great. I don’t think I actually wanted to know that,” you stated, shaking off your thoughts. “Anyway. How is your week going so far?”

“Wonderfully. We ran into Rowena again,” Sam announced, obviously happy to change the topic. “Well, I called her. Dean lost his memory.”

Dean what?!

“Because of a spell!”

“Well, yeah. Doesn’t change the fact you called a lamp a light stick,” Sam mocked him, but you could see the relief in his features when he was able to do that. Because that meant Dean was okay. After all, you were talking to him and he appeared as always; with no manners, grinning, bickering with Sam and with all the knowledge of the hunting world he needed.

Your eyebrows rose anyway. A light stick?

“Dude! It’s a stick that produces light,” Dean exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air animatedly. “I was still a genius.”

That made you smile; hundred percent Dean. Yeah, he was just fine, fully recovered.

“I’m sure you were, Dean. You okay now?”

“Yeah. The Wicked Witch actually used some of that soulmate magic to heal-“ Sam started and stopped when he saw Steve’s face – something you had no courage to look at, because you had kinda… you had been vague when it came what exactly the witch had done – mainly because you had very little knowledge of it. “-never mind. I guess he can just cross out ‘amnesia’ from his bucket list.”

“Mm. Not pleasant. Been there. Done that,” you mused, your expression no doubt as bitter and wry as you felt.

“Well, so did I,” Bucky supplied darkly, his first words since the big discovery of who had been his salvation.

Duh. Salvation. You really should start thinking about your choice of words. This was not funny at all.

“Me as well,” Castiel joined the club.

“I don’t think I have…”

“Maybe you just forgot,” Dean nudged Sam, offering a lopsided grin.

“Jerk.”

“Bitch.”

“Why are you insulting each other…?” Castiel demanded, confused, and you laughed when Dean rolled his eyes, waving at you in goodbye, signalling to leave them be so they could explain the angel how humans worked sometimes.

You obediently ended the call, chuckling. They would have to visit one day – you missed them, despite calling them on a regular basis.

You eyed the two supersoldiers keeping you company in the common room, wondering what to do next.

“Alright. Now that we established we all deserve to be saved,” you stated, glaring at Steve, because you were aware of him questioning his survival of ice too – rarely, but still – and at Bucky, the man who had been frozen, unfrozen and mind-controlled, took lives against his will and had his own life taken away only to be rescued and question his worth.

“I think we know what we need now. Ice-cream!” you called out, raising your arms above your head theatrically, earning a chuckle from Steve.

“You scream?” Bucky looked at you, pretending to be confused.

“She does. Why would you scream, doll?”

You rolled your eyes fondly. They were lovely pieces of work when they teamed up to troll anyone. You were happy for it though, mostly for Bucky who was still struggling to adjust to his new life.

“Yeah, okay, I get it. We all scream, okay? What I’m saying is that we all scream for some ‘I scream,’ now give me my cookie crisp or I’ll show what moves Natasha taught me.”

You were not kidding. Natasha had learned you some basics of self-defence; Steve’s request, supported by you wholeheartedly. And by Tony. And Ryan. And everyone, to be honest.

“You should leave your moves for Steve to show only, sugar.”

“Ah, screw you, Barnes!” you spitted back, rising to your feet, and stuck your tongue at him.

“Such language! And again, I really think you should hide your tongue and do that only with St-“

You grabbed Steve’s hand and pulled him towards the kitchen as Bucky’s snicker sounded behind you. You never even opened the freezer, parking your backside on the counter, tugging Steve for a kiss instead. He laughed at first, but reciprocated the affection, slowly melting into it.

“Your friend’s such a little shit,” you hissed, but giggled into his shoulder. You felt… full. Happy. Right. You didn’t want to think about grand schemes anymore. You wanted to live and you had every opportunity. You were not going to waste it.

“I know,” Steve hummed, his chest shaking with hushed laughter, and he kissed the top of your head, while he wrapped his arm around your waist to pull you closer, stepping between your legs.

“You got that from him.”

“I think it was the other way around.”

You huffed and looked up again, finding Steve’s brilliant eyes twinkling with mischief. It was as adorable as stimulating; he always had this look in his eyes when he was up to no good and it often resulted in it being very good for you, usually tangled in the sheets. Or pressed against a wall. Or a table. Couch. Counter…

You wrapped your fingers around his nape and he obediently gave up to the pressure, bowing his head to meet you lips.

“Doesn’t matter. Kiss me like you mean it,” you requested lowly and you knew, just knew, that he would never deny you, definitely not that.

“As you wish…”

You barely had time to truly sink into the kiss, a sweet and passionate dance of lips, teasing teeth and tongues when an exasperated voice of a man arriving to collect his ice-cream interrupted you.

“Guys! Come on! Not in the kitchen! We eat here!”

So would Steve, flashed through your mind, but you withdrew a fraction, Steve’s mouth having frozen on yours anyway.

“Shut your piehole and let me follow your own advice!” you called out.

“I hate you,” Bucky deadpanned and you sent him an air kiss, hopping off the counter to have another sweet treat instead. After all, it was ten in the morning and you were in the kitchen. You could talk Steve into taking a ‘nap’ later.

“And that’s exactly why they compare you to the grumpy cat memes,” you threw back at Bucky, basking in the mock-insulted face the poor supersoldier made. You had introduced him to the meme after Clint had mentioned it. It was glorious. And very fitting.

“Punk, get hold of your bratty gal!”

Steve just shook his head at the childish behaviour – both yours and Bucky’s – and raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. A fraction of second later, he grinned.

“I was doing just that until you interrupted,” he pointed out while he was pulling out three spoons.

Your laughter and the slap of a high-five you exchanged with Steve was probably heard in the whole Tower.

You had no care in the world.

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S.R. masterlist

B.B.masterlist

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Just a silly fluffy thing maybe, but hey… I thought I could share... to fill the time till December meaning an Andy fic :)

Thank you for reading!

Also, the last instalment will be ‘What I’d Never Say and Do (If I Was in My Right Mind)’

[kihuis]

Righteous [I]

Prologue

He never thought anything of it. He eliminated his moral compass a long time ago for the sake of his job. It hadn’t been easy, not at first. But with time, the more people he killed, he realized it was easier to pretend he felt nothing. There wasn’t anything left in his numb mind.

Not until you.

Warnings: TRIGGERING - mentions of murder, suicide, drugs, prostitution, grooming, sex trafficking, kidnapping Genre: Junhui x Reader; Assassin AU; Assassin Seventeen; eventual smut (18+); angst Word Count: 4.3k

Jun’s empty fingers tap aimlessly against the soft wood of the table, eyes flashing up to his opponent one more time before bringing his hand up to swipe once at his nose, the signal clear as day to the dealer. Joshua takes the hint, setting down another card face up for the players.

A hard sigh escapes Jihoon, who sets down his hand in defeat. “Fold,” he mutters through the cigar in his mouth.

Wonwoo focuses on no one but keeps his gaze on his hand, pretending to shuffle around his cards as if to put them in a different order, finally taking his hand away long enough to grab and sip from his glass of whisky on the rocks.

“Raise,” Junhui insists, putting in two more chips.

Joshua nods once then looks at Seokmin. “Where you at?”

His younger brother shakes his head, reviewing the cards in his hand and the ones face up on the table. “Fold.”

The faintest of smirks appears on Wonwoo’s mouth, letting his eyes trail up at Junhui for only a second before looking at Joshua, giving him a nod. Once again, he reaches for the deck, burning the top card then laying the next one face up.

“You’re call, Jun,” he says.

Running his fingers over his lips in thought, he watches his comrade, but Wonwoo is not one to give anything away. His poker face is far superior to anyone’s.

After pretending to contemplate, Junhui smirks and pushes his entire stash into the middle of the table. “All in,” he announces confidently.

Wonwoo sighs and squints at his hand again, rubbing his fingers across his chin. After a moment, he nods, mimicking Jun’s actions as he pushes his stash into the pot. “All in.”

Joshua nods his head, his own smirk showing while looking back to Jun. “You’re call.”

Jun’s eyes land on Wonwoo, who still reads no expression. He lays down his cards face up, showing off his hand. “Full house.”

Jihoon lets out a whistle, obviously impressed that someone just beat out Wonwoo, reigning champ of the group. Seokmin leans back in his chair annoyed that it wasn’t him.

Wonwoo purses his lips in disappointment causing Junhui to let out a small chuckle. “It’s a shame, man,” he says, starting to take the chips.

“It is a shame,” Wonwoo mutters, laying down his cards. “Because I got a straight flush.”

A collective sigh emits from the room, Seokmin throwing up his hands in frustration. Wonwoo and Joshua both laugh before the younger one begins collecting his earnings.

“Better luck next time, bro,” Wonwoo speaks before looking at the other two players. “Next round boys?”

“I’m out, man. I hate playing against you,” Jihoon discloses, standing up and walking over to the couch to sulk next to Vernon.

“How about you, Seungkwan? Ready to finally get your hands dirty?”

“Against you? No thanks,” the younger brother expresses, not taking his eyes away from the papers he’s rifling through.

Junhui rolls his eyes, only a little annoyed at his loss. He doesn’t really care, though. Not like it’s real money. He stands up and walks out of the dimly lit room towards the back exit of the dormitory, and although he hears Chan calling after him, he continues on.

“Where you headed?” a voice asks, Seungcheol appearing from his office door. Junhui bows, the motion subconsciously engraved into his brain every time his leader approaches him.

“Just out back for a few. Need some air,” he tells him.

Seungcheol nods once. “Mission lineup meeting in twenty, don’t forget,” he reminds Jun before disappearing behind his door again.

Jun refrains from rolling his eyes, not wanting to think about missions at the moment. 

Every member of SVT are to know about each others’ missions. It keeps everything more organized, according to Seungcheol. Really, it’s just so they can keep better track of each others’ records. Jeonghan, Soonyoung, Mingyu, and Minghao are going to be missing today’s meeting, all on missions of their own already.

Jeonghan is in Moscow, taking out an arms dealer. Soonyoung in Cairo, getting rid of a prostitution pimp.

Mingyu is currently in Tianjin, setting out for a substance dealer whose main targets are young girls, all waiting to be taken advantage of. 

Minghao, in Singapore. A drugged up mother. Whose daughter managed to call the police. Wang took the case over, stating it was close to home for his members. 

Junhui was offered the chance to go, but declined. He didn’t want to face an abusive, cracked out mother. He’s worked too hard to get rid of the feelings that took over him. The thought of seeing a woman unfit with the role of a mother rubbed him the wrong way. He was sure he would see his own mother at the other end of the rifle, making it hard to comply to his duty. So he asked that Hao went instead, insisting he was much more fit for the job.

Junhui makes his way towards the back exit, hearing the faint footsteps behind him, choosing to ignore them.

Chan is the newest recruit. He’d been part of the orphanage for months before Wang took him in. His father was apparently an expert forger for money. He’d managed to steal millions from banks using aliases and began to enlist Chan’s help when he got older. Seungkwan was the one to finish the deed, leaving Chan an orphan before he too got pulled into a life of crime. 

The orphanage took him in, and for three months until he was back to knowing what was right and wrong, Wang was ready to take him under his wing. He and Seungcheol recruited him together.

And somehow, Junhui had been the one he decided to look up to.

He’s behind his elder now, watching closely as Junhui treks out the door. 

Junhui makes sure to let the door click shut behind him, blocking him from the admiring eyes of his younger brother.

He doesn’t mind the idea of someone wanting to be like him, it only helps boost his seemingly non-existent confidence even the slightest bit, however, Junhui wishes there  was something other than killing people for a living that made Chan want to be like him. Wang is consistent on his reasoning for starting SVT, he always has been. 

“We are the good in a large pool of bad. We exist to rid the world of the wicked.”

He tells this to all his recruits, even Chan.

When Jun met Chan, there was hesitance about the younger one. It reminded him of a younger version of himself. He remembers, plain as day, the moment he had realized he was a trained killer, someone who executes others in the name of righteousness. He’d been scared he’d made the wrong decision to go along with what Wang and the other members of SVT said. He wondered why he’d chosen a life of murder, even if it was ‘for good’.

He still thinks about it, despite being the best sharp shooter on the team, despite coming to have the best track record out of all his brothers after coaching himself on morals, throwing away the term ‘right or wrong’ completely. It was all it took in him to pretend there was no such thing, and now there is a boy, just a few years his junior, who sees him as a sort of idol, someone he wished to be like. 

Chan grew out of his hesitance, just like Jun had, but somewhere inside of him, his moral compass spun erratically, and despite that he knew what was happening, despite that the life he’d agree to be trained into was one of murder, he decided to see it as Wang does. It was a life of murder, but for justice. 

For good.

It’s all very Dexter meets Barry.

So yeah, Junhui isn’t proud of the fact that Chan looks up to him simply because he’s the one with the best trigger to death ratio out of his brothers, but the flattery is there, and it feels good to feel liked, despite this life and despite his job, he’s seen on a pedestal.

Junhui lets out a long sigh as he leans against the door, listening for the retreating steps of his younger brother. The sun is nearly set for the evening, glimpses of the night sky peeking through the hazy clouds. Another sleepless night approaches, and Junhui curses the stars for existing. The half moon, although beautiful, just reminds him that he lives another day in this world, in this life.

He thinks about his last assignment: a spinster from Spain who preyed on younger men for money. She was a hustler and a thief. She’d been easy to handle. 

Taking a step away from the door, Jun takes in his surroundings. The lower-level rooftop gives a good overlook of Seoul, however the upper-level view is much more mesmerizing. It’s moments like these, the moments where all he sees is the beauty in the world, that make living this life easier. It reminds him that there is hope, there is something to look forward to. A beautiful sunrise in the east, a decadent sunset in the west. 

It’s nice to grasp onto the idea that for every ugly thing in this world, there is always something else more exquisite.

So Junhui treasures these moments alone, these moments that help keep him sane.

After a few minutes, he sighs, glancing down at his watch. It’s almost time for their meeting. Time to receive an assignment to add onto his list of things he’ll likely regret.

Jun opens the door to the building, ready to walk towards the conference room. Upon taking only a few steps down the hallway, he hears the slightest breath emit from behind him. Stopping, he listens. Silence takes over, enough that Junhui can hear his own heartbeat, calm and steady. Not much scares him anymore, that’s for sure. 

It can’t be Chan, he’s long gone. But there is definitely someone here with Jun, watching, waiting. 

Without much of a thought, Jun begins to turn, looking in the direction of the eyes he feels on him. Not even a second later, he’s pushed up roughly against the wall, his attacker slamming himself into Jun. It’s only now that his heart rate picks up speed, that is until he opens his eyes and is met with familiar ones.

“Hey,” Minghao says with a smirk.

Junhui furrows his brows together in annoyance and pushes his brother off him. “What the hell is wrong with you?” he asks, dusting off his jacket.

“Did I finally master the art of scaring Wen Junhui?” Minghao jokes.

“No, you’re just doing what you’ve always been good at and annoying him. Why are you back already?”

Minghao shrugs. “Done with my mission.”

Of course. Missions are a piece of cake to him, Junhui knows that. Maybe this one was so easy because Minghao knows about Jun’s mother, knows about what he went through and maybe he thought about Jun when he was pulling the trigger, thirsty for justice on behalf of his older brother. Maybe that’s what made it so easy to him. 

Jun doesn’t ask.

“I really didn’t scare you?” the younger of the two asks while they make their way towards the conference room. Junhui rolls his eyes in response, not wanting to admit that, yes, Minghao managed to get a tiny scare out of him.

They walk through the double doors of the conference room where the rest of the team are sitting at the round table, in order of their ages as always. It helps keep Seungcheol sane from making sure everyone is present without having to do an unorganized head count.

Jun takes his place between Joshua and Soonyoung’s empty chair, obviously having not returned from his mission yet.

The room is silent as Seungcheol looks around the table from the door, checking to make sure everyone is present. Only Mingyu and Soonyoung are missing, Jeonghan and Minghao back from their missions. When it’s confirmed he has everyone here, Seungcheol nods once and closes the door before walking around the table to sit at the center.

A pile of folders sits in front of him and he takes the top one before sliding the rest towards Jeonghan. Thirteen folders for the thirteen members of SVT, all with their initials typed neatly on the tabs. Jun takes his, ‘W.J.H’, then places Soonyoung’s at his right and passes Wonwoo the rest.

Upon opening the folder, he finds exactly what he expected, an entire background and profile of the human he is meant to kill next, a man he doesn’t know personally and will never even meet, but he can simply read every single thing about him in this folder.

Hans Jeremiah,  eldest son of the late Kristof and Everly Jeremiah. Three brothers, one sister. Born in the Netherlands but raised on a private island outside of Greece purchased by his father in 1992, named after his late grandfather Faas Jeremiah. Faas island homes the siblings and is homebase for a sex trafficking community origianlly lead by Kristof before his demise in 2003 due to heart failure. Everly died of suicide by hanging three months later, leaving the entire compound to the five children, lead by the oldest son Hans.

Faas island is where they keep the kidnapped young girls and groom them to become prostitutes.

Junhui’s stomach twists while reading through Hans’s background, especially when noticing his three brothers are named while the sister’s identity is redacted throughout the profile. She’s mentioned to be a part of the sex trafficking, stating the father began grooming her young enough to become his first victim. After a few years in the prostitution ring, he forced her to recruit when travelling overseas and act as a mother figure to the women they take in.

Who is Hans’ sister and why doesn’t she do something about her brothers if she was someone who went through the same thing at the hands of her father?

“If you’ll notice in your profiles, we’re targeting families this time around,” Seungcheol starts. “These missions will be done in teams. You’re assigned to the family member in your file, but you’ll be working with each other to carry out the kills. Let’s go through them together, starting with Jeonghan, Wonwoo, Jihoon, Seokmin, and Minghao.”

He goes on to explain their mission, skimming through the profiles they have in their hands. They’re after a family drug cartel in the United States consisting of five brothers. No sisters mentioned in their profiles which for some reason makes Jun’s fingers twitch uncomfortably.

Seungcheol talks for ten minutes about the family and each of the members that are on the hit list, telling each SVT member about their duty to their assigned family member. Junhui tries to listen but he can’t stop thinking about the sister, the unnamed member of his target family and why she isn’t one herself. 

His eyes skim through the profile of Hans again as Seungcheol goes through the profiles of his, Soonyoung’s, Mingyu’s, and Seungkwan’s family of child slavery recruiters in Albania.

Hans grew up rich with his brothers and sister. He was raised to believe that what his father was doing to and with young girls was okay and that it was what needed to happen in order to keep their riches intact. His brothers were easily influenced to believe the same thing, but his sister was another story. Jun purses his lips as he tries to flip through the papers quietly, looking for any more background on the sister, but he doesn’t find anything past what he had already read.

“Excited to move on, Jun?” Seungcheol asks, interrupting his wandering eyes. “If you’re so eager to get to the Jeremiah family profiles, I guess we can continue.”

Seungcheol spends a moment going over each profile, including the brothers, the targets of Joshua, Junhui, Vernon and Chan respectively. It’s not a surprise to anyone that Jun was tasked with killing the leader of the siblings, the oldest one that decided to continue his father’s so called ‘legacy’. With the best track record, he’s a shoe-in to get the kill done without a problem.

“Their practice has been in effect for 87 years, all the way back to the third generation Jeremiah, Stefan Jeremiah. He began the ring in 1931 after the death of his own father, beginning the business with his mother and sisters who were desperate for money. Ever since then, their vicious legacy has carried on and has taken the innocence of over 5,000 young women around the world. Currently, their compound holds home to 48 women under the age of 20 while they are trained and groomed into prositution.”

Seungkwan’s leg twitches under the table, the bump loud enough to rumble the room. His mother was a prostitute. He’s probably wishing he was assigned to this family.

“I’m sure you have noticed that the sister of our targets has been redacted as it was her personal wish to remain anonymous for our mission.”

This takes everyone aback.

She knows about them. She knows about the mission. 

She knows her brothers are going to die.

“The sister of Hans, Gregory, Lincoln, and Malcom Jeremiah sought us out to end her father's legacy and save the lives of the remaining women held in their captivity. I know what you are all thinking, that we don’t normally receive or even accept requests from someone on the inside, but with her cooperation and willingness to remain anonymous, we are able to carry out our duty to her.”

“How is it possible for her to remain anonymous?” Vernon speaks up, skimming through his profile on Gregory. “We have the entire background of her family and the business. Won’t she slip through the cracks?”

“We anticipated the complications and have her in a protection program. Her identity is safe as long as she is under our supervision.”

“Do you know her real identity?” Chan asks curiously. His naive shows through his voice, making it clear he doesn’t understand the mechanics as the rest of the men around him do.

Seungcheol shook his head, “No one but Wang does. However, he’s chosen one of you to keep her identity safe. Due to her proximity to the business, she must stay on the island. This is where things might get complicated.” He pulls out another file from the drawers behind him. “The one of you that Wang has chosen will have to work on the inside. You’re going to be the eyes and ears for the rest of your teammates, keeping track of everything you can from the schedules of the brothers and the distribution of the women they’re buying and selling.”

Seungcheol walks slowly around the table, passing Jeonghan and then Joshua slowly, stopping in front of Jun. Chan visibly deflates when his leader passes his idol the file, obviously relieved to not have such a burden on his own shoulders.

“Junhui. This is a classified file and is only to be open by you. Wang trusts you to protect her and navigate your way through the compound and keep tabs on everyone it holds. Do you think his trust is in good hands?”

Junhui gulps as he looks at the sealed manilla envelope on the table in front of him.

This isn’t a task any of them have ever been faced with. This is a special mission that SVT hasn’t ventured into before in the eight and a half years that Jun has been a part of it.

This might be more than he signed up for, but Wang trusts him with it. Him, no one else, not even Seungcheol.

Jun manages to tear his eyes away from the envelope, the only thing between him and top secret information about some girl just outside of Greece that was at one time forced into prostitution by her own father and groomed into training other young girls create a terrible life for themselves without any way out. He is the only one in this room that will know every real aspect of her life while the others know an abbreviated version of it with fake names to keep her identity safe. 

But why Wang trusts him with it and no one else is probably the scariest part of all.

“What do you say, Jun?” Seungcheol asks, only slightly losing his patience with his younger brother. “Ready for one of your biggest missions to date?”

With a deep breath, Jun simply nods in affirmation before placing his hand over the file, sliding him towards himself. He can feel the eyes of his brothers bleeding through him, the pressure of his new and heavy task flowing through the room.

“We all believe in you,” Seugncheol says, patting Jun on the shoulder. “You’ve proven yourself time and time again that you have what it takes to step up and take on these types of tasks. You’re an excellent example for this team and I think it’s time you show everyone what a leader looks like. You’re the perfect fit for this, Junhui.”

Looking around at his team, all smiling and nodding along with their leader, he feels a sense of pride burst through him, but also a small amount of guilt. Yes, he’s been a part of SVT longer than most of the men in this room, but he still has a lot to learn in the world they live in. He can’t ever let himself forget the reason he’s here in the first place, the reason Wang recruited him all those years ago. He can’t bring himself to completely forget that his morals used to exist, that they dissipated over the years only because he needed to do his job and stick to his duties.

His heart wasn’t in this at the beginning, and although it doesn’t agree with anything he’s become, he feels connected emotionally to every person in this room and knows that if he were to lose a single one of them, he’d never know what to do with his life after that.

He’s doing what he needs to in order to continue living his life with the family that ten year old him never would have been able to even dream of.

He’s doing what he needs to.

That doesn’t mean he wants to.

Because every time he pulls that trigger, he hates himself.

Maybe that’s why he feels the guilt when his brothers congratulate him on the honor he’s been given. It’s not something he wants at all, but he’s willing to do in order to protect the Jeremiah daughter from her brothers and keep his own family in tact.

After the meeting is adjourned, Seungcheol asks Jun to stay behind for a moment longer. Chan peeks around the rest of his brothers, sending Junhui a smile of congratulations before exiting the room.

“He really looks up to you, huh?” Seungcheol asks Jun, nodding his head towards the youngest. After the rest of the boys file out, he walks around the table and leans his weight against a chair.

“You noticed?” Jun responds, sarcasm lacing his tone.

“It makes sense why he does. You’re pretty good at what you do.”

I kill people, Jun thinks while nodding to his superior. How could he sit here and confess to his leader that he doesn’t like what he does despite knowing everyone sees him on a pedestal?

“This room locks from the inside, but you knew that,” Seungcheol states suddenly, walking around the table towards the door. “You also probably noticed the cameras were removed before the meeting.”

Jun’s eyes glance towards the corners of the ceiling, realizing that, yes, that was something that he noticed when he first walked into the room with Minghao.

“You’re going to brief yourself on the sister of the Jeremiah boys. Everything you need to know is in that file I gave you. No one else has touched it or seen what’s in it other than Wang. He’s sending you and the others to the island in ten days, so you have plenty of time to go over everything.” He stands at the door, his hand resting on the doorknob, the only one in their dormitory and complex that locks from the inside only. The rest have double locks, making it impossible for anyone to get in or even get out, depending on which key you have. 

“Stay in here as long as you need today. Wang may come up with more files for you throughout the week, so you’ll have this room whenever there’s new information to take in.” Seungcheol starts towards the hallway, pulling the door with him but stops for a moment to turn back to his younger brother. “And Jun? You’ve got this. You’re the best man for the job.”

Jun nods in thanks, watching as Seungcheol shuts the door behind him, leaving him to lock it. For a moment, he leans his forehead against the door, eyes closed.

Deep breath.

It’s as if the folder has a voice, telling him to walk out the door while he can, but despite his head telling him a million different things, Junhui turns towards the table again, looking down at the file that tells him everything about the girl he’s being sent to protect, the girl that personally reached out to SVT to put down her own brothers and get justice for herself and every other girl they’ve led into a life they can’t erase.

After a few more moments of doing what he does best and erasing his morals long enough let his feet carry him back to his chair, he takes his place at the table and rips open the manila folder that was professionally sealed for her protection and to keep anyone else from seeing the information about her life and who she really is. 

With careful hands, he reaches in and grips the papers that tells him her story. Taking it out, he lets out the breath he didn’t know he was holding in and comes face to face with her.

Face to face with you.

[squidproquoclarice]

For the @rdr-secret-santa exchange this year, I got to write for @tiredcowpoke.  The request I wrote was “Molly/Mary-Beth, possibly a post-game au thing related to their writing?” Happy Holidays, Cowpoke, and I hope you enjoy! 

~~~~~~~~~

December 1919

St. Denis, Lemoyne

It had been a solemn few years for a poetess, for the world looked upon things with a grim eye, and who could blame them?  Between the war and the Spanish flu, that was bad enough.  Even a bloody flood of molasses of all things taking lives in a strange and even absurd way.  She needed a change from Boston, feeling that urge come over her.

Just as she’d needed a change so long ago and left Dublin for Cousin Brian’s horse farm in California.  Back in another life, back when she’d then left Cousin Brian’s horse farm after a few months based on the dark good looks and smooth charms of Mister Aiden O’Malley, or so he’d called himself.  Back when she’d been such a fool and become an outlaw’s woman--outlaw’s whore--, something within her liked to hiss still.  That part was the one that had been raised to love and fear her father, God the Father, and Father O’Connell alike, a paternal trinity that seemed to have no room for any woman once she wasn’t a virgin.

Some parts of Molly O’Shea clung beneath the skin of Margaret McCarthy nonetheless, and she’d long since had to accept that.  Though she listened to them less and less as the years rolled on in their relentless pace.  Early on had been difficult.  She couldn’t go back to Cousin Brian, couldn’t go back to her father by any means, couldn’t bear to face their condemnation of her shame.  So she had gone to Boston, after leaving Dutch and his band of grubby fools behind, a place she had never belonged with a man who used and discarded women.  For a woman raised to be an ornament to a man, a true lady, it had been a struggle.  But she found eventually that her pen was enough to keep her, rather than the need of a man for it.  Forged on into a strange new world where she alone was mistress of her fate, and found it to her liking.

Now here she was in St. Denis for the first time in twenty years, and certainly she was older and wiser and a trifle stouter than the lass of twenty-six who’d never genuinely seen these streets, drinking as much as she had for the heartbreak of it all.  It pleased her in some ways to truly experience the city for the first time, finding the old, cultured, European feel of it much to her liking, as opposed to the brashness of Boston that had never quite fit her, no matter how many Irish lived there.  

No sooner had she arrived, not even fully unpacking her trunks at the opulent Castille House hotel, built seven years before, than an invitation came from the Krewe of Minerva, whom she was given to understand, had something to do with the Carnival season of Mardi Gras here in St. Denis, and the misspelling of “crew” was quite deliberate, but mostly that it consisted of some of the most prominent women in St. Denis, the wives and daughters and sisters of the powerful, and a handful of independent women as well.  

The invitation, printed on heavy card stock, gilt decoration and with neat, flowing copperplate script, asked her to attend an evening celebrating St. Denis’ most prominent female literary luminaries.  Oh, the glory of it, to be among people who appreciated such little social niceties as a proper invitation.  She thought she understood what they were about--another woman writer had arrived in their midst, and they wished to draw her into their circle.  Something in her was giddy about it, even at her age, so delighted to be included, welcomed, in such a way.  It hadn’t always been the case.

It was no hardship to attend either given that the reception was in the ballroom of the Castille.  So here she was, dressed in a flattering green gown that highlighted her eyes, here to meet the best and brightest lights of St. Denis’ women.  Hearing snippets of their chatter as she passed, introducing herself or being introduced one by one, recognizing a few of them from their prominence in the papers.

Henrietta Wicklow, the journalist and ardent suffragette who’d marched for the vote right alongside her deceased mother Dorothy, “Next year we ladies shall all be voting for president--”

A loud voice from a group of ladies clearly enjoying their champagne, a young woman declaring with a glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other, “Enjoy it now, gals, we’ve only a month until this government foolishness of abolishing liquor begins--”

Philomena Castille, wife of Claude Castille, owner of the very hotel they were now in, “--think that the Mardi Gras ball should reflect the theme of a new dawn for a new decade after the frightful few years we’ve had”, and Mrs. Castille then took charge of her to make further introductions with the brisk efficiency of a talented hostess.

Mary Barrett, wife of one of the men involved in St. Denis’ most prominent bookstore, and apparently also the local literary critic Martin Gillis, hiding behind a man’s name.  Something about the woman, small, dark, and neat, with a striking small beauty spot on her right cheek, looked oddly familiar.  But Margaret couldn’t quite place her.  Perhaps they’d met at some literary event before?  “Very pleased to meet you, Miss McCarthy, your book of poems is quite memorable.”  From her, it somehow didn’t sound like a platitude.

Now another person approached, and Mrs. Castile said, “Oh, and here’s another of our ladies with a talented pen.  We call her by her real name in the bosom of friends here, so here’s Miss Mary-Beth Landry. Though,” she winked one sapphire-blue eye, “you would know her better by her nom de plume, Leslie Dupont.  Miss Landry, this is Margaret McCarthy, the poetess.  She’s moving down from Boston to grace our city.” 

She’d heard of Leslie Dupont, a semi-scandalous writer of semi-scandalous books.  She had read several and rather enjoyed them, though some part of her blushed to admit it.  But there was the part of her that would always adore romance and adventure.  Though she hadn’t touched a great deal of Leslie Dupont’s books, including her most popular novel, “Sunset Over The Red Sage”, because those ones were about outlaws, highwaymen, bandits, and pirates.  If there was one thing she had no wish to read in this life, it was a romance involving that sort of man.  She’d been hurt enough by her own fantasies of that life without needing to read another woman’s ignorant rose-tinted version of it.    

Oh, but she wasn’t so ignorant at all, because as Mary-Beth Landry turned, it had been twenty years, but Margaret still recognized her.  Not Landry at all, oh no, but Gaskill.  Those tumbledown golden brown curls, the soft blue-grey eyes, the liberal sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks and nose that all still gave her something of an appealing girlishness even though she must have passed forty herself, and the lines beside her eyes and mouth said it as much as the ones Margaret saw in the mirror.

Her first instinct was the desire to turn and run before Mary-Beth could say her name, her old name, and expose Margaret in front of all these people as every bit as much an imposter as her.  The second was a flare of anger because even all these years later, she could remember being forced to endure watching Dutch sniffing around her, flirting with her shamelessly, and thinking to herself with raging despairing humiliation, That cheap little tramp, what does she have that I don’t, aside from a few more years of youth?  The third was to calm herself, because that was all old history and Dutch Van Der Linde wasn’t worth her concern, and frankly, she had drunk a glass of very fine whiskey eight years ago in pleasure at hearing the government’s Bureau of Investigation had finally caught up with him.  Bastard.  I hope the Devil himself has you as you deserve.  

Mary-Beth’s eyes went wide and startled, and she blurted, “Molly!”

Margaret might have slapped her, but she held herself together.  “My, it’s been so long since anybody called me that.”

“You two know each other?” Mrs. Castille said, looking at the two of them with surprise, but at least no suspicion.

“Oh, it was so very long ago,” Mary-Beth said, recovering rapidly.  “I’m ashamed to say that I...I broke her cousin’s heart.”

“You’ve broken quite a few hearts, my dear,” Mrs. Castille said cheerfully.  Yes, Margaret had heard about Leslie Dupont’s fast ways and string of romances never quite come to fruition.  Was there such a thing as a rakess?

Mary-Beth’s gaze stayed on hers, and she gave Margaret a shy, apologetic smile.  Surprisingly, she felt her pulse suddenly jump at the gesture, and it didn’t feel like alarm or anger.  “I do hope you can forgive me, M--Margaret.”

“Oh, long since forgotten,” Margaret assured her, glad she’d jumped quickly to cover her gaffe, and happy to follow her lead with that story.  “The fellow wasn’t worth the bother in the end, now was he?  We both said good riddance to him.”

“I’ll let you two catch up,” Mrs. Castille said, gesturing towards the balcony.  “The night air is quite fine.”

Given two weeks before she’d been in a miserable Boston winter, the weather here made for a pleasant change, she had to admit.  Knowing there was no escaping it, she followed Mary-Beth onto the balcony, some part of her very reluctant to have this conversation, but another part strangely intrigued by what the woman had become.  Curse her eternal romantic streak, but of course moving from dreamy guttersnipe and pickpocket to a successful authoress made for quite the tale.

Mary-Beth spoke first, keeping her voice low.  “We all wondered what had happened to you.  You just--vanished.”

“There was nothing to stay for,” she said, managing to keep the bitterness from her tone.  “I was never quite one of you, now was I?”  So she had simply not followed them when they cleared out from Shady Belle in an almighty hurry, saying the bank robbery had gone terribly wrong.  She’d gone to St. Denis and drunk herself silly for nearly a month, and then she’d sobered enough to tell herself she would take the first train in the station, wherever it was bound, which brought her back to Valentine.  Of course she would never stay there.  The first train into the Valentine station was bound for Omaha.  And she kept doing that until chance brought her to Boston.

“Oh, Molly--”

“Margaret,” she corrected with all the fierce, frosty bite of those Boston winters she’d left behind her.  “Molly” was only for her intimate friends, and Mary-Beth Landry née Gaskill was and had been nothing of the sort.  She relented somewhat, and asked, “What happened to them, if you know?”  She might not have belonged to them, they had made that quite clear, but that didn’t mean she wished them ill, let alone shot to pieces by Pinkertons.  She’d read about the big gunslingers of the gang dying in the papers over the years, of course, but all the little people like her, like Mary-Beth, had escaped notice.

“We got lucky.  Nobody else died that year after Lenny and Hosea,” Mary-Beth answered.  “I left a couple of weeks before the end of it all, Pearson and me together, but I’ve run into enough of them in the years since here and there.”  

“Arthur died, though?” Margaret said in confusion.  He clearly had been killed.  The papers had blared it everywhere in triumph, the Pinkertons bagging one more significant quarry even if Dutch himself slipped through their fingers.

If there had been anyone else in the gang she probably should have let herself like and consider halfway to a friend, it might well have been Arthur.  There was an awkward gentlemanliness and kindness towards her and all the women beneath that drawling uncouthness, as if he tried to keep the best of himself well hidden.  Fetching her that mirror only because she mentioned wanting one?  That was the sort of man Arthur Morgan had been, even if she’d been too much of a snob to see it at the time, far more swayed by Dutch’s smooth manners and darkly seductive charisma, the veneer of the proper gentleman of the sort she prized.  She couldn’t say she had mourned Arthur at the time, but she had thought about him now and again since.  He seemed like a better man than Dutch had let him be, and that felt like a shame.

Mary-Beth leaned closer, and she gave a knowing cat’s smile.  “The reports of his death may have been exaggerated.  The Pinkertons left him for dead, but it seems that wasn’t quite the case.”

“No!”  Delicious gossip, that, even if she could never tell another soul.  “Then--what?  Who?”

“Sadie’s the one who got him out alive.  They stayed together, ended up married, and they’re up in Canada with their children.  We don’t write much, just the occasional Christmas card, but it sounds as though they’re well last I heard.”

Margaret had to shake her head, trying to not laugh.  Arthur Morgan had married Sadie Adler?  That brash, angry half-feral woman strolling around in her pants and swearing a blue streak and toting a rifle, who had made it clear she’d as soon kill a man if he looked at her wrong?  But that was old Molly O’Shea talking, a posh lady looking down her nose at Sadie as a coarse farm wife who prided herself on being unnaturally mannish besides.  Well, well.  Hidden depths to her, I suppose.  Or perhaps she changed herself to something finer when it was all said and done.  She had done so herself.  It seemed Mary-Beth had, at least in some ways.

“Some of the rest are up there in Canada as well.  Charles, Karen, Abigail, and such.  Pearson’s out in Rhodes, and the Reverend in New York, last I heard.”  Abigail, still chasing the feckless boy-man father of her child when the boy was growing old enough to read.  Karen, a loudmouthed, chubby creature who fancied herself a hellraiser, had even punched Margaret in the face once.  Though I suppose deserved it, mocking her as I did.  Saying Sean MacGuire was a brainless, reckless fool and I knew hundreds more Irishmen just like him.  Certainly we both turned too much to the drink for the love of men who could never love us as we needed.  Abigail never did that at least, though John wasn’t nearly worthy of her that I saw, but the heart wants what it wants.  I made quite a solid proof of that lunacy. “Susan, Miss Grimshaw, she stayed around here for a bit, but she always was restless.  She’s out in San Francisco now, moved there a year after the earthquake.”  Margaret absorbed that, remembering the older woman and her need to feel relevant by bossing people around.  The two of them had quite the mutual disdain, Dutch’s young lover versus his older former flame.  Whereas back then she’d rolled her eyes at the jealous old biddy who clearly had it in for Dutch choosing another woman, now she was about the age Susan Grimshaw had been then.  She could look on it with some sympathy--how much it had hurt to see Dutch already abandoning her, and Susan’s loyalty and love for Dutch had been there even so many years later.  How hard must that have been?  How hard must it have been to be an unmarried woman approaching fifty, who most men now didn’t value at all?  Margaret had escaped that snare, but Dutch had kept Susan dependent on him all that time.  Perhaps that was the softening of years, and wisdom, that she could see such things now. 

Mary-Beth continued, “Tilly was actually here until earlier this year.  She and her husband Henri headed north to Chicago.  Better opportunities there for them there, though.  I do miss her dreadfully.  We used to try and meet every other Thursday at least, sometimes with the children.  I’d spoil them with candy and books and toys, and Tilly would always just smile at it.  Five children under twelve, quite the handful, but oh, how wonderful they all are.  I wonder if baby Amelie will even remember me.  She’s only two and a half now.”  She wore a wistful, faded, sad little smile at recounting those memories.  

Hearing Mary-Beth talk about all the women that had been with Dutch’s people then, it eased something in her to hear they all seemed to have done well and lived happy lives.  She’d long since had to face the idea that her youthful dismissal of all of them as a pack of cheap, coarse unmannered creatures not worthy of her time, as different from her bearing and breeding as chalk and cheese, had been wrong.  Learned that the line between being one of those women in the gutter and safely embroidering samplers in a graceful parlor was painfully razor thin.   Then Mary-Beth shrugged in a sharp, almost dismissive way, and there was something striving too hard for chipper casualness in her tone when she said, “So now it’s only little old me left here in St. Denis.” “And me now, I suppose.”  She said it before she could think better of it, laying claim to something she hadn’t cared about in so long, and hadn’t even felt a part of when she was in the thick of it.  And yet.

She’d heard that loneliness in Mary-Beth’s voice, and recognized with a startle that she’d felt that same seemingly indefinable loneliness all too often, for all she hadn’t been around anyone else who ran with Dutch’s gang, let alone thought she’d wanted them there.  

There was a part of her she couldn’t ever truly talk about, both from the shame of a foolish romance that would have labeled her as firmly ruined, and from the fear of being known as someone who’d been involved with all that unsavory outlaw business.  To be with one person she didn’t have to fearfully conceal that behind an ironbound mask, and recognizing the sheer bloody effort it had been these past twenty years to do it, felt like an agonizing relief that she had never known she wanted.  Like taking her corset off at the end of the day, laced stern and tight now against the ever-encroaching flesh of middle age, and breathing.

Mary-Beth looked at her, a gentle smile curving her lips.  “And you now.”  She hesitated, and then said almost shyly, “I did read ‘Odes to a Far Country’, you know.  Though my favorite poem in it is ‘The Butterfly and the Phoenix’.”

“Oh!”  She felt herself blushing, pleased but surprised.  “That’s unusual.  Nobody ever likes that one best.” One of her earliest published poems, and she looked back on it now as a somewhat mawkish, clumsy rumination from a woman facing an uncertain future, writing about metamorphosis, slumber, and fire from the ashes.  The symbolism in it felt treacly and heavy-handed to her now.  “It’s...very untidy.”

“Well, I like it.”  Mary-Beth spread her hands and shrugged.  “It’s honest.  It’s a very messy thing to remake yourself, isn’t it?”

She thought she understood now, with a flash of insight.  Mary-Beth had always seemed dreamy, even a bit dull at her insistence on painting everything in a romantic light, as if she simply couldn’t see the awful reality they lived in.  How much of that was true then and how much was an act, Margaret couldn’t say, given she wouldn’t give herself much credit for being terribly perceptive in those days.  But she had the suspicion Leslie Dupont now saw things clearer, and still chose to write those silly romances only because they brought some joy to the world.  Perhaps she wrote about outlaws and pirates only to purge her own demons in some way.

She felt that flicker in her chest again, confessing, “I liked ‘Ribbons of Scarlet’ best.”  That one was about a French noblewoman bound for the guillotine, and her love for the humble gardener who’d been her childhood friend.  Who then, of course, helped break her out of the Bastille itself, and they fled together, escaped to freedom in America.

“Nobody ever likes that one best,” Mary-Beth said, imitating Margaret’s Dublin accent dreadfully, turning it into some God-forsaken stage Irish and a poor one at that, and Margaret found herself smiling helplessly at it.  “People prefer their French Revolution stories with tragic and doomed endings, I’ve found.”

She sighed, looking out into the electric lamp-lit city at night, like a thousand fireflies glowing, fighting back the darkness. “I think we’ve had rather enough of tragic and doomed endings.”

They’d been young enough then, and foolish, and unable to see things clearly, let alone each other.  She’d been twenty-six, and Mary-Beth, what, twenty-one perhaps?  Now here they were, two middle-aged women brought together again in St. Denis by fate and literature both, and looking at the other woman, Margaret thought she felt something about Mary-Beth that just fit in some peculiar, easy way.  “I think we have,” Mary-Beth answered softly.  “I only wrote one.  My first book.  And I only implied it that way, and then, well, I undid it in the sequel anyhow when I thought better of it.”  She turned to look at Margaret.  “But here we are talking away and you’ve just gotten here to the gathering, and I’m keeping you all to myself.”

“I don’t mind, not at all,” she blurted, before she could help herself, and found herself blushing hotly again, and was surprised to see an answering blush in Mary-Beth’s cheeks.  At their age, no less, blushing like two schoolgirls in braids!  “But I probably should make the rounds, of course.  See and be seen.”

“Of course.”  Mary-Beth smiled at her.  “Do you have plans for Christmas?  I certainly don’t, not aside from the usual round of parties, but you know what I mean.  Real plans for Christmas Day, not social ones.  If not, you’d be welcome to come to my home, if you’d like.”  She reached out to touch Margaret’s arm gently, and oh, how glad she was the fashion was no longer for elbow-length gloves along with an evening gown, because the touch of those fingers on her bare arm sent a frisson of longing through her like she hadn’t felt in years.  She’d taken some to her bed discreetly when the mood struck, pleasant enough interludes, but there had never been anything of her heart in it.  This, oh, this?  This had destroyed her once and it could destroy her again, but how she suddenly wanted, something that wasn’t the overwhelming possession she had craved from Dutch, but something finer, brighter, something like kindred souls finding each other after so long.  

She didn’t have a mean bone in her body then, and I very much doubt she does now.  She’s not Dutch.  Telling herself that, feeling her heart hesitantly peek open only a crack, it was enough for now.  She looked up into Mary-Beth’s eyes, and smiled back.  “I’d like that very much.” 

A/N: Since it was a “Molly lives!” AU already, I decided to just go full “The gang members who died in Chapters 5 and 6 actually live!” AU, since neither Molly nor Susan are tough to spare their sad Beaver Hollow fates, Karen’s is ambiguous, and I’ve definitely explored the idea that there was a clear chance for Arthur if Sadie came back for him.  Especially the chance for Molly to reflect a bit on Susan and Karen with greater age and wisdom and see the similarities felt too good to pass up.

[luthienebonyx]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Friday's Child - Georgette Heyer, HEYER Georgette - Works Rating: Explicit Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Gil Ringwood/Ferdy Fakenham, Anthony "Sherry" Sheringham/Hero Wantage, Isabella Milborne/George Wrotham Characters: Gilbert Ringwood, Ferdinand Fakenham, Anthony "Sherry" Sheringham, Hero Wantage, George Wrotham, Isabella Milborne, Chilham (Friday's Child) Additional Tags: Friends to Lovers, Past unrequited love, Eventual Requited Love, Pining, Idiots in Love, just generally idiots, Friendship, Romance, Marriage, Pregnancy, Comedy, Romantic Comedy, a teensy bit of angst, The Season, Christmas, Road Trips, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, On Purpose, hedgerows, Jealousy, Hurt/Comfort, Regency, obviously, elaborate descriptions of clothing, Minor Original Character(s), Across a crowded (ball)room, What Happened After, Post-Canon Summary:

The tale of a memorable and eventful six months in the life of Mr Gilbert Ringwood, Esq., following the marriage of his friend, Lord Wrotham, to Miss Isabella Milborne in June, 1817.

~

Okay, so this is my YULETIDE AUTHOR REVEAL, and there is quite a story to this one. Fair warning, this is an EXTREMELY self-indulgent post.

Every single story I've written for Yuletide over the years is one that I probably wouldn't have otherwise written, and every single one of them has also wound up being amongst my personal favourites of my own work. I've loved writing all of them. However, the story I wrote this year is one I've been talking about writing for quite literally twenty years, but the history of it goes back even further. So, sit back, and I'll tell you the tale of the long path that eventually led me to writing  That Greek Thing.

~

Some years ago (Shall we specify that it was the ninth decade of the Twentieth Century? Yes, I think we shall!) there lived a girl who was at that rather difficult age when she was no longer a child nor yet a young lady. This girl, whom we shall, for the sake of convenience, call Miss L, lived in a village by the sea in a far distant, Antipodean land. She was a quiet, bookish beanpole of a girl, almost a bluestocking - the sort of individual who lived rather too much in her own head, in fact. One day, as Miss L browsed the offerings on the secondhand book table at the annual fete of the local church, she chanced upon a volume, sadly dog-eared and with a long crease right through the front cover, titled ‘A Civil Contract’ by Georgette Heyer, which had clearly become surplus to its previous owner's requirements. Miss L had recently read and loved Miss Austen's ‘Pride and Prejudice’ for the first time, and it was immediately obvious to her that Miss Heyer's work was set in a similar time period.

So Miss L bought A Civil Contract, and read it, and laughed heartily at the various supporting characters such as Mr Chawleigh, but her youthful heart found the arranged marriage central to the story rather more serious and subdued than she had been expecting. It was not really the book she had expected it to be, but it tugged at her memory, so when she was next perusing the titles at her local library and she chanced upon another title by Miss Heyer, she resolved that she should give it a chance.

She loved this book - though which one it was, exactly, of Miss Heyer's many works is lost to the mists of time - and thus was born a great and enduring literary love.

Miss L noted the very long list entitled "By the same author" at the front of ‘A Civil Contract’ and embarked upon a most determined pursuit, proceeding to haunt fetes, book exchanges and other such faintly disreputable premises in which secondhand books were to be found, in search of Heyers she had yet to read. Dear reader, you must remember that this was long ago, and if it was not quite before the Internet itself, it was certainly well before the advent of the world wide web. One could not simply conduct a quick search and download a book into one's own hands in the space of a few minutes. One could not even easily order books, except through the auspices of an official bookseller - and Miss L was young, and sadly short of funds.

So Miss L hunted most carefully, and over the next several years amassed a collection of all of Miss Heyer's novels set in England during that period between 1811 and 1820 known as the Regency. However, Miss L never met another soul who would admit to having even once read any of Miss Heyer's works, though clearly such persons must be out there somewhere - for otherwise, where would all the books in Miss L's collection have come from? So Miss L continued, hugging Miss Heyer's works to her as her special secret. She read other works set in what was then becoming known as the Regency romance genre, but they were as pale copies of Miss Heyer's sparkling and beautifully researched originals, and she soon lost interest.

Miss L grew older, and assumed the life of a young lady, and other considerations took up much of her time and attention. However, she always returned to Miss Heyer's novels eventually, greeting them like old friends who would never fail to make her smile in the midst of troubled times.

Things continued thus until the closing years of the century - and, indeed, the millennium - when Miss L one day stumbled upon that wondrous community known as online fandom. The fannish life soon consumed much of her time, and she read a great deal of "fanfiction" while also, hesitantly, trying her own hand at writing and sharing offerings of her own.

And then came a most unexpected occurrence. Miss L was reading through the daily bulletin from her favoured Xena: Warrior Princess/Hercules: the Legendary Journeys slash Mailing List, when lo, she espied a most intriguing subject line. It proclaimed, very simply: "FIC: Regency Fuck (1/?)".

Here we shall pause a moment to explain that while, in these modern times, the genre known as the Regency AU is quite well-known in fandom, at that time, more than twenty years ago, this was not at all the case. AUs themselves were not near as wide-spread a phenomenon as they are today, and Miss L had never in her life even considered the possibility of the existence of such a thing as a Regency AU - and yet there it was, before her.

She read the first chapter of Regency Fuck most quickly, and then went to see what other members of the Mailing List might have made of it. The chapter had been received in a most positive light, but everyone else searched and failed to find exactly the right description to do it justice. Most compared it to Miss Austen's work. However, Miss L knew something that all the other members of the Mailing List (except ONE other, clearly) did not: Miss Heyer's very first novel set during the Regency period had been entitled Regency Buck. Miss L had squealed with joy upon reading the first chapter of Regency Fuck, for it was not merely a story set during the Regency but rather, and most clearly, one set in Miss Heyer's very particular version of that period.

So at last Miss L gathered her courage and sent an email to the author. Its exact contents are also lost in the mists of time, however the general gist was: SLASHY GEORGETTE HEYER?! - to which the author of Regency Fuck replied, just as ecstatically: YES!

Thus began a correspondence about gentlemen in tight breeches that continues to this very day. The author of Regency Fuck, whom we shall call Miss Damerel - actually, no we shall not, for as everyone with any proper understanding would know, Damerel is a title NOT merely a surname. Therefore, we shall refer to her henceforward as Lady Damerel. (In any event, Lady Damerel was not then yet going by the pen name Damerel, for in that case Miss L should have been left in no doubt whatsoever about which of Miss Heyer's heroes Lady Damerel numbered amongst her veriest favourites.)

So Miss L and Lady Damerel continued their correspondence as Regency Fuck grew longer and longer, and it was no doubt at about this time that first mention was made of Miss Heyer's 1944 novel Friday's Child, and in particular two of the primary supporting characters, Mr Gilbert Ringwood and the Honourable Ferdinand Fakenham, and how very easy it would be to slash them.

"Someone should write it," Miss L opined.

"Yes, someone should," Lady Damerel agreed.

"I should probably write it," Miss L continued.

"Yes, you should," Lady Damerel said, with great eagerness.

However, Miss L did not write it, though she continued to mention the idea of it every now and then in the years that followed. And a great many years did follow. Miss L and Lady Damerel drifted in different fannish directions, but their friendship remained true - for who else in the world could quite understand their twin mutual and abiding loves for Miss Heyer's works and gentlemen getting each other out of their tight breeches?

Some eight years after their first acquaintance, Miss L journeyed to Great Britain, where she met Lady Damerel in the flesh at last. They travelled together to Bath, and spent a most diverting time there, imagining this or that of Miss Heyer's characters walking the streets, taking Georgian elevenses at the Pump Room, and drinking rather too much of a mysterious white liqueur (which they had discovered in a local tavern) in the evenings at their hotel.

At the end of their time in Bath, they parted sorrowfully, knowing that it would be long before they set eyes on each other again, and went back to their lives. Of course, the correspondence continued, just as before.

At around this time, Miss L first took part in the great fannish holiday time tradition of Yuletide. She was quite overwhelmed to discover that asking for a Heyer story was an option open to her, but she gathered her courage and did ask for such a thing, and received a most delightful story based on The Foundling as her gift. In later years, she received other beautiful little Heyer stories at Yuletide, but she could not quite find in herself the mettle, or perhaps the presumption, required to offer to write Heyer fic herself - for what if she could not do it justice?

Miss L did write Regency AUs in a number of fandoms in the years that followed, however, and she enjoyed the experience very much. She then fell away from writing anything at all for a number of years, and began to wonder if she would ever write fanfiction again.

She was, naturally, quite in the wrong in making this assumption, and in mid-2019 a new fandom set her to writing great screeds again. However, the very first thing she had written that year was actually a drabble - a story of exactly 100 words - using characters from Miss Heyer's Frederica in filling a request for Miss @thisbluespirit​, in a small fandom challenge in which they were both taking part. It was a small step, but a very important one. 

That year, Miss L took part in Yuletide again for the first time in some five years. However, it was not until the end of the following year - that damnable year, 2020, of which we will not speak further - that Miss L finally decided that THIS would be the year that she would finally write a full-blown Heyer fic. She signed up for Yuletide, offering nine fandoms in all, but rather stacking the odds by ensuring that seven of those fandoms were Heyer novels. It seemed as if Fate must have taken a hand when she received her assignment and discovered that she had been matched with her recipient, Miss @afterism​, for none other than Miss Heyer's Friday's Child. Upon investigating further, she discovered that Miss Afterism was particularly fond of Gil/Ferdy - and so, at last, Miss L embarked on writing the story that she had been considering for so long, some 35 (or perhaps even more) years after first reading Friday's Child.

Dear Reader, she ADORED writing this story. She did, of course, e-mail Lady Damerel posthaste to let her know that she was at last writing Gil and Ferdy's story.  She was also anxious to share with Lady Damerel - because she knew that no other of her acquaintance would quite understand - how she had quite burst out laughing when, while walking her dog - who is, of course, named Lufra after the family dog in Frederica - one day she had realised that this story could only be titled That Greek Thing.

And so at last That Greek Thing was completed and posted and, on Christmas Day, the Yuletide collection was revealed. Very fortunately, Miss Afterism was very happy with That Greek Thing. Lady Damerel also squeed in a most unladylike way about it, and others also commented with words of approval.

Miss L ventures to believe that this story is actually the story that she wanted it to be, and hoped so very hard that it would be, and she still cannot quite believe that she has written it at last. Of everything she has ever written for Yuletide, it is the most special to her.

She thanks you very much for reading both the story - if you have done so - and this most self-indulgent narrative.

[panharmonium]

Character ask: Will! Give me that sweet sweet Will content! Please.

^^ thank you, everybody, for affirming that i am in fact in it deep for this character and the entire world knows it XD

First Impression:

So the first time I watched 1.10, it was immediately my favorite episode of Season 1, but not because of Will.  I was just so psyched to see the fab four having an adventure together, and to see Merlin’s home, and the story was so solid; I loved it.  I did like Will, and I was definitely sad when he died, but I wasn’t as super invested in him as I am now.  It wasn’t until later in the show, when I started seeing how Merlin was struggling so much without any friends to know him, that I revisited Will and started to think more deeply about what he must have meant. 

I remember being surprised when they revealed that he already knew about Merlin’s magic - that wasn’t something I’d been set up to expect from the first nine episodes.  The idea that Merlin actually already had a friend we hadn’t met yet - that was intriguing to me.  And I remember feeling bad for Will whenever he interacted with the village as a whole.  He struck me as somebody who was trapped in an uncomfortable social space - shouldered with adult responsibilities but not quite given the accompanying adult respect.  

Impression Now:

There is no side character I love more.  My tag for him goes on for 13 pages.  I spent a year of my life writing my longest fic ever about his and Merlin’s last year in Ealdor, and I’m pretty sure I’ve produced more material focused on this character than anybody else on the internet.  Am I embarrassingly invested in a character who appeared in one episode?  Maybe.  (Definitely.)  But I’m not sorry about it. XD

I’ve said many times before that Will, despite only appearing in one episode, isn’t exactly a minor character.  He’s a minor character for us, yes.  But not for Merlin.  Even in Season 5, when Will has been dead for years, Merlin still knew Will longer than he knew anybody in Camelot.  Merlin spent the first two decades-ish of his life with just one friend to love him, and the last thing that person does is throw himself on the block to keep Merlin’s secret safe.  He’s the only reason Merlin is still hidden from both Arthur and Morgana, years later.  He is one of only two friends who ever knew and loved Merlin for who he was.  And he is the ONLY friend who ever loved Merlin without also being invested in Arthur or Camelot or “destiny.”  He is the only one who knew Merlin before that, who made Merlin feel like he was worth something just as a regular person.

Will is not a minor character in Merlin’s life.  His importance can’t be overstated, as far as I’m concerned.

Favorite Moment:

Every moment of Will’s is my favorite, but I guess if I had to pick a particular line, it’s when he snaps, “Friends don’t lord it over one another!” before reminding Merlin that if Arthur were really a true “friend,” Merlin would feel comfortable revealing his secret to him.  Will is the only one in this show who EVER acknowledges this part of Merlin and Arthur’s dynamic, and he’s the only one who ever says that Merlin deserves better.

(And since three people asked me this one, a couple of bonuses:)

Some of my favorite Will-related moments happen when he’s not even on screen.  I love when Merlin names the fake jousting knight Sir William in 2.02.  I LOVE the moment when Merlin asks Morgana, “What are you going to do, kill me?” in 3.02, echoing Will’s exact words to Arthur.  And I don’t know that I’ve ever talked about this particular line before, but I have also always been very moved by the moment in 1.10 when Arthur says, “I know he was a close friend,” and Merlin, without looking away from Will’s funeral pyre, says, “He still is.”  That sentiment - Merlin’s vocal commitment to Will’s continued presence, to his continued importance - it’s powerful, and it’s one of the reasons why I always say that Will matters long beyond his brief appearance.  Merlin keeps Will alive in his heart for the rest of his life.

Idea for a Story:

I’ve written so much about him already!  But there’s always more with this kid. X)  I have something in-progress for him right now set in Ealdor that is a little outside my normal wheelhouse, but I’m not sure when that is going to be done.  I also would dearly love to continue the “Will Comes to Camelot” AU and perhaps build it out into a real fic, because I actually know how I want that one to end, but the story right now is all in just snippets and nowhere near finished, so it needs a lot of work.  I’d like to do more in the Offcut Joinery verse, too, because despite the fact that I think Will’s canon death is actually appropriate/necessary/important to the story being told, sometimes I still want to see him alive and spending time with his best friend and semi-adopting a child.

Unpopular Opinion:

This isn’t an opinion; it’s a fact, and I will not argue about it: Will is not jealous of Arthur Pendragon in 1.10.  That is not why he and Merlin are fighting.  I have already gone into extreme detail about what’s really going on for the two of them in that episode, but the short version is this: making every single thing in Merlin’s life about Arthur is a) inaccurate and b) disrespectful to Merlin and Will’s own relationship.  Merlin and Will have a completely separate history that predates Arthur by close to two decades, and Merlin’s abrupt, zero-warning departure from Ealdor has literally nothing to do with the people who accompany him when he finally returns.  Merlin and Will’s conflict isn’t about Arthur; it’s about Merlin and Will and the trust Merlin broke.  The two of them would have fought even if Merlin had come back alone.  Arthur’s presence doesn’t help matters, because Will can’t stand the guy, but the reason Will is hurt in this episode is because Merlin abandoned him, not because Merlin made a new friend (OR a new boyfriend.  Miss me with those blatantly non-canonical takes).

TL;DR - I reject any and all attempts to pretend that every single thing in Merlin’s life revolves around Arthur.  It strips away everything else that makes Merlin who he is, and Merlin doesn’t deserve that sort of treatment.  That’s exactly what “destiny” tries to do to him, and I feel like we all agree that was unfair, right?  Merlin has relationships and personal histories that exist outside of Arthur’s purview, and Will, particularly, would lose his entire mind if someone tried to claim that any part of his relationship with Merlin was centered around some dude Merlin has known for four months.  I just....imagining his face...  Will has known Merlin for two decades.  He understands Merlin thousands of times better than Arthur ever has, or ever will.  Their relationship is their own, and Arthur does not factor into it.  Will would laugh in your face if you ever tried to tell him otherwise.

Favorite Relationship:

Merlin.  <3  They’re so...I am so compelled by these two.  Two little lost kids.  Neither of them ever had anyone else.  They were each other’s one and only good thing, for so long.  They kept each other alive.  And what Will does for Merlin in the end...just...the enormity of that act.  The way it buys Merlin’s safety until the very end of the series.  Merlin goes through the rest of the show knowing that his life is a gift his best friend gave him, and I am IMPOSSIBLY compelled by that dynamic.

Additionally - in an AU context, I am currently drowning in the potential for Will accidentally becoming an additional mentor for Daegal.  The Offcut Joinery universe owns my soul right now.

Favorite Headcanon:

I would normally choose the bit about Will being a woodworker, but that’s not actually a headcanon; it’s just canon info that I happened to notice.  So instead I’ll go with something I did make up myself: 

Will can’t read.  Nobody in Ealdor can; Hunith and Merlin are the only two exceptions (Hunith learned from Balinor, and then she taught Merlin) but Merlin knows Will is perfectly capable of reading/writing and has been trying to force Will to learn how to do it for years.  Will, however, categorically refuses, maintaining that there’s no point - nobody in Ealdor can afford books, and he’s got no one to be writing to, so why bother?  The more Merlin bothers Will about it, the more Will digs in his heels, so to this day, Will still does not know any of his letters.  This is a constant source of exasperation for Merlin, who thinks it’s ridiculous that someone as clever as Will won’t agree to learn something he could probably master in a week.  Merlin continually brings it up, but every time Merlin hassles him about it, Will becomes even more determined not to give in, so the two of them are deadlocked.  They have literally been arguing about this for years.

[fanficflaneuse]

One Day - Part 10

A/N: Dear magical tumblr friends, we’ve reached part 10. I’m sorry if it’s not that good. I was really excited to write it, but today I had to do a bunch of things for my graduate applications and it was just hectic. Still, it is Draco Malfoy’s birthday and I didn’t want to let the day pass without uploading a big, nice chapter. I hope you like it either way. 

Also, before we start, I feel the need to express my utter love for Theo Nott and Astoria Greengrass lol. I don’t hate them. In fact, if anyone wants to recommend some Theo Nott fanfiction, I’m all for it.  

Let’s do this! 

Draco x reader (she/her pronouns) Word count: 1921 Summary: One day AU. Post-war. Since The Battle of Hogwarts, Draco and y/n meet one day a year.

Masterlist 

Enjoy! 

3 May, 2009

“What is this?” Draco asked in awe, motioning to (Y/N)’s hair.

“It’s my take on the French bob,” she answered playfully.

Every time he saw her, Draco found (Y/N) more beautiful than before. This time, though, he swore she was actually glowing. She had gotten a haircut and now her locks framed her face differently. She dressed so…French now, which he found adorable and incredibly sexy. And her smile was bigger and brighter than he had seen in years. In general, this version of his best friend made him feel like a teenager again.  

Draco had been postponing this trip for weeks now. They had not addressed the issue yet, (when had they ever?) but everyone knew that the moment one of them reached out for the other, things would finally be settled. Their friends were tired of seeing them clumsily stumble through their feelings. That’s why Astoria took Scorpius to the Nott’s chalet on the Swiss Alps and practically forced him onto a train to Paris.

Astoria and Draco were not exactly the closest friends, but they had a son together and for his sake they maintained a more than civil relationship. She had settled down with Theo Nott, marrying him just after the divorce was finalized. They were happy together and she wanted his son’s father to move on as well. She was not only moved by a sense of guilt; deep down, Astoria had always known that the connection Draco and (Y/N) had was deeper than she would ever comprehend.

Whatever the case, the feeling of elation that washed over him as they held each other at Gare du Nord made him grateful for being alive again. He had butterflies in his stomach and a tingling all around. As if their bodies were connected, (Y/N) could also feel something electrifying. They hugged for the longest time, as if they weren’t in a crowded station with people rushing around.

(Y/N) and Draco walked arm in arm to her apartment in Montmartre. He still had a lot of questions about muggles, so she enjoyed pointing things out for him as they strolled. He had been to Paris countless times in his childhood and even once with Astoria, but this felt different. Walking with (Y/N), listening as she told him about the things she did every day, the places she frequented and the muggle history behind them felt like a dream come true. (Y/N) was very excited about taking him to a bunch of places and she numbered cheerfully all of the activities she had planned for them. Draco wished he could live in this moment forever.

“So, you’ve been consistently on the Prophet’s Best Seller list for almost a year and now you’ve won the Beedle the Bard literary prize. Don’t you dare to forget about your commoner friends, (Y/L/N),” he teased.

“You’re hardly a commoner, Healer Malefoy,” she taunted back, using the French translation of his last name.

Draco rolled his eyes playfully. “But really, you’re conquering the world one book at a time and I cannot be prouder…of myself for still having your original poetry saved somewhere at home.”

(Y/N) snickered. “I guess magical readers like the flavour of muggle literature. ‘That Kafka fellow? An absolute genius’,” as she quoted him playfully, Draco’s heart flipped.

When they reached the apartment, Draco observed everything in astonishment. Each little detail around the house embodied her. From the towers of books that flooded the flat to the position of the sofa by the fireplace, the rickety spiral staircase leading to the second floor, the creamy colours of the walls, the muggle paintings – she would later call them ‘impressionist’ –, the huge windowpanes and the mismatched yet harmonious furniture, it was all her. Draco had never seen a place represent a person so well. Even more surprising was the feeling that invaded him as soon as he set foot inside; he sensed that he had finally arrived home. He was Odysseus returning to his beloved Ithaca and he never wanted to set sail again.

They goofed around for a while, talking nonsense as they drank some very expensive wine. They danced around the room, enjoying the different layers to muggle music. Lately, (Y/N) had got then both hooked on muggle jazz. Draco relished greatly how the music seemed to pierce through them as they swayed around the room.

As the sunset painted the sky with colourful swirls, Draco stood by the window, observing the rooftops, the quaint streets and the Eiffel tower at a distance. (Y/N) took in his form. He looked much better. He stood taller; his shoulders no longer sagged forward in defeat. The bags under his eyes were practically gone. She could tell he was eating more. And he seemed generally happier. It made her smile.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go anywhere tonight?” she asked softly, walking towards him.

He turned to face her and nodded vehemently. He knew what he wanted to do. But it was only about an hour later, when they were cuddling in her bed, that he delved slowly into the much-awaited conversation.

Draco’s head laid on (Y/N)’s stomach. He was facing her way, eyes closed as her fingers worked their magic on his scalp. He was thinking about the right way to say it. And it all started off clumsily.  

“So, Olivier Flamel, huh?”

“Yes,” she sighed.

For a while, (Y/N) had dated Olivier Flamel, a descendant of the one and only Nicholas Flamel, who, not coincidentally at all, was also a big-shot alchemist. It had ended like most of her relationships and flings in the last few years: casually, easily, no real pain for either part involved because they hadn’t been really that involved.  

“Do I have to hex him?” Draco asked seriously.

(Y/N) snorted. “Ron asked me just the same,” she explained when he shot her an amused look, “And of course not, Dray. Olivier is an amazing guy. There was a lot of chemistry between us and we had a very passionate affair. But ultimately, we were just so different.”

Draco was invaded by a horrible feeling of envy when she talked about their amazing chemistry, but he did his best not to show it, to be rational and kind.

“How are you holding up?” he asked, even though he already knew. He needed the confirmation that still didn’t have feelings for him.

“You know it’s fine,” she shrugged, “I guess I’m just shook. For a while there I was half of the ‘it’ couple of the French wizarding jet set. It was a wild ride. Way too much to handle”.

Her cheeky smile then turned into a more concerned gesture. “How are you holding up?”

To say that (Y/N) had been surprised by Draco and Astoria’s divorce was the understatement of the century. The only thing she was certain of was that she didn’t want to see Draco suffer like that ever again. It had made her physically sick, to see him in so broken. She had been there through every stage of his grief. She helped him move back to Malfoy Manor. She took care of Scorpius on the days in which he couldn’t get out of bed. She cried with him. She got drunk with him. She was the big spoon. And through it all, (Y/N) only real target was to help Draco’s heart heal.  

“I’m alright now. In hindsight I guess I am not surprised, you know? Our relationship was doomed since the beginning. The most important thing to me is Scorpius and I believe we’re handling it well, the share custody and all. He’s a happy boy.”

(Y/N) kept caressing Draco’s hair. There was a painfully long silence. The feeling of repressed words and feelings clouded the air. They had kissed a couple of times before. Once they had a very heated make out session that almost leads to them shagging. But they hadn’t talked about it. Every time it happened, they would just ignore it and carry on, as if they were not both elated by it. (Y/N) had spent countless nights telling herself that she wouldn’t kiss him again; she didn’t want to be Draco’s rebound.

“We totally suck at this love thing, don’t we?” (Y/N) finally said.

Draco’s heart was beating hard on his chest. It was now or never. “I don’t think we suck at this ‘love thing’,” he pointed out, raising up to face her, “I think we have ignored the right person to do the love thing with”.

(Y/N) regarded him seriously for a second. This is really not how she thought the infamous conversation would go. She was braising herself for yet another disappointment. And now here he was, saying the things she had wanted for so long. A lot of mixed messages were bouncing in her mind.

“You mean us? Together?” (Y/N) sat up, “Dray, don’t you think that boat sailed about a decade ago?”

Draco’s smile fell. He was certainly not expecting that. All of a sudden, he felt an emptiness in his stomach and an urgent need to cry. “D-do you really think so?”

“The timing is never right,” she breathed out.

“Look at us now, love. The timing is perfect,” he said before kissing both of her cheeks.

(Y/N)’s eyes welled with tears. “I don’t want to be your rebound, Dray,” she softly.

Draco looked at her, his expression softening. “I’ve been in love with you for the longest time, (Y/N). I pushed you away, convinced that I was doing the ultimate sacrifice for you. I wanted to save you from, well, me. You deserved better. You still do”, he heard her scoff, “But I guess that doesn’t matter anymore.”

They looked at each other intently. “Now,” he said dramatically, “I’ve come all this way to confess my undying love for you…”

“Idiot,” she muttered playfully, the widest and most genuine smile plastered on her face. He inched forward and kissed her face again: her forehead, her cheeks, her jaw, her neck. (Y/N) felt like she was floating on a cloud.

“I want to be yours, (Y/N). I want you to be mine,” he whispered in her ear, before kissing her on that soft spot he knew made her breathing hitch.

“Draco, I swear if you hurt me, if you use me as a rebound, I swear to Circe I’m going to hex you and never talk to –“

He shook his head. “I will never hurt you, (Y/N/N). I am in love with you.”

“I’ve always been yours, Dray,” she said, softly.

“As I’ve always been yours,” he answered. 

They looked at each other then, eyes full of adoration. He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. His eyes quickly set on her lips before meeting her gaze again. (Y/N) pressed her lips to his. It was, by no means, the first time Draco and (Y/N) kissed. It was, though, the best one they had shared to date. It started sweet and loving, but its intensity raised as the minutes went by. Their feelings let loose, pressing themselves unfiltered with each caress.

“I love you, Draco,” she said breathlessly.

He pressed (Y/N) to his chest, kissing the top of her head multiple times.

“Say that you love me again,” he almost pleaded, his voice small and a bit ashamed. Draco couldn’t believe his ears and he wanted every confirmation he could possibly get.

“I love you, Dray,” she said, pecking his lips, “I love you.”

tags: @fandomscombine @okaydraco @naomi02hook @iliketoast23 @winnsmills @oldfashionedlovergirlsblog @happycomb @xtrashmouthxtozierx @animelover09556 @hopplessdreamer

[yatorihell]

In The Darkness Chapter 77 - The Visit

Noragami x Harry Potter AU

Words: 4,582

Summary: The trio visit Godric’s Hollow.

Also available on Yatorihell A03

Winter rolled in and the days blurred into each other.

Yukine’s birthday passed without much celebration – not that they had been keeping tracked of the dates in the first place. During a trip for supplies, they bought a little cake – a decadent rarity in the new travelling life they had – and presented it to Yukine at dinner.

The frustrations had eased lightly, the horcrux now being carried in their pockets rather than around their necks to keep contact to a minimum, but Yato still felt that nag that he wasn’t doing enough. If it wasn’t a glimmer of rubies, a serpent’s eyes, or his own name being whispered like wind in the eaves in his visions, it was Sakura who greeted him. A pallor like death and her face contorted, reaching around his neck before disappearing beyond the veil.

“Can you not see anything?” Yukine prodded.

Yato suppressed a groan. This became the new routine: sleep, see nothing, wake up, get questioned. He could understand the need to pick apart every part of the dreams he had, but there was nothing there.

“No, I can’t see anything,” Yato replied as calmly as he could.

Yukine huffed and fell silent.

The Sorcerer seemed to be stronger at preventing Yato see his memories. If they could work out how to destroy the locket, maybe it would weaken his defences enough to find the other horcruxes.

Yato told himself this daily, a strained belief that the first step was destroying the locket. It would be the second out of Merlin knew how many, but still, how many horcruxes could one person make? How many times could they tear their soul apart and still feel human? He could only hope there was a limit.

“I think I found a lead on how to destroy horcruxes,” Hiyori said later that evening.

Yato looked at her, eyes tired in the dying lamplight. On her lap was that infernal Dark Arts book she read through every evening, seemingly doing more to find horcruxes than he was. In her hands she held the book Professor Tenjin left her, Tales of Beedle the Bard.

Hiyori patted the spot beside her on her bed, and Yato ambled over. Yukine looked on from his spot on the floor where he’d bundled himself in a blanket.

“Look at this,” Hiyori pointed at one of the dozens of marks that had been etched over the book’s pages. A circle within a triangle, crossed through with a vertical line. He blinked at it for a minute, then looked at Hiyori.

“You know I failed Ancient Runes,” Yato said. “’Affinity for failure’, Takemikazuchi said.”

Hiyori shook her head. “It’s not a rune.”

Hiyori put down the book and refocused on the Dark Arts book. She flipped to a page and showed him and Yukine, who had finally risen to see what she was talking about. The same symbol was printed in the top right corner, besides a name in dark lettering. Their mouths fell open.

“Not the Grindelwald? Certified madman purist?” Yukine asked, craning his head to try to read the scribbled writing.

“One of the most dangerous Dark Wizards, Grindelwald believed that wizards were oppressed by Muggles and wanted to return ‘the natural order’,” Hiyori recited.

“Like the Sorcerer,” Yato said.

Hiyori nodded and continued. “He attended Durmstrang, which is famous for its relaxed approach to the Dark Arts, and got expelled for attacking students and… unethical experiments. He became obsessed with the Deathly Hallows, which is what this symbol is.”

Hiyori picked up the Beedle the Bard storybook again and flicked to the front page where they could see the same symbol.

“The Philosophers Stone, the Cloak of Invisibility, and the Elder Wand,” Hiyori pointed at each as she went. “He wanted to retrieve all three and become the Master of Death. He got as far as the Elder Wand before he was captured.”

“Then what?” Yukine asked.

“He disappeared.”

Yukine let out a breath that was nearly a snort. “That’s the Ministry for you, can’t keep hold of the Darkest Wizards.”

“How do the Deathly Hallows help us?” Yato interrupted.

He knew the Philosophers Stone was said to be used to create the Elixir of Life, giving the drinker immortality. Kugaha had revealed his own version which could contain life force derived from a soul vessel, which was the diary Yato had destroyed in the Chamber of Secrets. He doubted he nor the Sorcerer was in possession of it if he had to resort to horcruxes.

The invisibility cloak, well, there were lots of them, even he had one. But the Elder Wand was something obscured in myth, legend, and fairy-tale, like the book in Hiyori’s lap. No one knew who owned the Elder Wand due to the curse of jealousy that came with it; its owners murdered in their beds by others craving its power.

A storybook seemed an unlikely answer to destroying horcruxes, but Hiyori was thinking of the bigger picture.

“It’s not the Hallows we need, it’s the name,” Hiyori put down the book and folded her hand on her lap like she was about to reveal the biggest revelation in the world. “Grindelwald had family in Godric’s Hollow.”

Yato flinched inwardly at the village name, but it went unnoticed. Hiyori looked at them expectantly, but the penny still hung in the air.

“How does that help us?” Yukine prompted.

“Grindelwald’s symbol was in this book. Grindelwald was from Godric’s Hollow,” Hiyori paused for a moment, still seeing their blank faces.

“What if Professor Tenjin knew that he couldn’t give you the sword? What if he hid it somewhere we could find it, using the gifts he gave us?”

“The Sword of Gryffindor is locked up in Hogwarts,” Yato pointed out.

“But is it the real sword?”

Yato and Yukine paused. It was a longshot, but would Professor Tenjin have the foresight to know that the sword would be kept from them?

“Where would we find it?” Yukine asked.

Hiyori’s face fell just a fraction. “I don’t know…”

“It’s a start at least,” Yato encouraged. “You found a clue!”

Hiyori smiled gently. “Thank you.”

Yukine picked his blanket up from the floor and crossed back to his own bed. “Let’s just hope we don’t get snatched before we find it.”

~

The next time they had stopped for supplies was in the midst of a snowstorm.

They left their camp wrapped in hats and scarves to hide their faces and apparated. When they emerged in a sleepy village that was covered in snow, Yato recognised it instantly. The houses they passed were decked in wreaths, the front room lights glowing warm and making them silently wish that they had the luxury of a home to go back to.

Godric’s Hollow was mainly a wizarding population, and visiting wasn’t a risk they would take if there wasn’t something important hidden within.

The main thoroughfare of the village was quiet aside from the drunken cheers from the pub further down the road, but Yukine pulled his scarf around his mouth and entered the shop alone. Whilst they would apparate together, going in shops alone was one way of making sure Snatchers and snitches wouldn’t recognise three of the wizarding worlds most wanted huddled around cans of soup.

Yato looked wistfully up the road, heart hammering and mouth dry. He hadn’t been here since that day, and the knowledge of that made him feel sick.

“Do you want to visit her?”

Yato snapped his head back. Hiyori had pulled her pink scarf from around her mouth by a finger, looking at him with soft eyes. He looked back, through the snow where he could just make out the church tower standing out against the sky. Maybe the horcrux was playing with his heart, feeling its erratic beat on the underside of the locket, but pulsating need to go was enough to move him.

He nodded.

They walked silently from the shop, not bothering to let Yukine know where they were going. But either way, anyone who knew Yato would know the first place he would go, for this village just so happened to be where Sakura was laid to rest.

The church dominated the sky as they entered through the small metal gate that had become stuck open in a snowdrift. The stain-glassed windows glowed dimly, and a faint noise could be heard from inside, but they turned left and followed the hidden pathway that skirted the edges.

The small churchyard was where they had erected a headstone and said their own private mass for those who knew Sakura. Yato remembered Professor Tenjin, Kofuku, Daikoku, and nameless faces gathered around the plot of earth that held no coffin, laying late-blooming cherry blossoms atop the grass and saying their final goodbyes.

Now Yato could see that those branches were long gone, cleared away by the groundskeeper probably not too long after the funeral. A thick layer of snow capped the black stone, the golden words not quite faded yet like the memory of her voice. The flowerpot was blackened with dirt and the rainwater inside surely frozen, not that there were flowers to begin with.

They looked at the gravestone in silence, allowing the snowflakes to settle on the sleeves of their coats and star their woolly hats in multitude of fading constellations. The ringing of bells sounded behind them, and slowly, a gentle hum of singing reached them across the barrenness of forgotten souls.

“I think it’s Christmas eve,” Hiyori said gently.

Yato said nothing, just stared at the marble that listed Sakura’s name, birth and death. Underneath were the words that named her sister, friend; that was all the monument that her life held.

Hiyori quietly stepped forward and knelt on the frosty ground before the headstone. Wordlessly she waved her wand in a circular motion, a cherry blossom wreath appearing against the grave.

Yato smiled sadly at the small yet great gesture as she stood up and stepped back beside him. His hand caught hers in a silent thank you, which she squeezed in return and leaned her head against his shoulder. Maybe this was the closure he needed to clear his visions.

“Happy Christmas, Hiyori,” Yato murmured.

“Happy Christmas, Yato.”

They stayed like that for a moment longer, lingering in the comfort and warmth they gave each other. Yato’s eyes flickered up to the dark churchyard railings that divided the living from the dead. In the dying snow flurry, he could see a figure stood in the road directly facing them.

At first he thought it was Yukine, allowing them a moment's privacy to remember Sakura, but the figure was too short and had an unnerving aura to it. Yato tightened his grip on his wand but looked away, pretending he hadn’t seen the stocky figure.

“Someone’s watching us,” Yato murmured quietly, looking to the left beyond Hiyori at the rows of wonky headstones.

She looked at him, eyes wide under snowcapped lashes before she subtly looked to the railings. She frowned, her breath fogging in front of her. “Isn’t that Iwami?”

Yato allowed his eyes to slide over again, but the figure was already retreating. From a distance he couldn’t be sure, but the white tufts of hair and the small, hunched build under the coat could’ve been him. He was one of the oldest members of the Order of the Phoenix, serving alongside Tenjin in the First Wizarding War, yet he hadn’t been seen since Kofuku told them about members going missing before Tenjin’s death.

The figure stopped and looked back but continued down centre of the abandoned road.

“I think he wants us to follow,” Yato murmured. Could Hiyori be right? Was the Sword of Gryffindor hidden here all along, in Tenjin’s birthplace and already in the Orders possession? Had Iwami stolen away with it, keeping it safe under Tenjin’s orders?

Hiyori looked back up the road towards the shop. “We should wait for Yukine -.”

“It’s ok, Iwami is in the Order,” Yato cut in. He took Hiyori’s hand and started up the path towards the exit, heart beating harder.

Iwami was nearly a smudge in the snowfall, but their paces quickly caught up to him outside a derelict house on the outskirts of the village. The windows had been shattered and the door hung from its hinges, letting a small snowdrift pile up in the hallway. Bits of debris that seemed to have been thrown from the windows were strewn across the front garden and covered in a thick layer of snow.

Iwami shuffled inside, not looking back as Yato and Hiyori hung around the gate. He disappeared into the shadows of the house, not bothering to turn on any lights. They stood outside for a moment, wondering why he hadn’t greeted them nor invited them in.

“Should we go in?” Hiyori whispered.

A groaning came from inside, and Yato nodded. “He said come in.”

Yato led the way inside the house, stepping over the frozen post that had piled up on the floor and been obscured by snow of the same colour. He could tell that this wasn’t Iwami’s residency due to the smell of something foul and the moulting interior. The furniture was broken and the lightbulbs had been smashed in their holdings, leaving them in pure darkness.

Yato’s eyes adjusted and he saw Iwami’s stout, hunched figure at the bottom of the stairs. He didn’t look quite right; all shadows and lines in his face and a gait that told them he was at the end of his days. He spoke again, and Yato’s ears attuned to his speech.

“Is it here?” Yato asked quietly, matching his tone. “The Sword of Gryffindor? Professor Tenjin -.”

Iwami spoke again, a rasp that barely reached Hiyori’s ears. He turned and started up the stairs, footsteps thumping slowly and methodically with every step.

Yato looked back at Hiyori for a second and followed him.

The stairs were narrow and steep, and Yato feared Iwami may fall back at any moment, but they made it to the top of the stairs. None of the rooms Yato could see had doors, leading to gaping abysses of foreboding darkness that were barely illuminated by the streetlamp outside. He followed Iwami inside the front bedroom, wand pressed to his side.

There was a moment of silence. Yato waited patiently, but still he could feel the steady thrum of his heart against the locket, an unpleasant and agitating feeling.

“You are Yato.”

It was a statement, not a question, but Yato nodded regardless. “Do you have something for me?”

Iwami close his eyes and Yato felt an uncomfortable prickle run over his body. The horcrux jerked against his skin and the world swam in a hazy shadowed blur. Before him, Iwami’s mouth opened and his eyelids fluttered, his eyes rolling back in his head as a long tendril pushed out from his mouth. The sound of scales slithering within skin filled the room, and in the distance, he heard Hiyori scream.

The body collapsed to the floor and a serpent spilled from its mouth, slick with salvia glistening against the black scales. The same snake he saw in his visions; the same one that he saw in his bedroom at Hogwarts.

In the time it took for Yato to raise his wand the snake struck his arm, puncturing the skin through his coat.

Yato gasped, somehow keeping a grip on his wand, as its tail slammed into his stomach, a coil of muscle that sent him staggering back towards the door. He heard footsteps on the stairs, unable to call out to Hiyori and tell her to get out. The tail lashed against his ankle and Yato fell with a pained grunt. He felt the coils of scales encircle him, muscular and heavy as the serpent’s head slithered up his chest. The horcrux thrummed harder against his chest as if beating in time with the flickering forked tongue.

“Yaboku…”

Yato felt his vision darkening, arms held tight against his chest, wand useless.

The snake's head darted up suddenly, fangs bared in a hiss as a spell rippled over its body. Its body convulsed and loosened, and Yato gasped, kicking his legs free and coughing. He saw the snake's body in the darkness strike at Hiyori, heard her shriek as she dodged it and flung another spell at it.

Red light briefly lit up the hallway as the snake was flung backward and narrowly missed Yato as he stood. If there was a door he would’ve slammed it shut, but instead, he watched the snake flip over the suit of skin and come at them again with renewed vigour.

Yato raised his wand, arm aching with what he hoped wasn’t poison, and bellowed, “Confringo!”

Yato threw himself over Hiyori, shielding her against the wall. The bedroom exploded. The shattered glass on the floor bounced around the room, the furniture reverberated and splintered, and in the din, they heard the snake scream.

Yato’s head split open with white noise, an unbearable searing pain against his heart forcing the world to go white as snow and then black as night.

~

Feet walking barefoot through rivers of blood on white marble. The steady drip of crimson running from a hand, splattering on the floor like blooming roses.

A long, elegant black wand. The word ‘Nagini’ whispered like a prayer in the language of snakes.

The feeling of ripping a soul apart and simultaneously taking one for a perverted act of Dark magic.

A woman with long dark hair crying, a ring on her finger that looked so familiar yet unfamiliar as it still contained her lover’s soul.

The locket. Grindelwald's mark. A two-handled goblet he’d seen in multiple portraits at Hogwarts. 

The serpent’s eyes, yellow and glowing like a Basilisk.

~

Yato came to with a start. He was in the tent, in his own bed. His coat and jumper had been peeled off and the duvet was tucked around him. From the still air, dim lamplight, and the lack of warmth in the tent, it could have been the middle of the night. A sheen of sweat trickled down his face. His sudden movement brought Hiyori to his side instantly, closely followed by Yukine. His eyes focused in the dim yellow glow as the lamp was brought to his bedside.

“What happened?” Yato croaked.

“You blacked out at the house,” Hiyori answered. She held a sponge in her hand, and Yato noticed the small cuts on her face where he failed to protect her from the glass. “Yukine heard us from the churchyard and came running. We apparated out of there before the snake woke up.”

Yato looked at Yukine, dazed. From the look on his face, Yukine was more worried than he was pissed off, but the fact that fear outweighed anger scared him.

“How long was I out?” Yato asked.

“Hours, it's nearly morning,” Hiyori dropped the sponge into the bowl of water next to the bed.

“We couldn’t get the horcrux off you,” Hiyori continued. “We had to use a Severing Charm to get it off you; it was like touching fire. And the snake bit you, so I put some salve on them.”

Yato gingerly pushed down his duvet just enough to see an angry red burn in the centre of his chest, right above his heart. His knuckles were white and cut, and the punctures in his arm weren’t as deep as they felt. No doubt the rest of his was as battered and bruised as he felt. He remembered the pulsating beat of the horcrux that he mistook for his own heartbeat, the jerking thrum it made when he was in close contact with the snake. It was as natural as it was agitating.

“Where is it?” Yato looked around, less desperately than he might’ve had if it hadn’t maimed him.

“In the bag. We’ll leave it there for a few days.”

Yato flopped back onto the bed and closed his eyes. “That was the same snake that attacked Daikoku in the Department of Mysteries.”

He opened his eyes again and stared at the canvas, feeling Hiyori’s and Yukine’s eyes intently on him. “I think it’s his pet – ‘Nagini’.”

He tasted the name on his lips. It was foreign to him, and although the thought of the most powerful Dark Wizard in the world having a pet was unthinkable, it was less so knowing that this was the kind he had.

“Iwami…” Yato asked questioningly, looking at the pair, but Hiyori shook her head.

“Dead in the cupboard.”

“It must’ve used him as a skin to lure us to the house,” Yato sighed. He dragged a hand over his face.

In his desperation to get the sword, he put Hiyori’s life at risk. He wasn’t even sure it was Iwami until he had them in the house and nearly butchered them. Even then, he hadn’t been seen in nearly a year – he was one of the members who had gone missing, presumed dead or defected. Now they knew what had happened; the Sorcerer was using their own against them.

“What was he saying to you?” Hiyori asked.

Yato pushed himself up and accepted the fresh t-shirt Yukine offered him. “What do you mean? You were there.”

“You weren’t talking English,” Hiyori countered. “It was just…”

“Hisses?” Yukine finished. They both looked at him and he offered a single shrug. “Yato speaks parseltonuge; it’s how he found me in the Chamber of Secrets. He sleeptalks it too.”

Yato rubbed his head again, feeling the beginnings of a headache coming on. He hadn’t spoken parseltongue in years, but he didn’t even realise he was speaking it when he talked to Nagini. It came so easily, like slipping into another skin and talking with an old friend. Once again, the name Yaboku was spoken in a sweetly sinister hiss that was all too familiar.

“Did you have a vision?” Yukine asked, but this time the question didn’t annoy Yato. He paused.

“I saw him.” The footsteps in blood, the wand, the voice – it was all the Sorcerer. And those flashes – Izanami wearing the ring horcrux, a two-handled goblet… “I saw his memories.”

Yato briefly described the vision, along with the new information about the goblet. Yukine frowned. “That sounds like Helga Hufflepuff’s goblet.”

It clicked into place as soon as he said it. He’d seen her portrait at Hogwarts, most recently in the Hufflepuff dormitories when he got love-potioned. A golden goblet encrusted with jewels and etched with a badger was held in her hands as she looked at him disapprovingly.

“How can that be a horcrux? Hufflepuffs cup went missing years ago, along with Ravenclaws Diadem,” Hiyori pondered.

“We know he attended Hogwarts. I wouldn’t be surprised if they went missing around the same time he left, or he was able to get in using a Vanishing Cabinet to steal them,” Yukine pointed out, folding his arms over his chest. “If that’s the case, he had possession of all the founder’s relics.”

They fell silent. Godric Gryffindor’s sword which had been withheld from them and was now lost. Helga Hufflepuff’s cup was now a horcrux. Rowena Ravenclaw’s diadem had been also been lost or stolen. The Chamber of Secrets and the Basilisk was Salazar Slytherin’s ‘gift’ to Hogwarts, and was now dead. It seemed to be a personal vendetta if the Sorcerer was using Hogwarts’ own founding relics against them.

“Did you see where it was at least?” Yukine asked, but Yato shook his head in silence.

Hiyori’s thoughts cut the silence again with fresh fear. “How did we get traced again? Just like the café, something happened and they found us. Only this time they were more careful about the execution.”

Or lack of, Yato thought, but he had a point – something happened and they were followed. No one could follow their apparations unless they touched them, and if they had been sighted, Snatchers would’ve got to them before they could escape.

Yato let out a frustrated huff. “I don’t know how we were followed, but we should get going.”

“What about the sword?”

“They probably got to it before us.”

Yato kicked the duvet free, happy to see they’d left his trousers on unlike his shirt, and swung himself out of bed. He winced at the bruises on his side and nearly kicked over the water bowl on the floor before Yukine caught his elbow. Yato let out a wheezed laugh. It had been a while since he’d taken a beating; he was getting soft if a snake could get the best of him.

“Don’t suppose you know a spell to fix broken ribs?” Yato half-heartedly joked, though the thought of protruding ribs was something that could become a possibility. He looked at Hiyori and caught the secret look that passed between her and Yukine.

Yato’s smile slipped. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s another problem,” Yukine said slowly, but the words alone were enough to have a wave of assumptions wash over him in a second.

Yato looked at Hiyori, expecting her to reveal a fatal snake bite she was concealing for his own sake, or that he did indeed have broken ribs. Her eyes snagged on his and she bit her lip.

“My wand broke… when the spell bounced,” Hiyori murmured.

Yato’s heart sank. His spell blew up the room Hiyori’s wand with it – her first and only wand. His mind raced for an answer as he held her gaze, but there was none – a trip down Diagon Alley was out of the question.

Hiyori was unarmed.

~

They moved camp later that day, setting up somewhere in the south where there was little to no snowfall and remote enough that they would be found.

Yato found himself more alert despite his injuries, hyperaware that Hiyori had no way to defend herself. They listened to Kazuma’s radio show; first the list of the dead and snatched, then the true news updates about the Ministry. Kazuma revealed that the Sword of Gryffindor had been relocated from Hogwarts after a failed robbery, but it only disheartened them more to know it was well and truly out of reach. They pushed their stew around their bowls, lost in thought.

When night fell, Yato realised the world had shifted.

After that night in Godric’s Hollow, a silent agreement was made to share each other's company as the winter nights grew longer and colder, and the nightmares of serpents, rotting corpses and death slithered into their dreams.

Yukine pretended not to notice the first time when Hiyori sniffled and quietly slipped out of bed in the dead of night, thinking that he was still asleep. She tiptoed across the creaking wooden slats to Yato’s bed for solstice, finding the single duvet flipped already open for her to crawl in beside him. Her shivering only stopped when she curled up against him and his arm draped over her side, thumb rubbing small, gentle circles on her back as he coaxed her back to sleep.

Twinned with the warmth radiating from under his t-shirt and the steady beat of his heart, dreamless sleep eventually claimed Hiyori. Her fingers loosely clung to his bed shirt as she nuzzled into the deep smell of the boy that held her even closer than he would if she were awake.

When sleep finally claimed Yato, for the first time in weeks there was no vision.