#and yet i wish to read it as though the essence of existence were words written in the air

[anelegaicmind]

Disrobe your thoughts.

Let them shimmer under

The twilight rain

Before the moon rises

Redressing them.

Without colour

Of the self or the ego.

Without the heat of your cheek

Or the cold of your shoulder.

Without logic or purpose,

Let them rise like unknowns

Gathered at the point of a Planck

Where all knowledge is broken

Yet still is existence.

So there must be rebirth;

So there must be reknown;

So there must be rebeing.

Meet me there and be known.

[atlaswav]

METAMORPHOSIS ☾

INFO: 2246 words, kafka x gn! reader SYNOPSIS: The threads of fate were never to be interpreted by the senses of mortals, and you pay the price. An extravagant cage, or a slave to destiny? You play your part like the puppet you learned to be, with Kafka serving as your lesson to maintain the realm between art and the artist. You, the Frankenstein's monster of fate's mistakes, and Kafka, the one who sees everlasting beauty in you. WARNINGS: uh nothing really except angst ig and REALLY FUCKING DENSE PROSE good luck reading allat bc i'm not reading what I wrote again LMFAO. this is gonna flop bc it's too complicated rip AUTHOR'S NOTE: NOT PROOFREAD BC ITS CURRENTLY 3:30AM AND IM DELIRIOUS. This was intended to be a weird character study but it turned self indulgent REAL quick i hate it sofuckingmuch YIPEEE!!! likes and reblogs are appreciated i'll give u a fat sloppy kiss.

Art governs the world, as Kafka says.

The world is governed by its artists. Formed by the hands of sculptors, decorated with grandeur by its musicians and dancers, yet art runs far deeper than these meticulous displays. Art is present in all. It allows life to be breathed into the mundane, allows men to understand their souls – the contours of their being, the purity and refinement of their essence. It allows for the soul to become honed as sharp and pedantic as one’s craft, etching the outline of an artist’s life.

Art allows man to discover and become familiar with themselves, and hence becomes a vehicle for all those yearning for greatness to have their wishes fulfilled. Thus, art is mistaken as a noble practice, each misshapen line of a paintbrush burdened with the virtue it cannot promise. Yet art may not be as noble as what meets the eye, with its breath shaping each whisper of life. As there is an art to all, there can only be balance. Shrouded with the curse of mortality and death, the act of stealing life becomes an art as well. Dark and taboo, but an art nonetheless. 

Killing becomes an art, each spray of blood the artist’s signature, each cut, bruise and scar carrying the same reverberations as the splash of paint on a blank canvas. It could never be replicated, even if the artist’s eye was the most honed at their craft. Done right, killing could be beautiful, and death could be revered. It was a mantra for all she did – Kafka, the absurd devotee to all that was beautiful, perpetually in pursuit of beauty and purpose. 

Beauty, she thought, was the hierophant of art in itself. Though this may present a causality dilemma in all art mirroring beauty and beauty ever present in art, she believed that beauty would reign triumphant. To her, it was a sanctimonious practice that would rule out of presence alone, but instead of interpreting the beauty of the world, she craved to find beauty for herself. Selfish to no end, but what were humans if not selfish?

Many thought she was mad. That her self imposed quest was futile, and she’d return tasting bitter disappointment sickly on her tongue. Her self imposed quest was woven into her being, the thread that perpetuated her fate and directed her to Elio. The thread that gloriously pulled her towards you. 

Were you art, or the artist? Were you the creator, or the created? The all knowing maker or the grotesquely beautiful creation? She couldn’t tell. It was trivial. Did it matter? No, it didn’t. You were beautiful to her – the embodiment of all she believed to ring virtuous and true. Causality dilemma as you may be, you remained unshaken by the wiles of fate.

“How did Elio get you?” were her first words to you. 

Composed of fragments of dreams and broken flesh, you appeared in front of her. Stricken by a plight of existence, but beautiful, still. A Frankenstein's monster of beauty and decay. “He didn’t.” 

“What do you mean?”

“I came to him.”

Curiosity flashed in those eyes of honeyed wine. “What reason would someone like you have to enslave yourself to fate?”

In turn, you smiled at her. “Fate will tell, will it not?”

Fate strung its threads across your body in a pattern of knots so ravishingly complex. Your fate, ambiguous to all but Elio, it seemed, wrapped around you in the most tragic and delightful way, she couldn’t resist tangling herself with you; tracing her gloved hands along your bindings, losing herself in the rumination of possibility. The rumination that she once would’ve scoffed at for being so wishful. 

You didn’t know what you did to her.

“Is it time already?” she rose from her position, glancing down at the unconscious man beside you, oblivious to your presence. Blade was barely conscious, drifting in and out of the hypnotic state Kafka had induced on him. 

“Looks like it. Elio’s never wrong.” you reply.

“Are you nervous?”

“Why would I be? Did Elio mention anything about danger?”

Her laugh is musical. “The trailblazer hasn’t met you yet.”

“I’m excited to make their acquaintance, then, if they’re as interesting as you suggest.”

Kafka smiled, slipping through the doorway of the makeshift abode with a fleeting glance. Fleeting glances, furtive touches, whispered words. That’s what the thin bond stringing you together consisted of. Neither of you let the other linger for too long, so help the stain that you’d inevitably leave. You were the substance she wanted to get blissfully drunk on, yet you were far too beautiful to squander on such menial things. In turn, she was the overture that haunted your dreams, yet disappeared once the score came into view.

Some things were best left at a distance, the careful and prudent restriction promising preservation. 

With a laugh to none but yourself, you followed her from a distance just beyond arm’s reach. You realised you would follow her to whatever end she led you to. You’d let her lead you to desolation, because you trusted she’d restore what she called your ‘beauty’ once again. You trusted her cunning eye – the eye of the artist – to watch you become derelict, and to salvage what could be saved from the shards of your remains. 

The trailblazer had the same eyes that Kafka had – willful and shrewd – yet determination sat at the forefront instead of the tinge of deadly curiosity Kafka held. 

“Who are you?” the trailblazer questioned, eyes flickering between the two of you. Two questions spent, one left.

“I used to be a knight of beauty.” a faint glimmer in her eye as she smiles towards you. “We worshipped Idrila, the Aeon of Beauty. We vowed to guard their beauty with the sword, but one day they suddenly disappeared.”

The trailblazer appeared to be conflicted, gaze darting back and forth between the two of you. “And you?”

“I am the interpreter of the cosmos.” Kafka’s amusement is undeniable. Her lie doesn’t escape you as you weave a web with the string she provided. Playing her game as intended. “The stars ordain their prophecy, and I interpret them into coherent events that mortals are able to comprehend.”

The trailblazer says nothing. The best lies are moulded from dregs of the truth, as she’d taught you.

“What’s your last question?” Kafka asks. 

“What are you two?”

Very few times you’ve seen Kafka taken by surprise. The woman blinks. 

“Kafka is an artist.” you respond in her stead as she scoffs at your answer.

“Then you are the wanderer above the sea of fog.”

Full of riddles, always. She could never give anyone a straight answer. Why would she? She was the artist, forever touched by the calamitous effect of your being.

“That doesn’t answer my question.” The trailblazer frowns.

Kafka laughs in delight. If you could store the sound in your heart, surviving from its pure, unbridled mirth, you would. “Everything leads to the answer eventually. There’s only the illusion of being lost.”

“Quit being cryptic.”

“The future is a labyrinth. Divergences are merely inducements. There is only one true path. You only have to know how to look.” A smile plays across her lips as she gestures towards you. “And I have my looking glass.”

—

If beauty was present in all art, you failed to find the art in deceit. Morally, its falsehoods nurtured the true nature of humankind, yet the guilt that followed in tandem with this practice ate away at the disposition like rotting flesh in the maw of a rabid beast. 

Elio had revealed his plans to you – your script to act out – and you’d shied away in cowardice. Or could it be seen as self preservation? Where was the line between cowardice and preservation? Surely, you walked across it with fear of teetering to one side. There’d been no deceit on your part until this very moment, the illusion of what you’d had finally facing the denouement. 

You so desperately wanted to continue living this beautiful farce with Kafka, but there were other plains written in the stars. 

“Kafka?”

“I’m here.”

“Tell me a lie.” 

“A lie?” 

You frowned, gazing up at the stars. The infinite, perpetually changing stars that voiced their teachings to you with whispers unheard to ears but your own. If it was in Elio’s script, you’d play your part, no matter the height of the fall. Such was your deal with Elio – your shackles in exchange for an extravagant cage. “Yes.”

“Why would I do that?” she asks, leaning against the railing of the balcony. Another city, another task to fulfil via Elio’s requests. Did they ever end? It was a foolish question to ponder. 

“Your lies are pretty. I could get blissfully drunk on them.” your eyes reflect the cosmos in them, and as Kafka leans in closer, you shut your eyes. 

“What do you mean?”

You laugh, palm outstretched in front of you as if to gather the galaxy in your fist and force the fate of the world out of its grasp. “You lie so often that it’s the only constant I can find, anymore.”

She pauses. She’s sure you can feel her body tense beside you. “...Don’t tell me.”

“Lie to me, Kafka.” you close your eyes, leaning against her shoulder as the stars gaze down at you. She remains still. 

“I can’t. Did Elio put you up to this?”

“Why not?” Your avoidance of her question only makes her even more wary. 

“I’ll feel guilty.” she pouts, her light tone an attempt to alleviate the atmosphere, but you turn to face her completely. 

“Kafka, I’m in love with you.”

Silence hung rigid in the air as the stars sang their lonely hymn, their finale of Orpheus and Eurydice. Kafka, the picture of stoicism – the unmoving sword in the stone – was torn. Her facade of cold, amused indifference had shattered, leaving a demeanour that betrayed her emotions, now written clear across her face. You turned away. 

Two stars, born of the same nebula, yet suffering far different fates from one another. Your star burnt far too brightly, while hers shone with cold light that you relished in. Your star would soon wink out, your death a destruction unbeknownst and insignificant to many, yet cataclysmic for one.

Deceit was necessary, or so Elio had told you, for Kafka’s resolve to steel. For her to become the character he needed to execute his script.

So, you supposed, as there was an art in Kafka’s beautiful lies, there was beauty in deceit. A beauty of sacrifice to set Kafka’s beauty etched into time, while you burned away in the depths of history. 

The wanderer above the sea of fog, and the artist that could only appraise its beauty. The two realms far too separate for the artist to reach out and stop the hand that tore the canvas with a blunt knife. 

“Was that a lie?” Kafka asks, voice distant as the look in her eyes. 

“I couldn’t lie to you.” the words spill out like a wound torn open. Rehearsed, and performed like the slave to destiny you became. It repulsed you. You wanted to rip your tongue out. 

“You can’t do this.” 

“I’m sorry.”

“You can’t do this.” she meets your eyes. Pleading, almost. The Kafka you know never pleads – but the thread between you is stretched taut, and the three fates lie in wait. 

“Tell me a lie, please.” you step closer. She steps back, expression carefully blank. “Tell me you hate me. Tell me you despise the air I breathe. Tell me that the beauty that you see in me is unfading.”

“Stop.” her gloved hands rest on your shoulders. Delicate, as if you’re a statue that she sculpted herself. 

“Kafka, please.”

“Enough.” She releases her hold, turning away from you. “Goodnight.”

The art must be separated from the artist, or so Elio had claimed. You were the grotesque creation, and she was the artist with unbridled curiosity. Your mere touch was poisonous to her, Elio claimed – he claimed many things, and you wanted to scream at him, to tear the tapestry of destiny apart with your bare hands, but he gave you a choice. 

Though a life as destiny’s slave was demanding, life as an orchestrator of the most beautiful catastrophe sounded far more enticing – morbidly so. 

Kafka was the artist in perpetual pursuit of all things beautiful, and you could think of no entity more beautiful than the tragic story of your own satirical tragedy. 

Elio handed you the options, and you tugged at the thread lined with gold, cajoled with fables of love and artistry. The world fell silent around you as you stepped into the role of the artist, commanding the orchestra with a baton of bones. Cold, unfeeling. Such should be the shape of your soul, as your art demanded. 

Art aids mankind in discovering the contours of their soul. Yours just so happened to be the missing star in the sky. A tale of destruction unknown to any other except the star burning blindingly bright beside you, mourning. 

You, the monster of art, pressed too close to the artist, and now you were marked with lacerations none could erase. Kafka’s sword found its mark through your heart, and blood sprayed onto the floor in a flourish of red. The artist’s signature. 

“I can’t lie to you anymore.” 

And so the star burned brighter.

written by @atlaswav , published 17th of January 2024

[incandescentlysomething]

Lady of the Ashes: Chapter 11

House of the Dragon Season 1

Aemond x TargaryenOC

Chapter Word Count: 6881

She was his everything… For her…he would do anything.

From the moment of her birth, Aemond Targaryen swore himself to the protection of his niece Aelinor Velaryon. As the two grew up inseparable, they find themselves entangled in the Dance of Dragons, battling to stay together even as their families try to pull them apart.

A/N: Only one chapter left!!!! Let me know what you think Thanks for reading! Cross posted on A03

Let me know what you think!

Masterlist A03

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 P.1 P.2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10

The Small Council Chamber

“What of Rhaenyra?”

“The former heir cannot, of course, be allowed to remain free and draw support to her claim.” Otto said.

“You mean to imprison her.” Alicent felt as though her mind was moving through a fog. Hours ago her husband had been alive, and now she was being made aware of plots that she had never known existed. 

“She and her family will be given the opportunity to bend the knee and swear obeisance to the new King.” Otto replied.

Aelicent shook her head in disbelief. “She will never bend the knee, which you know. Nor will Daemon.” At her father’s unflinching stare, she sighed. “You mean to kill them. And all here accede to this?”

Lord Orwyle spoke up, his voice grating Alicent’s nerves. “Your father is correct, Your Grace. A living challenger invites battle and bloodshed. And there is Daemon to consider, we—”

“The King would not wish for the death of his daughter!” Alicent cried. “He loved her and I will not have you deny this.”

Things were spiraling so quickly out of control. Alicent had never made plans, had never truly imagined what it would mean for her to support her son’s ascension, but she had not prepared herself for this. The King’s body was not yet cold. 

“Time is of the essence,” Otto was saying. “Ser Westerling, take your knights to Dragonstone, be quick and clean.”

Alicent stared in shock as Ser Harrald walked away from the table, refusing to obey until his orders came from the king himself. 

She walked from the room as the council was dissolved, heading directly for her son’s chambers. She needed to speak to him, needed to ensure that he saw sense before her father led them down a path of madness. Before her children were—

Her children . 

Aemond .

She turned quickly to one of the guards at her side, a Kingsguard who’s name she could not be bothered to remember.

“My father was moving to secure the Keep, yes?” She asked.

“Yes, Your Grace,” He confirmed. “No one shall enter or leave the Keep without swearing fealty.”

Alicent knew what that meant. She could already hear the echo of footsteps down the stairs as servants and courtiers alike were roused from their sleep and taken to either the cells in the dungeons or to kneel before the Iron Throne.

She needed to gain control of this situation, which meant that she needed to ensure that all of her children would cooperate and stand by her. And there was one person in the Keep who could derail all of that.

“Take another guard and go secure the Princess Aelinor.” She ordered. “Quickly and quietly.”

“Secure her, Your Grace?” The knight asked.

Alicent dug her fingernails into her palm. If Aelinor remained where she was, Aemond would go to her. Though she did not doubt her son’s loyalty, she doubted her ability to draw his focus away from Rhaenyra’s daughter. Aelinor would have to serve as leverage in this, whether she liked it or not.

And besides, Alicent thought, this was a mercy. Better she be responsible for Aelinor than her father, who would likely have her confined to the cells.

“The empty rooms in the east tower.” Alicent directed. “Lock the outside, and tell no one she is there.”

“And if she resists, Your Grace?”

“The Princess is to be moved to that tower. Do whatever it takes.”

The knight hesitated only a second before bowing his head. “As you wish, Your Grace.” He marched away, another guard at his heels.

*************************************

Aelinor was jolted awake by the sound of someone pounding on her door. For a moment she was seized by fear, unable to remember where she was or what was happening. It was disorienting to hear a commotion not immediately followed by the sound of her brother’s arguing, or Prince Daemon shouting about something.

But then she remembered where she was, at the Red Keep, and she quickly pulled herself from bed. Unable to find her robe without a light, and unwilling to take the time to light a candle, she moved from her bedchamber in just her loose nightdress. The main door to her chambers was shaking with the force of the pounding. 

“Jeyne?” She called worriedly, moving through the dark room. “Is that you?”

What a silly question. Of course Jeyne was not the one about to break down her door, especially not at this hour, when she could not even yet see the sun rising over the horizon. But worry flooded through her. Something terrible must have happened, and immediately she wondered if something had gone wrong with her mother’s ship, or perhaps even with the King.

She undid the bolt on the door with shaking hands, jumping back as it was thrown open. Two unfamiliar Kingsguard stood before her.

“Sers,” She greeted, resisting the urge to cover her nightgown with her hands. “Has something happened?”

“Princess Aelinor,” One of them said. “We have been sent to escort you to the east tower. For your safety.”

“For my safety?” She asked. “What’s wrong? Are we under attack?” 

“Now, Princess.”

She balked at the coldness of his tone. Never in her life could she remember a guard speaking to her in that way. Perhaps the situation was more serious than she realized.

“Let me just grab my robe,” She turned.

A hand wrapped around her upper arm, yanking her into the hallway with painful force.

“Ser!” She cried, trying to pry his fingers off. “What are you—How dare you?”

The other guard grabbed her other arm, his grip only a touch less painful, and they started to march her down the hallway.

“Stop this at once!” She demanded, struggling to free herself. “What is going on? I’m only in my nightdress and this is not proper!”

They did not answer, dragging her forward until her feet were tripping over each other and she was struggling to stay upright. 

Emerging out onto the main stairwell, they all stopped in their tracks, the guards looking both ways as if to be sure that no one would see them. Once they determined the way to be clear, they pulled her toward the stairs and started moving up.

Aelinor glanced down, and her blood ran cold at what she saw.

Dozens of people, some servants, some nobles, all of them in their night clothes, being marched down the stairs under armed guard. Their faces showed the same confusion and fear that Aelinor felt. 

Something was very, very wrong.

Aelinor opened her mouth to scream. “Help m—”

A metal gauntlet clapped itself over her mouth before she could be heard, the force enough to leave a bruise on her face. She struggled as the guards lifted her off the floor, carrying her up the steps two at a time. 

They climbed for what felt like an eternity, Aelinor’s resistance only serving to earn her more bruises as they tightened their grip. Moving into the East wing, they climbed again, until they were passing stone hallways lined with cobwebs and dust. Aelinor could not recall ever coming to this part of the Keep, and from the looks of things, no one else ever visited either.

Only when they reached the end of the staircase did they stop, one of the guards releasing his hold as he pulled a rusty iron key from his belt and pushed open a heavy door. It unleashed a cloud of dust that made him cough, but then he stepped into the room and held the door open. She was dragged through, kicking and screaming. 

“Let me go!” She shouted. Gods, was there anyone around who might hear her? Who might be able to tell her what was happening, and why?

The guard marched her to the far side of the room, and then without ceremony tossed her down onto an ancient velvet settee. The plume of dust it let off was enough to make Aelinor choke, and by the time she realized she was free the guards were already shutting the door behind them.

With a cry she threw herself across the room, her fists landing on the door just as she heard the telltale sound of a lock clicking into place.

“There has been a mistake!” She screamed. “Let me go!”

Their footsteps were fading, and soon she knew that she was alone.

Her entire body shaking, Aelinor turned to examine the room. It was small, as small as her own  bedchamber. The entire room was coated with a layer of filth, the only disturbances in the dust from the guards, herself, and some small footprints that looked alarmingly like rats. A chandelier heavy with cobwebs hung from the ceiling, the wax melted down the sides of the dull brass. As it was, even if she did have candles, she had no way to light it. The settee was the only furniture in the room, obviously left behind whenever the last resident moved out. It was worn, the upholstery torn and clumps of the stuffing spilling out from the seams.

She rushed to the window, through which a chilly morning breeze swept into the room. There were no curtains or shutters to keep out the cold. When she leaned over the stone, she peered down and stared directly down into the city. The buildings were tiny specs below her, the people practically invisible. Leaning more, she saw that there were no balconies below her, and thus no hope that anyone would spot her in the window.

She was trembling now. She had been locked away, perhaps to be forgotten, and her family was miles away on Dragonstone, completely unaware of what was happening. Even she didn’t understand why this was happening to her.

Something scuttled by in the corner of the room, and she screamed.

Rushing back to the door, she started to bang her palms against it.

“Hello? Is anyone out there?” She screamed. “I need to speak with Prince Aemond! Hello?”

But no one answered.

****************************

Aemond was roused early from his bed and escorted under guard to his brother’s chambers. There he found his sister and his niece and nephew, but no sign of his brother. It was hardly a surprise to find his brother missing, but nothing could have prepared him for the shock of learning that his father was dead.

The King was dead.

It wasn’t that Aemond had ever felt particularly close to his father, who had been old and somewhat frail by the time Aemond was old enough to be interesting. But it was still his father, and Aelinor’s grandfather, and a man who had been a pillar in their family for as long as any of them could remember.

Had someone told Aelinor? She would be devastated, he was sure, for she loved her grandfather dearly. Even he felt a smidgeon of grief, though it was spurred mostly by gratitude to his father for announcing their betrothal only two days before he passed.

He leaned out the window. The sun was just peeking over the horizon, and he watched as some guards hurried to lock the main gates to the Keep.

Understanding dawned on him. Perhaps some of his rationality had been veiled behind sleep or the daze of his day with Aelinor, but now things began to make a bit more sense.

The King was dead.

Princess Rhaenyra was on Dragonstone.

Which meant the Iron Throne sat empty for the taking.

Almost as soon as he realized this, the door the the chamber was opening and his mother and Ser Criston were walking in.

“Where is Aegon?” Alicent demanded.

Helaena looked up from her embroidery. “Not here.”

Alicent sent Ser Criston out to confirm whether Aegon was within the castle, and she began to pace back and forth.

“Mother?” Aemond asked quietly, speaking low as to not disturb his sister. “Is Aegon to sit the throne?”

Alicent stared at him for a long moment, before nodding. “It was your father’s dying wish.”

Aemond didn’t much care what his father’s dying wish was. It had never been a secret that their entire family did not wish to see the throne pass to Rhaenyra and her pack of bastards, and as far as Aemond was aware, that had never changed.

“Has Aelinor been informed?” 

Alicent looked away. “Do you have any idea where your brother is?”

Aegon shook his head, frowning at the change in subject. “I have not seen him since the day before yesterday. Mother, has Aelinor been informed?”

But Ser Criston was striding through the door. “Prince Aegon is not to be found within the castle walls, Your Grace, Your father has sent Ser Erryk into the city to find him. And Ser Erryk knows Aegon, so he has the advantage.”

His mother’s hands were shaking. “Then I trust to you, Ser Criston. Aegon must be found, and he must be brought to me. The fate of the Seven Kingdoms may very well depend on it.”

Ser Criston bowed. “I will not fail you, my Queen.”

There was shouting from outside, and Aemond watched as an unfamiliar lord was hauled off of his horse before reaching the gates. The Keep was being put under lock and key.

He walked past his mother. “I shall go see to Aelinor.”

“No, Aemond!” His mother demanded. “You shall not.”

He turned slowly. “She is my betrothed.”

“She is the daughter of a false heir,” Alicent took a deep breath. “And so she is, at this moment, an enemy.”

“An enemy?” Aemond hissed. “What have you done to her?” 

“Aemond, I—”

But he was already rushing from the room, hurrying through the Keep and dodging scuffles and whispered conversations as he went. This was madness. Aelinor was not an enemy, and his mother was a fool if she thought she could ever convince him of that. And she would be even more foolish to harm Aelinor, knowing the wrath she would face from her parents.

But when he reached Aelinor’s chambers, the door hung ajar, and she was nowhere to be found.

With a frustrated cry, Aemond turned on his heel and marched back to his family. His mother still stood in the center of the room, trying to make a plan with Ser Criston. 

“Where is she?” He demanded, interrupting their conversation.

“Aemond,” Alicent began calmly. “Aelinor has not been harmed, and she—”

“Where is she!” He shouted, the volume making his sister flinch. “Where have they taken her? To the dungeons? She isn’t a traitor!”

“She is the daughter of a potential threat,” Ser Criston said. “Securing her was necessary.”

“Securing her?” Aemond demanded. “I swear, if you—”

“Aemond!” Alicent reached for his arm, but he recoiled from her touch. Hurt shone on her face. “I swear to you, Aelinor has not been harmed. But her safety depends on us being able to quickly secure Aegon’s place on the throne. This means we must find him, quickly.”

His face must have shown his reluctance, for she continued.

“Once Aegon has been crowned, and with Aelinor in our custody and treated with kindness, Princess Rhaenyra will have no reason not to bend the knee.” Alicent implored. “We must use reason in determining our priorities.”

Aemond did see some logic in this. If Aegon was not found, if things were allowed to descend into chaos, then Aelinor would become an incredibly valuable pawn. And not all parties would treat her as well as they would.  

“Where is she?” He asked again.

“Safe.” Alicent repeated. “And once Aegon is found, you can see her.”

Frustration grated at his bones, but he finally nodded. “Alright. Then I will go with Ser Criston. Ser Erryk is not the only one who knows Aegon’s haunts.”

******************************

“You’ve been here before, My Prince?” 

Ser Criston’s voice was grating, making Aemond wish that he had insisted on coming alone. His tone was full of judgement, matching the look of scorn he had been wearing since they entered the Street of Silk.

Aemond glanced up at the pleasure house, watching as two whores shook out a blanket through a window, not hiding their open curiosity. Even with his cloak and the rags Criston was wearing, they would draw attention if they took too long. 

Criston knocked on the door again.

“Aegon brought me to the Street of Silk on my thirteenth name day.” Aemond started, not sure why he felt the urge to share this story with Ser Criston. “It was his duty as my brother, he said, to ensure I was as educated as I was. At least, that’s what I understood him to mean.”

“I don’t follow.” Ser Criston said, far too moral to catch the innuendo.

Aemond leaned forward. “He said, ‘time to get it wet’.”

That night was very clear in Aemond’s memory. It had been less than a year after he lost his eye, after he claimed Vhagar. He had thrown himself into training, determined to become the best dragon rider in his family, and Aegon had been making what he now realized was a genuine effort to bond with him. It was not Aegon’s fault that his interests lay more in perversions and drink where Aemond cared only for dragons and training. But he had gone with his brother, not aware of where he was being taken.

The whore that Aemond had hired for him had been at least ten years older than him, and when she had stepped forward clad in nearly invisible blue chiffon, Aemond had wanted to run for the hills. She had been blonde, nearly light enough in color to be white, and he had known why Aegon had selected her. 

He felt some shame as he remembered that moment when he had looked at that woman and imagined that she could be Aelinor. He was thirteen, a young man with a young man’s passions, and unable to exercise the restraint needed to understand why he was so drawn to that whore. 

He had done it, of course, and it was not the only time. He was not so stubborn as to rebuke the pleasures of the flesh, especially when those at court so frequently turned their backs on him. But he had never been able to let himself go in the same ways Aegon did. He went to the Street of Silk for momentary distractions, not for any true satisfaction. Eventually he had grown enough that he no longer required Aegon’s escort, and that brief attempt at brotherly bonding had resulted in no change to their relationship.

The sting of shame made him tense as the door opened. What would Aelinor think if she knew that he had been here before, that he had once fucked a woman just because she reminded him of her.

He shook his head, forcing those thoughts from his mind. They had far bigger things to worry about at the moment. He needed to be focused on finding Aegon so that he could be reunited with Aelinor. 

They’d watched the guards hang a man on their way out of the Keep, and he did not like the thought of Aelinor alone and unprotected as his grandfather staged his coup.

The woman who answered the door — the madam of the establishment, if he was remembering correctly — had not seen Aegon in some time. Her words about Aegon’s tastes confirmed the rumors that Aemond had been hearing for years, and ultimately only served to tell him that it would not be so easy to track down his brother. 

The madam eyed him, and he saw recognition in her gaze. He could dimly remember her being there on that night several years ago, leading him down a smoke-filled hallway to a private room, whispering promises that she had selected only the best for him.

“How you’ve grown,” Her lips curled in amusement.

Aemond nearly smiled at her audacity. He was not the same boy he had been when he first visited this place, and he was no longer one to succumb to temptation.

“It seems you were mistaken as to Aegon’s habits,” Criston said as they walked away.

Aemond just sighed. King’s Landing was the biggest city in Westeros, and there were a thousand places for Aegon to disappear to. “He could be in the hands of mercenaries, on a ship to Yi Ti.”

“He could be dead,” Ser Criston said sternly. “Let us hope, for your mother’s sake, that is not the case.”

They spent hours combing the city, checking every house on the Street of Silk before venturing to inns and taverns that dotted Fleabottom. Hardly places that a prince should be hiding, let alone a king.

“We shall find him, Prince Aemond,” Ser Criston tried to calm him when he kicked at a sack of straw.

Aemond was deeply frustrated. Every second that his brother was gone was a second that he was parted from Aelinor. Aegon did not deserve the throne, he did not know what it was to do one’s duty, to value lineage and ancestry and protect those that he loved. He treated his marriage to Helaena like a joke, belittling and insulting their sister at every turn. How could he expect to be protector of the realm if he did not even have the good sense to stay out of trouble.

“Here I am, trawling the city, ever the good soldier in search of a wastrel who’s never taken half an interest in his birthright,” He glared at Ser Criston. “‘Tis I the younger brother who studies history and philosophy, it is I who trains with the sword, who rides the largest dragon in the world. It is I who should be…” He caught himself before he spoke the treason on his tongue. “I know what it is to toil for what others are freely given.”

“Prince Aegon is not clever,” Ser Criston said. “If he is still unfound, it is because he has been taken, or waylaid somewhere by his drink. If we must turn over every stone in this city, we shall find him.”

“Hmmm,” And how long would that be? Aemond’s patience was wearing thin. “His secrets are his own and he is welcome to them. I’m next in line to the throne. Should they come looking for me, I intend to be found.”

An image flashed through his mind, a fantasy so vivid and enthralling that Aemond stopped in his tracks. Himself, seated on the Iron Throne, Aelinor by his side, a bright smile on his face. The crown was his, the result of a lifetime of devotion to his family. And below them, their families celebrating their ascension, Aelinor’s great hope was realized as they ceased their fighting. At his feet, Jacaerys and Lucerys knelt, finally bowed in humility.

Aemond as King, with Aelinor as his Queen .

But that was an impossibility. Aegon would sit the throne, as soon as he was found, and neither of their families would set aside their differences in his name. 

No, he was the second son, after all. It was his job to find the king, not to be crowned himself.

********************************

Aelinor was not sure how many hours she had been confined to this chamber. The sun had moved through the sky, passing high noon and dipping into the afternoon, and yet it did nothing to ease the chill. She sat in the corner, unwilling to touch the filthy chaise, her arms hugged tightly around her knees. Her nightdress was thin, nearly transparent, and did little to keep her warm. Parts of it were stained with blood after she had torn loose two fingernails trying to claw one of the hinges from the door.

Part of her hoped that this was all a grave misunderstanding. Soon someone would be coming to free her, to apologize for her treatment and assure her that it would never happen again. But with every hour that passed without someone rescuing her — without Aemond coming for her — the sense that something was horribly wrong grew worse.

She heard rats scuttle on the other side of the room, the pests fleeing only a moment before she heard footsteps on the other side of the door. Aelinor leapt to her feet, hearing indiscernible voices and the fumbling of keys. 

When the door swung open and she saw Aemond standing there, she nearly wept. He wore an unfamiliar black cloak, his hair ruffled as if he had recently been in a fight.

“Aemond!” She cried, launching herself into his arms, ignoring the two guards at his back. The same two who had locked her up in the dead of night.

“Lina,” He breathed, pulling away to look at her. “What are you—how long have you been here?”

“She was escorted here shortly after the King’s death, Prince Aemond.” One of the guards said.

Aelinor’s breath froze in her lungs. “The King…he is dead?”

“He passed in the night,” Aemond whispered.

A tiny sound escaped her throat, and she shivered violent. Gods, her sweet grandfather, he was gone. She could only pray that it had been peaceful, that he had not suffered as he left this world.

“Why are you in your nightdress?” Aemond asked.

Aelinor crossed her arms in front of her chest, suddenly very aware of just how undressed she was. “I…they woke me from my bed in the night.”

Aemond turned to glare at the guards. “These men did?” 

The guards both bowed, not in apology to her, but in deference to Aemond. “It was the Queen’s orders, My Prince.”

Aemond stepped forward, his hand reaching for his sword. As much as Aelinor wanted to see the guards answer for how they had treated her, she did not want to be the cause of violence. She grabbed his arm. “Aemond, I want to leave.”

Aemond turned quickly, removing the cloak from his own shoulders and draping it over her. “Come, we must get you warm and fed.”

She let him wrap an arm around her waist and lead her from the room. Her bare feet were cold against the stone, but she did not complain, all too aware of the guards at their backs.

“Aemond,” She whispered. “What did they mean, it’s the Queen’s orders? And why were they moving people in the middle of the night? What is happening?”

He just squeezed her. “I shall explain, but we must get you to my rooms.”

“I must return to my rooms,” Aelinor shook her head, unable to imagine the scandal if she were caught in Prince Aemond’s chambers. “I must find Jeyne. She is probably so worried.”

“Jeyne?”

“My maid.”

“All servants have been secured in the dungeons, My Prince.” One of the guards said, clearly thinking that he was being helpful.

“The dungeons!” Aelinor exclaimed. “Aemond, what—”

“I have been told to take you to my chambers,” He said. “I will explain there, Lina. I promise.”

Whatever explanation he intended to offer, it was not one that he wished for others to hear. Aelinor relented, following him through nearly empty corridors until they reached his chamber. At the door Aemond turned and ordered the guards to send someone for her clothes and a meal.

Once the door had closed behind him, Aelinor turned. “Aemond, what is happening?”

“First we must tend to you,” He stepped forward, opening the curtains and casting light on his surprisingly sparse room. A desk piled high with books, a neatly made bed, and some tapestries showing the mountains of Old Valyria. 

He lifted her hands first, frowning at her bloodied fingernails, before moving to her face. His fingers traced her jaw, a look of rage clouding his eyes at what he saw there. “Did they strike you?”

“What? No. They…” The events of that morning seemed an eternity ago. “They were covering my mouth.”

That did not seem to alleviate his anger. “My mother assured me that she directed that you be treated well. They will answer for this.”

“Aemond, what do you mean your mother ordered this?” She pulled away, letting him keep her hands in his. “Is my grandfather truly dead?”

He nodded solemnly. “He is. I am sorry, Lina. I know you cared for him deeply.”

She did, and she would grieve greatly in the coming days. But her grandfather’s health had been a constant pain to him, and she was sure that every day was an agony for him. He was a great man, but perhaps this could be a mercy.

She nodded slowly, swallowing down her tears. “And when will my mother arrive?”

Aemond didn’t answer.

Aelinor pulled away and paced to the window. “Gods, this will not be good for her. With the babe, and she has only just returned to Dragonstone. There will be so much to do, and she—”

“Aelinor.”

“Yes?”

She could not identify the expression on Aemond’s face as he studied her. “Your mother has not been sent for.”

“What cause for delay could there be?” She gasped. “I understand the Queen will wish to mourn, but she must—”

Aemond just shook his head.

She felt terror like she had never known flood her veins as she realized what he meant. Rhaenyra, the rightful Queen, had not been summoned. She had been dragged from her bed in the night. People were being imprisoned in the dungeons.

“Who has done this?” She breathed.

Aemond ignored her question. “The rightful heir will be crowned by the end of the day.”

“The rightful heir?” She demanded. “Surely you do not mean Aegon? My mother is the named heir. All of the houses of the realm swore fealty to her!”

“Aegon is the King’s eldest male heir, and the crown will pass to him.”

“Aemond!” He sounded like he was echoing his grandfather. “You cannot mean this! What will happen to my family? What will happen to us? Gods…” She held a hand to her mouth. “We’ll all be killed.”

“No, No!” Aemond stepped forward, reaching for her hands but she flinched away. “Lina, I will not let this happen. Don’t you see, this is a good thing.”

“A good thing? How could this ever be good?”

He reached for her again, his fingers grasping the edge of the cloak she wore. “If your mother were ground it would throw the realm into turmoil. A Queen has never sat the throne, and there is the question of Jacaerys as her heir. Aegon succession is less likely to be contested, and he already has an heir.”

Aelinor though of those two little children, and just shook her head. “You expect my mother, my father to just lay down their arms and accept this? The other houses.”

“They will,” Aemond insisted. “Because we have you.”

Aelinor’s breath shuttered. “I am a hostage.”

“No, you are to be my wife.” Aemond promised. “But your family will not risk war while you are here, and it can all be resolved peacefully.”

Aelinor just stared at him. “I know you do not believe that.”

He did not deny it.

Aelinor turned from him, going to lean on the windowsill. How had things gone so wrong, so quickly? Her family would suffer for this, and he was pretending that there could be a peaceful resolution. When she knew that both he and his brother would celebrate her family’s fall.

A choked sob escaped her, and she bent over, her head in her hands.

“Lina,” Aemond’s hands were at her back. “I swore to protect you, and I will not break this promise. You must trust me.”

“How can I?” She sobbed. “How can I trust anyone after this?”

“You must.” A voice from the doorway startled both of them, and they turned to find Queen Alicent standing there in a dress of deep emerald. Aelinor thought the Queen looked exhausted, and yet she felt loathing like she had never known rise up in the back of her throat.

“Usurper!” Aelinor cried. “How could you do this? You were once friends with my mother, were you not?”

Alicent glanced down at the floor. “Aemond, I must speak with the Princess. Alone.”

“Mother, I do not—”

“Just go.” Aelinor said, straightening as the Queen approached. “Just go.”

Aemond gave her a look of regret, but he obeyed, closing the door behind him as he left.

“I am sorry that things have transpired this way, Princess.” The Queen said.

“No, you are not.” Aelinor shook her head. “Your son ends up on the throne.”

“It may be difficult to believe, but it was my husband’s dying wish to see Aegon succeed him.”

“Your husband, who broke tradition to install my mother as heir and never once wavered?” Aelinor demanded. “How dare you invoke his name for your lies. For your treachery.”

“You shall be treated kindly, Princess and I—”

“Kindly! I was dragged from my bed in the night and treated with anything but kindness. And now Aemond says you mean to use me as leverage against my family.”

Alicent sighed. “It is necessary.”

Aelinor was disgusted. “You all have fallen into madness.”

She was alone here, here family gone, and her father had been right. This was a snake pit. Whether Aemond believed in his brother or not, he would not betray his family, which made him a usurper too. She had no allies here, no one who could—”

“Where is Princess Rhaenys?” Aelinor remembered. “Has she been imprisoned as well?”

“The Princess Rhaenys has been confined to her chambers.” Alicent said. “As were you.”

“Then I have great sympathy for her.” Aelinor sighed. “What is to become of us?”

Alicent stepped forward suddenly, grabbing Aelinor’s hand with surprising force. “Aelinor, it does not need to be this way. There is a way forward where we can all find happiness.”

“Happiness?” Aelinor tried to pull her hands free. “How?”

“The way the King intended,” Alicent insisted. “You will wed Aemond, show your support for Aegon’s ascension, and your mother will see reason and the realm will finally be at peace.”

Aelinor succeeded in pulling her hands free. “I was not aware that the realm was at war.”

A knock sounded at the door, and Aemond entered, holding a bundle in his hands that Aelinor recognized as one of her velvet day cloaks. She assumed that within the bundle was something for her to wear that wasn’t a nightdress.

“Aegon will be crowned in two hours’ time,” Alicent said. “It is for the best that you be there, with us. That you stand in support of the rightful King.”

Aelinor met Aemond’s gaze, saw something like pleading shining in his eye. 

She turned to Alicent, holding her gaze steady as she spoke. “Do with me what you will. But if you put me in front of a crowd, I shall declare your treachery for all to hear.”

Disappointment flashed across Alicent’s face, but she nodded. “Very well then. You shall remain here, until it is decided what is to be done with you.”

She turned, touching Aemond’s arm as she left. “You will be there, Aemond.”

It wasn’t a question, but he answered anyway. “I will, Mother.”

The Queen left, leaving them alone once again. 

“How can you do this, Aemond?” Aelinor demanded. “To my mother, to me.”

He set her clothes on the bed, walking forward. “I am doing what is right, I only hope that you can understand this.”

“Understand?” She scoffed. “Did you not hear your mother? They are going to decide what is to be done with me. If your brother wills it, my head might be on a pike tomorrow!”

“No, you shall be safe.” Aemond assured her. “We will marry once all this has blown over, and all will be well.”

“It cannot be well when a usurper sits the throne.”

Aemond took her hands in his, leaning down until his forehead pressed against hers. “I am begging you, Lina. These things are unsavory, and I know you to be too goodhearted and gentle to bare them, but we must do our part. Do you not wish to marry me?”

“Of course I do.” She promised, lifting her hands to touch the sides of his face, her thumb tracing the side of his eye patch. “But I could not bare to see my family hurt.”

Aemond pressed a kiss to her lips, and she tried to let some of the tension leave her body. “We can only do our own part, Lina. Mine is to defend my brother, and yours is to be your mother’s best advocate at court. An advocate for peace.”

“And how do I do that?”

“You marry me. You keep the peace. You stand beside me at my brother’s coronation.”

Aelinor closed her eyes, picturing it. Clothed in a gown of deep green, standing at Aemond’s side as Aegon knelt to receive the crown. A show of unity that would force her mother to yield. It could bring about an age of peace.

Or it could be the cause of a war.

“I will marry you, Aemond.” She said quietly. “I love you too dearly to wish for anything else.”

He smiled, moving to kiss her again.

She held up a hand. “And I shall not try to leave King’s Landing. I would not give the less rational members of Aegon’s court cause for retribution.”

Aemond nodded. “You will be safe here, under my protection. I swear it, my Love.”

My Love .

“But Aemond.” Aelinor stepped away. “I will not be at Aegon’s coronation, not unless you drag me there bound hand and foot.”

His face darkened. “And you will not change your mind?”

“I shall not.” 

He nodded, stepping back and assuming a false calm that unsettled her. “Very well then, have it your way. You will remain here until I return. I will have someone escort you back to your chambers.”

“Thank you, Aemond.”

He looked like he wished to say more, but he just bowed and left her alone to change. After escorting her back to her rooms, he left her alone without another word.

***************************

Aelinor spent the following hours pacing her chambers, worrying over Jeyne and the Princess Rhaenys. As she had promised Aemond, she did not intend to try to escape. If she were caught it would give the Queen an excuse to throw her in the dungeons, or worse, and that would only result in spurring her mother into war. No, she needed to keep her wits about her if she were to survive this.

Through the window she watched the masses of King’s Landing be herded into the Dragonpit for the coronation.

She had Aemond by her side. Aemond who, while she did not doubt that she was loyal to his family, would never see her hurt. And though she was itching to wring his neck for supporting Aegon, she was not ready to turn her back on him either.

Perhaps he was right. If she stayed here, played her part, perhaps she could contribute to bringing about peace. If she stayed long enough, the other lords would muster to her mother’s cause and force Aegon from the throne. Her mother would be merciful, her father could be persuaded, and she would still be allowed to marry Aemond. There was still a way forward for them.

She climbed into the window, leaning against the wall and studying the city. The tiny buildings that leaned against each other, the harbor sparkling in the distance, the Dragonpit standin tall above it all.

Did her mother know what had happened yet? Surely someone must have made it out of King’s Landing, must have shared the news. She would be worried, probably furious with herself for leaving Aelinor behind. It would not be good for the babe, for her mother to worry so. Aelinor chewed on her fingernail. Her father would be itching for war, and she hoped there was a small part of his desire for vengeance that stemmed from care from her.

Jacaerys and Lucerys, they probably would have already flown back on dragon back, to try to rescue her on their own. She imagined her mother locking them in their rooms, and the thought made her laugh. 

With a sigh, she leaned her head back against the stone. The bells tolled, signaling the start of the coronation. Somewhere, beneath the Dragonpit, underneath Aegon’s very feet, was Darrax. She wondered if she would be allowed to visit him soon, as long as Aemond accompanied her. But then she realized that Aemond would not have time to accompany her anywhere. This was a coup, after all, and they would have much work to do to consolidate their power. He would not have time for her. 

She closed her eyes, whispering a prayer. They just had to weather this storm. One way or another, Aemond and her would be together. She just needed to have faith, and to keep her own strength.

An unfamiliar rumble reached her ears, and when her eyes opened she saw the crimson streak of Meleys crashing through the doors of the Dragonpit. Underneath her feet people were trampled, hundreds more running for their lives.

Aelinor began to weep.

[msgexymunson]

Oh my, there’s far too much choice for that WIP ask game, how on earth am I supposed to choose?!?!

OF COURSE I want some FF goodness (best series ever), but I’m not going to, and I’ll wait it out like a good girl… So instead I’m going to ask for either Midwest Monster or Scream For Me (or both, if that’s even allowed 🤭🫣), and if they’re both already taken then Professor Quinn is hovering very close (extremely close) behind 😆

Kittie 💋

Full disclosure, I went to take a snippet of the fic and ended up reading it all and falling into a 'what next' hole.

Couldn't pick a best bit, I'm like 6k in and not near the smut yet. Its my werewolf Eddie fic, and this is the beginning...

Mid West Monster - Intro

Eddie doesn't know how he got out of the Upside Down. All he remembers are throbbing flashbacks of those weird bat creatures sinking their teeth into him and the blood bubbling in his chest. The wet feeling of his life essence as it drained through all the bites, and the tears falling from Dustin's cheeks as he stared down at him hopelessly. He knew he was going to die. 

Darkness.

The next thing he knew, he was naked, lying on the floor of his trailer. His trailer; not that frightening, vine infested dark mirror. The place looked like a hurricane had ripped through it. The furniture was in splinters in the living room, mugs had been smashed, and hats ripped off of hooks. There were huge gashes in the very walls of the trailer itself, some so deep he could see daylight shining through them. 

He remembered looking down at his body, expecting to see horror and mutilation, a deadly game of tic tac toe played on his torso; but instead what he saw made him gasp in shock. There was blood, yes, but it was dried and crusted, flaking away at a fingertip touch. Underneath, a few light scars were all that remained of his apparent near death encounter. They looked decades old. As he had showered the blood and grime away, he noticed his body looked different, felt different under his fingers. His physique was toned, broader and more defined. He had a six pack without even having to clench and really try. His er… his manhood was bigger, thicker and somehow heavier. And he was definitely hairier.

The scars had all but disappeared a couple of weeks later, same with the murder allegations. Since Vecna's defeat and Hopper's return, all the carnage had been explained away, leaving Eddie to live a normal life. 

The only problem was, he was anything but normal. 

His hearing was incredible, listening to conversations halfway across a noisy Summer school classroom with no difficulties. He was stronger, faster, and so aware of his surroundings sometimes it was just downright painful. Dustin had tried to get him to go to the arcade a few days ago but it was just too much input for his heightened senses and he had to high tail it out of there. 

The biggest change of all though? His sense of smell. 

It felt as if he'd lived his whole life breathing in a gas mask with a pillow across his face and it had suddenly been removed. They were luminous scents, filling his nose with such strength that it was almost better than seeing. The grass, flowers, the path of an unseen wild animal. And the people! Oh God, the people. Everyone was a trail of smell, an orchestra  of aromas, some more distinct than others but all unique in some way.

Yesterday he could smell Uncle Wayne so strongly; a thick cloud of cigarettes, oil and metal from the plant, sandalwood, and, well, the words did not exist for all the rest. It smelled like a comforting, hazy navy blue, which he knows would only make sense to him. He'd even said 'hey' over his shoulder whilst he was sitting on the couch. The crazy thing was, Wayne had walked into their new trailer a few minutes later. 

There was something else too. Eddie's head felt… full. Not of information, he only wished he could get some answers right about now, but another presence. Someone, something was there, other than him. He often wondered if he was just losing his mind, trauma coming out in weird and wacky ways, but as soon as those thoughts came he dismissed them. There was enough evidence to show that he had changed. 

Eddie shuffles into the Summer school classroom, hunched over. He's grown at least a couple inches; that and his broader frame as well as his trademark metalhead look basically made him a moving target. For once in his life, he's trying desperately to not draw attention to himself. 

Jock dickheads will always be jock dickheads though, even when they're retaking English classes. Some 'mouth breather', as Mike would say, a brute of a boy in a letterman jacket and a blonde buzzcut, sticks his foot out and trips him up. Eddie's new lightning reflexes stop him from crashing to the floor, grabbing the edge of the desk at the last minute. 

He's about to just drop it, let it go, until he hears "watch your step, Freak." 

Bite him. 

The thought rings loud and clear in his brain. It's more than a thought though, it's a voice. It's not his, the cadence is different, voice deeper and husky, almost a growl. 

Eddie is shaken to his core, frozen on the spot. Every hair on his body feels like it's standing on end, hackles raising. He blinks the thought away; he doesn't have hackles. 

Standing up, he releases his hold on the desk. Four deep fingernail patterns are etched into the wood. 

This is too much. He turns on his heel and practically jogs to the restroom to splash water in his face. 

What the fuck was that? 

Eddie stares in the mirror, water droplets in his bangs coalescing and mingling to drip down his nose and chin. There's stubble on his jaw even though he shaved this morning. 

He's staring into his own eyes, seeking answers. Then it happens again. 

We should have bit him. 

"What the- who are you? What are you?" 

The mysterious voice doesn't answer; but there's a growl deep in his skull. Squeezing his eyes shut, he pinches the bridge of his nose until it stops. 

Fuck this. 

Eddie leaves school, racing toward his van. Mrs O'Donnells class can wait.

[secondsonaym]

“In my heart?” Narinder echoed.

“Forgive my colorful language--Your bias, in essence. As you said, your instinct was to finish what had been started. Thus, you see something confirming that instinct. But the cards lack proper tongues, so to put words in mouths that do not exist, well… It’s amusing.”

A click of the tongue escaped Narinder’s mouth as he looked back down to the cards.

“You deign not to involve yourself with others, yet still have the arrogance to mock one’s interpretations of some slips of paper.” he grumbled.

“You’re the one who came to me for guidance, oh former god of death.” was Clauneck’s response, with only the slightest traces of amusement, as typical of the being’s tone. “You also know full well my services start and end with these readings, even for one such as yourself.”

Narinder looked back to Clauneck, and his eyes narrowed.

“That’s a lie.”

If Clauneck had been upset by this accusation, they did not let it show, merely tilting their head slightly as they looked down at him.

“You’ll do whatever is asked of you for coin. You put yourself out as a seer first and foremost, but all you care about is filling your pockets.”

“Not to Midas’ extent, you can at least agree?”

“Perhaps not.”

“Then tell me, what do you wish to imply by outing my falsehood?”

Narinder snorted.

“I’m not implying anything. My vision was limited while chained, but as Star continued on her quest, it grew, and I learned some interesting things while observing Shamura.”

“Ah.”

That was all Clauneck had to say. They reached out and picked up the cards, looking them over for a moment before slipping them into their sleeve, vanishing in the mass of feather-like leaves.

“They spoke to you before Star arrived at the Silk Cradle. Claiming they weren’t happy with what you had done.”

Clauneck remained silent, staring Narinder down as they mulled things over. They were not one to express any major discomfort, but it was becoming more and more clear they were getting agitated by this line of interrogation.

Finally--

“I suppose there is no benefit to me keeping it quiet, especially since Shamura’s plan failed in the end.” They said, though the tightness in their voice was more apparent now.

“Out with it, then.”

Clauneck took a deep breath, then began.

“Shamura had… Enlisted me, I suppose you could say, to look after a pair of lambs. This happened right after the death of one of your Berserk vessels… The lamb of prophecy’s own mother, even, if I recall correctly.”

Narinder remembered that. Solaria, was it? It wasn’t long after that he had sought the assistance of Ratau.

“I was to keep them alive, for what reason I was not told. So, that I did. They were too young to know their own names, so I gave them new ones--The younger one was Azazel, and the older one was Starwatcher.”

“You don’t strike me as the parental type.” Narinder noted.

“Correct. I was not told to care for them, nor is parenting anything I enjoy. My only instructions were to keep them alive.

“I watched them grow up, taught them cartomancy, but ultimately their development was entirely on them. Azazel was not very open to the winding river of fate, and ran off some years before the culling started--And when it did, Shamura themself had come to collect Starwatcher, so I made no move to stop them.”

Narinder exhaled audibly as he took it all in. No wonder Star had issues with connections to others. As hands-off as Clauneck preferred to be, they had done so much damage by simply doing nothing.

“Well, Star hates your very existence now.”

“Hah, yes. Likely because of my lack of action during the culling. I should consider myself lucky she has not turned that hammer of hers towards me, mm?”

“And what of this ‘Azazel?’” Narinder couldn’t help but ask.

“They are still alive. Though they go by a new name now. A more… Ironic, one, you could say.”

What?

“Excuse me?”

Clauneck produced a full deck of cards from their form, shuffling it idly as they spoke.

“They’re a broken thing, that is to be said--Well, their cracks are more apparent than Star’s, at the very least. And before you ask, I’ve no idea where they are. I simply know they are alive.”

Clauneck produced a card, looking at it for a moment before briefly turning it to Narinder so he could see--The Diseased Heart--and then shuffling it back into the deck.

“But we have gone off-topic. You came here for guidance; for a reading. We have done just that. I did that for free as a favor to one of a status such as yours, but if you wish to prod further, it will be at a cost.” finished.

“… Right.” Narinder mumbled, clenching his fists as he stood up.

“What do you plan to do?” Clauneck prodded, catching him off-guard. “The lamb is of no use to anyone right now. She’s already been through so much. Will you give her a mercy, and take things over as you had originally planned? Or do you hesitate to settle back onto the throne?”

Narinder… Didn’t have an answer.

He had no idea what had happened to Star, but he did not like the Yellow Crown being in the hands of the Fox. However, it was still unclear if the crowns were going to exact some form of revenge on the Red Crown.

Should he wait? See what happens next? But that could risk his life, too, and he wouldn’t exactly be able to do much dead, the possibility of revival aside.

It wasn’t long before the feelings of helplessness began to loom over him again. They had been around since Star had spared him, but every time he was reminded of just how little he could do now, they came back full-force.

Why do you hesitate on such an easy decision? that familiar voice in the back of his head whispered. It was his own, of course, the part of him that still believed the domain of death was his right. The lamb is used to being used. She’ll understand. It’s not as if she can fight back this time.

And yet…

I am more responsible for her life than I had initially thought.

He had thought to kill the bishops by the means of a vessel would mean he would feel no guilt over it. It wasn’t his hands that had finished them, after all.

But this small form, this weak body, it did not allow him to escape the gnawing despair he tried so hard to swat down.

He killed his siblings. It was his fault. They were gone.

To kill Star now, when this regret had started to build… What would it even say?

Death and Life… They were intertwined. Would it be fair of him to submit her to death, after she had a life that was not truly her own?

“I don’t--” He started to say, voice strained, only to be cut off by the sound of footsteps approaching him and Clauneck.

He swiveled his head, and who he saw looking back at him made him freeze.

[rocorambles]

Reciprocate

Pairing: Akaashi x Reader

Genre/Warnings: Yandere, NSFW, Mafia AU, Kidnapping, Rape/Non-Con, Forced Impregnation, Objectification, Degradation, Humiliation

Summary: You should have known better than to think you could ever truly escape from him, especially when you carry something he treasures so dearly inside of you. 

You reminisce on the early days when you had met the beautiful dark-haired man, when you had been swept off your feet by striking blue eyes and a serene composure. 

Akaashi had never been just normal to you and you remember how he had made your head spin with the air of mystery he carried around him, how your heart whipped back and forth between the always surprising mixture of sharp blunt words and eloquent poetry he entrapped you with. He was a man full of surprises, truly multi-faceted and you remember watching in awe at how quickly he could go from easily and agilely maneuvering his toned athletic body in the gym to lazily reading classic literature with a hand posessively but gently wrapped around your waist as you curled up besides him on the couch. 

There are many words you could have used to describe Akaashi. But dangerous? Dangerous was not one of them. 

Funny how quickly things can change. 

Even as careful as Akaashi is, even he can’t foresee unexpected circumstances, especially when you are more entangled in the webs of his life than he ever meant for you to be. And he is forced to reveal who he truly is to you or kill you when you get caught up in things and with people who shouldn’t have ever even known you existed. 

You wouldn’t be the first woman he’s killed and his mind flickers to numerous dead bodies, corpses of prostitutes and other unfortunate women strewn about when things became too complicated, when they threatened his position and the safety of his clan. But he can’t bring himself to pull the trigger, can’t even bring himself to think about aiming at you. 

You’re not like the other fleeting distractions and for the first time ever, Akaashi Keiji breaks Fukurodani policies by revealing everything to you in the hopes that you’ll accept him as everything he is, that you’ll join him for the long run. 

Blue eyes storm over when you don’t look at him with the love and acceptance he expected of you, only fear and disappointment apparent in your eyes, and his hands instinctively clench into fists when you flinch away from him, scrambling to create space between the two of you when he reaches out to reassure you that underneath the terrifying family name and insignia, he’s still just him. 

Fine. You’re scared? He’ll give you something to actually be scared of.

His fingers dig deeper than necessary as they roughly drag and shove you, movements harsh and rough enough to make a very clear point, but never enough to permanently mark you. He likes his possessions as pristine as possible after all. And he smiles at how quick you are to go limp in his arms, obediently letting yourself be led when Akaashi’s silky voice patronizingly tells you what a shame it would be for your beautiful body to be decorated with bullet holes. 

You know who Boktuo Koutarou is, even if you’ve never physically met him. Everyone in your city knows who he is, his name whispered and murmured in the streets, tales of his erratic temperament and ruthless wildness spread far and wide. The Fukurodani clan has always been a powerhouse in the underground world, has always controlled your city with an iron fist, and Bokuto, even by Fukurodani standards, has more than risen to the challenge of continuing his family’s undeniable reign, garnering respect and fear even among the monsters that share his insignia. So even though you’ve never met him, you know exactly who you’re shoved to your knees in front of, who Akaashi reverently speaks to and asks for permission from to keep you at the base as his pet, and you don’t dare open your mouth or raise your head, absolute terror paralyzing you. 

Gold eyes peer at you in interest. Whores aren’t uncommon in the base, lewd moans and slick sounds sometimes making the base seem more like a brothel than the home of illicit dangerous business and Bokuto has always encouraged and rewarded his men with the best cunts money can buy especially after particularly successful or tiresome raids. But for as long as he’s known Akaashi, he can count the number of times the younger man has partaken in those base pleasures on just his fingers and even then, they’ve always been one night stands, brief flings. So he’s surprised, to say the least, when the dark haired man asks to keep you around as his little toy and he has a gut feeling that you’ll become a permanent extension of the family, but how can he deny the man who’s resolutely stayed by his side all these years, who’s pledged his life and loyalty to him? Akaashi asks for so little and if all he wants is for Bokuto to provide protection and surveillance for one more body to be happy, then so be it.     

You’re no stranger to sharing a bed with Akaashi, but this is different. You had always thought that he had been holding back with you, swearing that you saw a hint of something darker gleaming behind blue orbs only for it to dissolve away as you were swept away by sensual languid pleasure and gentle, attentive words. And you hate that you were right, voice going hoarse as you scream at the top of your lungs as you’re ruthlessly taken over and over again, a coldness in the eyes you had once loved that pierces deep within you, animalistic possessiveness in the way he marks you, long slender fingers leaving bruises in their wake as he holds your writhing body in place as he thrusts in and out of your abused lower lips. 

Day in, day out. All you know is a fitful sumber that exhaustion forces you into and Akaashi. His scent, his touch, his voice. You’re drowning in his essence. Dying. No. That would be preferable. At least there would be an end. And you silently grieve, unable to even cry real tears anymore when you wonder when this will ever end, if this will ever end. 

As much as Akaashi would love to permanently lay beside you, duty and appearances do call from time to time and he reclines across from Bokuto, watching the black and white haired man boisterously chat with Kuroo Tetsurou, the current head of Nekoma as scantily clad women surround the two men, dragging fingernails down their chests and shamelessly shoving their breasts into their faces in the hopes of gaining their favor. They sure do seem to be enjoying themselves and Akaashi grimaces when one of the prostitutes begins to loudly moan as she grinds against his leader’s swelling erection which doesn’t go unnoticed by sharp eyes. 

“Akaashi, don’t be so uptight. Why don’t I send some of them to your room tonight to help you loosen up?”

Bokuto knowingly smiles in amusement when he’s promptly rejected. 

“Ah, that’s right. You still have your cute pet. But you know Akaashi, pets are temporary. Don’t you think it’s time to make it a little more permanent? Maybe put a ring on it? Hell, I love kids. I wouldn’t mind having a few runts running around the base, especially if they’re yours.” 

Their conversation is interrupted by a rude scoff and Bokuto snarls at Kuroo’s taunting words. 

“Because God knows Bokuto isn’t having kids anytime soon. No woman could stand bearing his kids and listening to his loudmouth for the rest of her life.”

Akaashi tunes out their bickering as the gears in his mind churn. 

He had kept you on your birth control pills, not wanting to disturb his time with you as he broke you in and figured out exactly what his plan for you is. He knows he loves you, knows there’s no life for him without you. But he wasn’t a dreamer. He’s fully aware just how dangerous his life is, how impossible it is for the both of you to be able to grow old together, how much more likely it’ll be that both of you end up dead side by side in a turf war gone wrong. Yet now all he can think of is what you’d be like as a mother, how you’d look pregnant with his children and when your pills run low, he tears your prescription to shreds in front of your eyes. 

You have more fight left in you than he thought you would and he’s enraged by how much you despise the thought of carrying his children, every desperate plea for him to not cum inside of you while you’re unprotected, a direct insult to him and his love for you. All he sees is red as he breeds you over and over again, stuffing you full of his cock and his seed, never stopping until you’re filled to the brim with the sticky proof of his adoration, stomach heavy and sloshing with his declared affection. 

Turbulent emotions ransack you and you wish you could blame it solely on the hormones raging throughout your impregnated body, but you know it’s deeper than that. It had been so easy to become numb to being used, being known as nothing more than Akaashi’s pretty pet, being the victim of a cold, ruthless stranger you realize now that you never really knew. But it’s agonizing to once again see the hints of the man you had fallen in love with and your heart aches at how gentle and considerate Akaashi is to you once more as your belly begins to swell, a comforting hand rubbing your back and holding your hair away from your face as morning sickness has you heaving over the toilet bowl. And you feel something break and shatter into a million pieces inside of you when one night, as your due date quickly approaches, he kneels in front of you, slipping the engagement ring of your dreams onto your trembling hand. 

“I know this isn’t how you dreamed of any of this happening, but I promise you, once the child is born, I’m going to give you the wedding you always wanted and do my best to be the husband and father you deserve and want. I love you.”

You sob, tightly returning Akaashi’s embrace, burying your face in his chest, wishing with all your heart that things could have been different, that you could go back to those early days, that everything in between was a dream, a nightmare. 

But this is reality and as you cradle your baby bump, you know that you need to do something, anything, now that it’s not just your life on the line anymore. 

For the first time in a long time, it seems like fortune is finally on your side as Akaashi relinquishes his leash on you, trusting that your growing bump will permanently tie you to him, that you won’t even think of trying to escape in your current state. And you play your role perfectly, smiling and leaning into his careful touches, accepting the gifts and attention he lavishes you with, looking to all the world like an excited expecting mother perfectly matched with her doting fiance. 

Akaashi resumes taking up longer projects and jobs, no longer seeing a need to keep as careful of a watch over you or a need to remind you of your place besides him every night. And seeing one of their higher-ups relax makes everyone else careless, no one paying you much attention, no more armed men outside your door and windows when Akaashi is away. 

Really, it’s embarrassingly easy for you to escape, so easy that you wonder if this is a trap, almost expecting Akaashi to appear from around every corner and drag you back to the prison he had created for you, and you shudder when you can almost feel his hands against your skin, his voice murmuring cruel cutting words into your ear. 

But no one stops you and you slowly, but steadily make the long journey to Inarizaki territory, discreetly settling in and making a new home for yourself, starting a new life. Inarizaki and Fukurodani have never dealt much with each other, their territories so far apart that it’s pointless to clash or ally with each other when there are so many other enemies and friends closer to both their homes to deal with. You pray that it’s enough to hide you, to allow you to leave your wretched past behind. 

It seems like your prayers are answered as month after month passes, as your belly grows and grows, as you give birth to a beautiful baby girl. You can barely remember a life outside of motherhood, your heart overwhelmingly full of love and happiness as you watch your daughter grow. And as you watch her take her first few wobbly steps as her first birthday passes, you let yourself finally believe that you can really move on and look forward, locking the blue-eyed demon of your past behind you once and for all. 

Except that demon doesn’t want to be locked up, that demon is far too strong and cunning for your flimsy padlock, and you clutch your daughter to your chest when your door slams open one night and your apartment is swarmed by men with the Fukurodani insignia, tears pooling in the corners of your eyes when one last final figure makes their way past your threshold and you stare into familiar blue eyes. 

As if your daughter can sense your anxiety, your fear, your hopelessness, she begins to loudly wail and bawl, wrapping her little arms around your neck and drenching your neck and shirt with her tears and snot, reminding you just how much is at stake right now. 

You do your best to fake some semblance of calmness, drawing on your maternal instincts to still the quivering of your voice as you gently whisper soothing words in her ear, telling her everything will be fine, telling her that these are just mommy’s old friends, all the while watching your ex-lover gracefully make his way towards the two of you, subtly shielding her little body with yours as he approaches. 

Realistically you know there’s not much you can do if he does mean harm to her, but you’d gladly die defending her to the best of your abilities if it came down to it, already ready to beg for her to be spared and for just you to be punished for your transgressions and your betrayal. You finch when you feel his weight settle besides you on the bed as he sits on the edge of the mattress, heart pounding as you feel his familiar presence, and you quickly turn to face him, only to be completely stunned by the softness in his eyes as he gazes at your daughter. 

Relief floods through you and you hesitantly shift, allowing him easier access to see her, something bittersweet trickling inside of you as long slender fingers gently reach out to caress tear-stained cheeks, as your daughter’s sobs die down and curious eyes peer at the stranger who’s touching her. And deep inside you know Akaashi won’t harm her, will fiercely love her, as he tugs her out of your arms and pulls her into his lap, a sad smile pulling on your lips as you watch father and daughter reunite. 

Deep inside you also know that you won’t be as lucky and your fears are confirmed when Akaashi stands, still cradling your giggling daughter in his arms, blue eyes pinning you down with a look you recognize all too well. There’ll be hell to pay for your actions. 

You feel nauseous, body already aching and throbbing in anticipation of your punishment. But you plaster on a smile for your daughter as she happily plays with one of her favorite toys in the backseat of the car between Akaashi and you, peppering her tiny face with kisses as Akaashi and you tuck her into the gorgeous nursery he’s prepared for her, and wishing her good night as Akaashi leads you back out, continuously waving until the nursery door is firmly closed. And only then does your act drop and you sob as a hand harshly grips your wrist, tears only flooding down more as you recognize the hallway you’re being dragged down, body shaking when you’re shoved into a room and a bed you had tried so hard to forget. 

Clothes are being torn from your body and you thrash around as lips descend upon you, a mouth hungrily molding with yours, yelping when teeth harshly bite on your lower lip before pulling apart. You feel so exposed, so helpless, so vulnerable as icy blue eyes glare down at you, Akaashi’s body pinning you in place as he takes in your figure, scrutinizing every line and curve of your body, mapping every familiarity and difference from the last time he’s seen you. But you lay still, wincing when his grip on your wrist becomes bone crushing when you try to instinctively cover yourself from him. 

“I trusted you. I love you. And this is how you repay me? Running away from me? Keeping my daughter away from me?” 

You open your mouth to stutter out some feeble excuse, but gasp when a hand wraps around your neck, warningly tightening before relaxing. The weight of his palm still against your throat keeps you silent. 

“There’s no excuse for what you did. But I promised you that I’d be a good husband, so I’ll forgive you if you show me how sorry you are.”

You nervously watch as he completely lets go of you, eyes trailing after him as he settles his back against the headboard of the bed, beckoning you over to him with a single finger. And you can’t help but feel like foolish prey walking into a trap as you obey, body quivering in fear as he pulls you in and positions you so that your legs straddle his thighs, back arching and a cry slipping past your lips as he teasingly captures one of your nipples in his mouth and sucks. 

“Still so sensitive.” 

You hate how well he’s trained your body, how easily your body betrays you even after being separated from him for over a year, how well he knows every inch of you inside and out and shame and humiliation lance through you when a long digit easily slides into your already dripping heat. 

“I think you’re more than ready, darling.”

Even past your wanton moans, the clanging metal of his belt unbuckling echoes throughout the room and you whimper as something hard presses against your entrance. 

“Come on, love. It’s time for you to apologize. Do you know how much effort and time I spent searching for you?”

You yelp as the hands resting on your waist dig into your flesh before relaxing and rubbing soothing circles into your skin. 

“But it’s okay because you’re here now, you and our daughter are here now, and neither of you are ever leaving me again. Right?”

You vigorously nod your head as blue eyes sharply stare at you, relaxing when they soften and a small smile plays on his lips. 

“Good girl. Now prove it to me.” 

You almost wish Akaashi had just forced himself upon you, finding it so much more demeaning to sink down on his cock all by yourself as he impassively sits back and watches you. But you’re sure that’s the whole point of this, for you to show your submission and acceptance through your actions. After all, nothing he ever does is meaningless. 

And you truly do feel broken, like nothing more than a good wife, a good pet as you wildly shake your hips, bouncing up and down on his cock in a way that makes your breasts jiggle, pussy clenching even tighter and gushing even more when he orders you to look him in the eyes all the while. 

“You’re making me feel so good, sweetheart. You’re so beautiful. You were made for my cock, made for me. Tell me who you belong to.”

In hindsight you’ll be embarrassed by how quick you are to babble his name over and over again in response. But here and now? All you can think about is the warmth in your chest as he praises you, the warmth in your belly as something pleasant and overwhelming builds inside of you. And Akaashi groans at how tightly you squeeze around him as your peak nears, almost cumming from just the hazed over arousal in your lust-filled eyes, pulling you in for a sloppy kiss and swallowing your cries of ecstasy as you reach your high, body convulsing and twitching in his arms as he holds you steady, lips still locked with yours as he thrusts up a few more times before finding his own release and spilling deep inside of you. 

You slump onto him, exhausted body collapsing and still twitching from the onslaught of pleasure. But as the fog from your mind begins to ebb away, you involuntarily tense at the whispered “I love you” that sounds like nails scraping against a chalkboard, hesitating too long to respond in kind. And you know you’ve made a huge mistake when blue eyes are coldly regarding you once more, shivering from both the cold and fear as he pulls back from you before shoving you onto your back and settling between your legs.

“Looks like you need a little more encouragement to reciprocate my feelings. That’s okay. We have all the time in the world for me to show you just how much I love you.”

[fanmoose12]

after death do us apart

Summary: Levi thinks his house is haunted.

Levi is in his kitchen, busy with a very important task of measuring leaves for the tea when he hears a loud, obnoxious thud, coming from his living room.

He softly curses, grabs his cane and rushes, as fast as he can with his body not as strong as it was before, there.

When he arrives, he sees that everything else is in order, except a picture frame that is now lying on a floor.

Levi's blood boils, an annoyance bordering on anger rushing through him. This picture - that one that now lies on the floor like some kind of useless shit - is his most priced possession. It is the only thing that keeps the memory of them alive, the one thing that reminds him during cold and dark nights that he might be alone right now, but there was a time where he wasn't.

It's a picture of him, Hange, Erwin and Mike all standing together with their arms around each other. He doesn't remember if that had ever happened, but that's what he had found in one of Moblit's notebook and after he made that discovery, he just couldn't leave it behind.

No picture of them exists - Mike and Erwin were gone even before they found out what a photo camera was, and in her last years, Hange was always too busy to take a single photo.

He regrets it now, not pushing her to take it, but Moblit's picture is vibrant enough. He doubts a photo could capture their essence quite like his sharp eyes and skilfful hands could.

Onyakopon tells him there are more pictures of Hange now. There are portraits made by talented artists that paint Hange as the last Commander of Survey Corps or during her last moments on Earth.

They're hanged in museums and various memorials but Levi doesn't wish to see any of them. He doesn't care about them, those pictures - they were drawn by talented artists, and Levi doesn't doubt that.

But they never knew Hange, not like he did. So how could they come up with something worthy of the light she bestowed on this world? How they could ever hope to put it on paper?

Levi crouches down, his bones and protesting, and picks up the picture frame.

Thankfully, it is still intact.

But just as his old, broken heart swells with relief, there is another thud. This time, the book falls down, nearly missing Levi's head.

He curses again, loud and vulgar, letting out the best of profanities the Underground taught him.

He whirls around, his eye searching for the offender. The room is empty, though. It's mostly silent too, the only sounds flowing around are those from outside his window. But then he hears it, a faint, feeble murmur that sounds almost like "sorry".

His heart clenches, his hand gripping the cane to keep himself grounded.

He knows that particular sorry. Heard many times many years ago - ehen he stumbled over the barely conscious, sleep deprived body, when his shirt got soaked in tea, soup or some kind of possibly dangerous chemicals, heard it repeating over and over as gentle, trembling hands inspected his injuries and wiped away the blood.

It was sometimes accompanied by cheerful, loud laughter, other times - with quiet, broken sobs.

He couldn't hear that sorry. He couldn't.

It was just a trick of imagination, nothing more, nothing less.

I am not old enough to go senile yet, he thinks as he puts the picture where it belongs to.

It was just a trick of imagination, he repeats and leaves the room.

He goes back to the kitchen and resumes his task. The skin on the back of his neck is prickling, like someone stares intently at it, but Levi chases that feeling away, convincing himself that he's simply being paranoid.

He pointedly ignores the quiet sound, the one that resembles a sigh of disappointment and the one he heard too many times too, during long nights at the lab and inside Commander's office, as well.

***

It's not the first weird (unexplained, she would say) thing that happened in his house. There are instances happening all over the place, each of them brings a different degree of strangeness

Windows and doors - close and open on their own volition, lights turn on and off, books, his clothes, kitchen ware - disappear for hours only to appear in the most random of places, bangs and knocks sound at all times of the day, merciless to his sleeping pattern.

Logically, he knows that it isn't normal. He also knows that he probably should talk about it with someone. But he was never good with that thing - talking. All the people he was somewhat comfortable sharing his troubles are now dead and gone.

He theoretically can discuss it with Gabi and Falco, but he doesn't want to, because, well, no matter how big they think they are, they're still children. Onyakopon is out of question too, because he might just get too worried and then send him into that building on the edge of the town - mental institution, he calls it.

And Levi might be old, but he's not senile. Yet.

Probably. He hopes so at least.

His mind is still his own, broken but not shattered. He knows right from wrong, sees the difference between reality and a dream.

He still functions properly, and yet those instances don't back away.

He'd ignore it, write it off as a product of imagination or strange coincidence. If only it happened once. Or twice. Three times even. Three weird happenings in a row is hard, but possible to ignore. But when it happens every damn day, for almost dozen times, it's not just hard to ignore. It's fucking annoying too.

He knows a name he can put to describe it all, of course. Born and raised in the depth of Underground, how can he not? Stories like this were well known and greatly appreciated down there. They were children of the dark, after all, friends with shadows. Everything dark and scary, anything feared above their little world was welcomed and encouraged.

Isabel used to warn him about enraged, vengeful spirits that hunt those who wronged them or those who disturbed their resting place. Kenny - when he was in a less shitty, kinder mood - used to tell him about souls that die without fulfilling their purpose and were destined to roam through the land of the living for all eternity, unable to sleep with their business unfinished.

Before putting him to bed or whenever she felt especially sentimental, his mother used to speak of those unlucky ones who died before their loved ones did.

"They cannot find peace even in death," she said. "And so they come back to our world and stay close to the ones they still cannot let go, watching them until they are able to reunite."

He never believed in those stories, though. Perhaps, he was born and raised in the Underground, but he got out of it, lived his best years with the sun shining on his face and wind blowing through his hair.

He thought ghosts doesn't exist.

But now that his best years are behind him, now that he has seen enough shit to know that anything is possible, now that some days he himself feels like a ghost, he starts thinking of them more and more.

Hange is gone, he reminds himself, she's gone and even though you miss her like crazy, it won't bring her back.

Hange is gone, and none of it is real.

But, god, does he really wishes that it was. *** It is the middle of the night, and Levi feels a presence behind him. It's not ominous like in that book about ghosts he recently found. It's quite soothing, actually. It makes him almost content.

It's not looming or hoovering over his form either. It's right next to him, as though this something - or someone - lays on a bed close to him.

It doesn't bother him anymore, nearly not as much as it did before. It brings him comfort, in some sort. It reminds him of-

No. It doesn't.

The presence behind him shifts and Levi feels the blanket slip from his legs.

No, that won't do.

He tugs the blanket back, but either he's getting too weak with age or that presence, ghost or whatever is so much stronger than him, but he can't get it back. They fight for it for a while, each struggling to get the upper hand. Levi yanks it back, applying all the force that's still left in him, but bears no result. He grits his teeth, sweat gathering on his temples as he pulls the blanket.

"Give it back, you little sh-"

He doesn't get to finish.

The loud, snapping sound of ripping cloth cuts him off.

"Fuck!" Levi yells, frustrated. It was his favorite blanket. "Is this so funny to you, you piece of shit? Why do you keep tormenting me?"

There is a bit of silence, and then lights in his room turn on. With wide eyes, Levi watches the paper levitate from a small pile on his desk. Pen appears next, and it hovers above the paper, the sounds of furious scribbling filling the dark room.

Before he can say anything else, shout more profanities or threaten the invisible fucker to get out (he may not be as strong as he was before, but he has a cane and he still knows how to use it effectively), the paper starts flying, catching him right in the face.

Levi takes it in his hands, squinting his good eye to see what's written there.

It IS funny, but i didn't wish to torment you. You know that, right?

Something resembling a sob escapes from his lips. Levi fists his hands into sheets below him, but eight fingers is apparently not enough to ground him and keep him from falling.

"Who are you?" he asks shakily, his voice breaking.

The pen starts moving again, flying over another paper. This one isn't thrown in his face. It's gently laid next to his thigh. Levi takes it, and his hands shake so much it gets hard to read. Words swim between his eyes, but Levi persists, laying the note on his lap and bending over to see better.

His whole world shakes when he finally deciphers the words.

Haven't you guessed already?

He closes his eyes and some sound escapes past his lips, he's not sure if that can be called a sob or a chuckle, or a combination of both, but his whole body is trembling as he tries to fight strength to whisper,

"Hange?"

From somewhere close to him, on his left side where she always used to be, he hears a delighted, happy laughter.

He looks around the room, his eye shifting, desperate to find her, but he sees nothing.

Fear grips at his heart.

So just a hallucination then? Simple wishful thinking?

"Where are you?" he murmurs, giving it all another chance. "Hange-"

"I'm here," a warm sensation travels up his forearm. It doesn't exactly feel like an ordinary touch would, but it's there, it seems real and it fills his chest with hope. "Right here, a little to your left," she continues. "Just look at me, Levi."

He does, immediately he does. But there is no one next to him. The gentle sensation doesn't fade, gets more persistent if anything, but Levi still can't see her.

"You need to look a little bit harder," Hange murmurs. "If you can hear me, I'm sure you can see me."

Levi stares, his eye focused on the empty place next to him. He strains his vision, moves his gaze up and down, huffs in frustration and then finally, finally, he sees something.

It's vague, indistinct, barely visible in the dark, but he makes out the outline of the body. He can see the mop of brown hair, and they're messy as always, can see strong arms and wide shoulders, that long, prominent nose, that rosy, soft lips that are stretched out in a hopeful smile, those brown, sparkly he missed so much.

"Hange," he breathes out, his voice barely above whisper.

He wants to touch her, god, he wants to touch her so much, but when he puts his hand above hers, it goes right through her.

"The situation is not exactly perfect," Hange laughs. "I don't think you can touch me, and I can't exactly touch you as well."

"I don't care," he shakes his head and moves his fingers, until his and Hange's are close. He doesn't feel much, but something warm is still there and it still makes his breath stumble.

Hange is here, she's not gone, not completely, she's here, with him. It is more than enough.

*** They fall into a sort of routine after that. It's easy with Hange, as it always was.

She disappears for short periods of time, refusing to tell Levi where she goes.

"They asked me not to tell you," she says enigmatically, and doesn't ever elaborate, no matter how many Levi asks.

At first, he still worries he's going crazy, but then Falco, Gabi and Onyakopon show up. They all sit down around the small coffee table in Levi's living room, chatting amongst themselves and sharing the last news and gossips.

"You look healthier," Falco remarks, as Levi brings the tea from the kitchen.

As soon as he puts the cups down, the chaos begins.

The door shuts with a loud bang, the windows rattle and chandelier above them starts to dangerously tremble.

Levi also notes that Hange is careful not to make any mess, but she still acts so damn loud. And dramatic. He hides a sigh as he continues to sip on his tea and watch Onyakopon, Gabi and Falco lose their shit in front of him.

Gabi ducks behind an armchair, Falco close on her heels, curling around her. Onyakopon keeps frantically looking around, his breath quick and shallow. Levi can almost hear the sound of his panicked heartbeat.

"Stop it, four-eyes," he murmurs, too softly to everyone else to hear (not that they could pay attention to him amidst all that clutter anyway).

Everything stills immediately. Silence washes over his apartment, interrupted only by Onyakopon's gasps.

Hange snickers beside him, but Levi is the only who can hear her.

"This was fun," she giggles, running a hand over his shoulder.

Levi can't disagree with her on that one.

"What was that?" Onyakopon exclaims, clutching his heart. "Was it-"

"A ghost?" Gabi cries out, looking both horrified and excited.

Levi glances at Hange, silently telling her 'she looks just like you'. She waves him off and turns back to Gabi.

"Is is the first time it happens?" Falco asks.

"No," Levi answers, shrugging. A week ago, he'd be as disturbed as his friends are, but now he moved past disturbance to acceptance to delight. "It's been happening for weeks now."

"You aren't safe here," Falco, bless his young soul, looks genuinely worried, down to the deep crease on his forehead. "We should look for another apartment."

"Don't bother. I'm quite comfortable here."

Of course, he's comfortable. Hange is here with him, after all.

"But!" Gabi tries to protest, but Levi silences her with a raised palm.

"I'm not injured or unwell," he gestures on himself, as if to illustrate his point. "And, besides, it gives house some character, don't you think?"

"A very scary character," Onyakopon notes.

"Well," Levi almost smiles, hearing Hange's laughter behind his back. "The house is not very different from its master then."

His guests leave soon after, but not before Gabi and Falco make him swear to call them if anything 'more dangerous and scarier' happens.

As soon as they're out, Levi sits down in his favorite armchair. Hange flies over to him.

"So," she looks up at him, and the bright sparkle in her eyes, even though it is still a bit indistinct, sets his heart racing. "Have I convinced you that you're not going crazy?"

He wants to ask how, opens his mouth even, but then promptly shuts it closed. Of course, it is Hange. She knows his thoughts better than he does.

And if he had any doubts about her realness, they've disappeared right in that moment.

*** Hange is almost always next to him, hovering over his shoulder and constantly chatting into his ear. It almost feels like the good old days.

Although now he can't kick her leg whenever she starts teasing or rambling too much. His trademark glare has to be good enough, though.

He brings Hange books and introduces her to all kinds of new technology. She is beaming like a child at every new thing he shows her, and Levi's heart is so full of love for that weirdo, he's afraid it's going to burst.

Hange accompanies him on his strolls too, and his poker face has never put to trial more than during those moments, when Hange starts joking or fooling around, making him almost lose all of his composure.

He can't laugh or even berate her in public, and she knows it, goddamn. And uses it for her advantage, the asshole.

Levi gets his revenge when they're back at his house, refusing to give her new books until she swears to behave.

She swears every time, hand on her chest and all that. And she breaks that promise the very same day. Levi can't stay mad at her, though. He never could.

*** "You know, I thought you were a vengeful spirit at first," he shares with her one evening.

He sits in front of the fire, his legs outstretched to the source of warmth. Hange is laying on the floor, book hovering above her. She closes and turns to Levi.

"I could be," she says. "But, unfortunately, the people I'd like to haunt are long dead as well. Floch is gone, Eren is too..." Hange scoffs, shaking her head. "And I can't very well haunt every bloodthirsty soldier back in Paradise. Too much work for the old, frail me."

Levi lifts an eyebrow. "You don't look that old to me. Especially, when compering with me..."

"Oh, Levi," Hange rises and gets closer to him. She sits down on his lap, and Levi feels warmth spread through the skin of his cheek as Hange puts her hand on it. There is a smile on her lips, the one that Levi knows too well. The one that means that Hange is going to say something very, very stupid. She opens her mouth and proves him right once again. "I was always more attractive than you," Hange murmurs. "Nothing changed since my death."

He rolls his eye and laments that he can't flick her nose.

Hange is still smiling, and when she leans in, he can almost feel a ghost of a kiss on his lips. *** "Don't you ever feel regret?" Levi asks one day.

He is sitting in his wheelchair, looking at the bright setting sun from the small garden near his house.

Hange is on top of him, her long legs dangling from the wheelchair. As he speaks up, she turns to him, and the happy expression turns into something more thoughtful.

"Regret?" she repeats, frowning. "What can I ever regret?"

"This?" Levi gestures around. "I know, you're still here, but don't..." he frowns, struggling to find the right words. "Don't you wish for something more? For us to have a proper chance?"

Hange looks up at the sky, and for a moment she's quiet. Levi thinks if he should take his words back, change the subject completely but it's something that's been bugging him for a long time. He's happy, so happy, that Hange can still be with him. But there are moments when he wishes for... more. To be able to hold her hand and share meals with her, to walk with her through the streets without worrying that someone might think he's some drunkard or lunatic who talks to himself.

He knows it's selfish to even think about it, he already received so much more than he deserved, but isn't selfishness an inherent part of a human?

Sometimes, he just can't help but long for something more.

"I'm sure you know what a method of trial and error means," Hange begins, looking back at him. Her words confuse him, but before he can open his mouth, Hange shushes him and continues. "Remember those days at my lab? Nothing ever worked out, every experiment turned into an ever bigger disaster than the previous one, and I was so frustrated I wanted to crawl up the wall. But there was a certain beauty in it all - I tried, I failed, I tried again. Over and over, until something good came out. And, boy," she chuckles. "When something worked, it worked perfectly. And, maybe, all of this, all of us," she swiftly runs her fingertips through his brow and Levi shivers at the warm, gentle feeling that spreads down to his soul. "As a failed attempt. We tried, it didn't work," she pauses, and her eyes are bright, much brighter than the sun behind her. "We can try again."

Her words stir something inside, a long forgotten feeling of hope. But he still can't accept it so easily, the cynic in him fights to make himself known.

"But you're already dead," he protests.

"And that means this attempt has failed. Not as spectacularly as that time when my experiment blew up and burned Moblit's eyebrows, but... not a perfect success either. We can try again, though. We can say goodbye, walk from each other and then meet again, in some other place and time."

"And what if we fail again?"

"Then we try again. And again, and again, until we can get it right. And when we finally do, oh boy!" she exclaims, flailing her arms into the air. "Wouldn't that be spectacular?"

She laughs, so happy and free, and Levi wishes to gather her in his arms and never let go. All he can do right now, though, is circle his hands around her waist, imagining that he's holding her.

Just like always, he trusts Hange.

They will meet again, and, maybe, it will all fall apart in a disaster worse than this one. But they can try again. They can keep trying, until... forever.

And, perhaps, that's the true beauty of life.

[wickedscribbles]

Come What May, Chapter Two

A/N: Enjoy! You can find up to Chapter 9 on my Ao3 if you get antsy for more; my username is just WickedScribbles. :) 

Masterlist

Pairing: Obi-Wan Kenobi x Original Female Character (Second Person Perspective) 

Rating: Explicit

Tags: female masturbation, male masturbation, first kisses, admission of feelings, Obi-Wan ain’t give a fuck he’s getting some, that’s not how the Force works, discussion of the Jedi Code, Obi-Wan is a switch and you can’t change my mind, come marking

Word Count: 4.9 K

After the awkward ship ride home to Coruscant, Master Obi-Wan seems to make it his mission to stay as far away from you as possible. In the Temple, this isn't hard to do; most floors and rooms were meant to hold dozens, if not hundreds of people, and Obi-Wan knows its halls better than most.

It’s admirable, how he’s managed to vanish in a place that adores him so much. Have you seen Master Obi-Wan? is always followed by, Oh, you just missed him or No, I haven’t seen him. The most you’ve been able to see in weeks is the edge of his cloak slipping around a corner. A startled look over his shoulder as he flees the gardens, realizing that you’re meditating there, too. If you’re both attending a council meeting, you swear he ignores you so vehemently that you start to doubt your own existence.

And his life Force? Forget about it. He's shoved it down so tightly that he might as well not exist to you. You find yourself pining for it. If he's determined to never interact with you again, you had hoped to at least feel his Force touch yours, even in a friendly way. It's almost as if he yanked a part of your own essence away when he withdrew that night in Odryn. Something feels missing from you. In the mess hall, you start asking for cinnamon tea. It tastes flavorless.

In some ironic twist, now you're the one tormented by dreams. But each one leaves you right on the edge, with no one to reach out to. Alone in your quiet room, gasping for air as the details of the dream drain away the more awake you become. Obi-Wan. Smirking down at your naked body. Hands. Tongues. Breath. Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan. Each time it happens, you bring yourself to climax, face muffled deep into your pillow, biting down a cry of his name.

Hesitant, you touch the thick cloud of life Force all around you. You have to swallow the bile rising in your throat. It's like slogging through floodwaters with Jedi on all sides; far too overwhelming. You have to pull out almost immediately, the sensation akin to being drowned under the weight of information.

You can feel the signatures of every Force-sensitive in the Temple, from the smallest youngling all the way to Master Yoda. They all have a presence. Lying on your back, you stare up at the ceiling with a fading sense of nausea. If you ever want to speak with Obi-Wan again, you’re going to have to get better at this.

Two more weeks pass before you can re-enter this headspace. Inhale, exhale. Don't try too hard to keep a rhythm. Body relaxed. Mind at ease. Then...you dive in.

Lit candles and a holonovel. Leaning on an old cane. The smell of blaster fire. Giggling and playing tag with your creche mates. Lying in a medbay bed, watching sunlight streak the window. Feeling fear wrench in your gut at the thought that this war might never end. Watching your Padawan twirl her sabers, her lekku flying behind her. Sitting cross-legged in the library tower, thinking about things you shouldn't.

The last one is him -- it has to be. There’s no other Force here that feels like this; the same mix of emotions run through it that you felt before. But now, they feel muted, pushed down under a working consciousness. You’re not sure you would’ve been able to sense it at all, had you not already made the connection.

Though you're still reeling from a dozen other sensations, you get to your feet. The library’s halfway across the Temple -- you trip and nearly fall flat in your haste to get there in time. Your urgency earns you more than a few strange looks, but you can’t bring yourself to care. You don’t even have a plan for what to say when you get there; all you know is that you need to see him again.

You slow to a walk when you reach the library’s entrance, trying to blend in with those coming and going. It’s the middle of the afternoon, the perfect time of day to be here if you wanted to go unnoticed. Younglings have just been released from their lessons, roaming the aisles. They chatter at a poorly managed volume, despite their minder’s warning. Older Masters roam to and fro as well. Some are glued to holodisplays, others watch the younglings play with fond smiles.

But where are you, Master Kenobi?

Dodging a group of Padawans, you scan the perimeter. Nodding hellos and exchanging brief greetings, your heart begins to drop the longer you investigate. It wasn’t him. All that work, for you to be wrong. Whatever connection had occurred on that mission is unwanted on his end -- so much that he's actively pretending that you aren't alive. Jedi are supposed to be good at letting go of attachments -- are forbidden from forming them -- so why does this sting? You turn to the library’s exit, fist clenched tight. Then, you hear it.

“Thanks, Master Kenobi!”

“Of course, Padawan. Any time.”

A short Rhodesian girl darts past you, beaming as she holds her unlit lightsaber with newfound determination.

Only years of discipline and training keep you from bolting past her like a Jawa to a shipwreck. Taking a deep breath, you round the corner. There he is. Finally. Sitting cross-legged, just as you’d seen him through the Force, warmed by the sun coming in through one of the high windows. He doesn’t look up when you spot him -- his brow is furrowed (like it was when he -- no, not here) like what he’s reading is too important to take his eyes off of.

Is it your imagination, or has he gotten prettier since you’ve had the chance to get a good look at him? His hair’s longer -- it’s starting to curl near his ears. The beard’s a little bushier, but still well kept. Obi-Wan brings a hand to his mouth, stroking it lightly. Maker. You swear the ghost sensation of the hair is still tickling your lips, though it’s never really been there.

Well, you didn’t track him down to stare.

You walk over to his small table in the corner, and he only looks up when your hand is on the back of the unoccupied chair. Must be one fascinating holotext. If your heart wasn’t pounding, you might have laughed at the expression that crossed Obi-Wan’s face before he composed himself. His eyebrows threatened to disappear right into his hairline. How many people could say that they’d caught Master Kenobi off guard in such a manner?

“Master,” you greet, bowing in a show of respect. “May I have a word with you?” You have to pull your hand off of the chair so that he can’t see it trembling.

For a moment he looks at you, apparently lost for words. You wish you knew what he was thinking -- or even better, could feel his life Force mingled with yours. You practically grieve it with him right in front of you, but unable to feel a thing. It’s torture, waiting for him to either accept or dismiss you with no hint about which he’ll do. At last, with the smallest of sighs, he closes the holotext and straightens.

“I suppose I can spare a moment,” says Obi-Wan, getting to his feet. “Come with me.”

Feeling like a youngling again, you follow him out of the library and into a hall that you’ve hardly ever been down. Together, you pass no one but a few busy cleaning droids. Neither one of you says a word as he pauses in front of a door, keying in a code. Looking around to make sure that no one’s watching, Obi-Wan waves you in before he follows. The door locks behind him.

It’s an abandoned training room. Still clean due to the presence of droids, it’s nonetheless clear that no living thing has set foot in here for some time. Wooden sparring sticks lie in a pile next to the door, and an outdated holoprojector sits in the far corner. The small size surprises you -- a room this large would likely only hold around half a dozen students. You imagine that’s why it’s no longer used.

“Please, sit.” Master Obi-Wan gestures to a floor mat, and you drop onto it obediently. He mirrors your assumed posture, back straight and ankles crossed. As if this was an out-of-the-way meditation session, not a tense confrontation that you’d been trying to have for weeks.

“You’re a hard man to find, Master,” you say, hoping to break the tension.

He ducks his head, the slightest hint of color creeping over his cheeks. “Yes. Well. War does keep one busy.” You watch his fingers drum on top of his knee, a habit never seen before. Is he anxious?

You nod. “Of course. And yet I notice that I haven’t been assigned any more missions.” When he doesn’t say anything, you continue.

“Our... mission on Odryn seemed to meet the Council’s standards.” Your tone is light, cautious. It’s true that you’ve been stuck in the Temple since then, with many other Knights coming and going. Hard not to believe that Obi-Wan hasn’t had a hand in where you get assigned. Or if.

Obi-Wan takes in a sharp breath, turning away. Was that going too far? He’s silent a moment before speaking, his tone lower than you’re used to hearing it. “Young one, I...that is to say...accompanying you that day was a mistake.” He pinches the bridge of his nose, a look familiar to you from watching him chase Anakin Skywalker around.

You’re genuinely curious when you ask what he means.

“What I mean is--” the blush on his face is darkening, and you lower your eyes, biting off a smile. Cute, your mind tells you again.

“I knew that there was -- that I -- felt something toward you. That offering myself as a volunteer to go with you on the Odryn mission was a poor choice. That my thoughts would -- that I might --” He breaks off, taking a moment to collect his thoughts. “Yet I went anyway. I am so sorry for what followed.” Obi-Wan looks ashamed, not meeting your eyes when you go searching for his.

Ashamed? Sorry? Poor choice? That’s...the complete opposite of how you feel.

Felt something toward you! Your brain screams in retaliation, alight with joy that you hadn’t hallucinated the whole ordeal.

“Do you...remember anything?” you ask timidly. “The dream?”

“I remember enough,” he replies, not seeming to want to discuss it further. “Enough to be consumed with guilt for what you had to witness. I assure you -- I swear -- that every moment since has been dedicated to severing the bond I mistakenly forged. To improving myself as a Jedi.”

For several seconds, you have no clue what he could mean. Then it hits -- he thinks that everything that happened was all his doing. That you were a bystander, a -- a victim.

“Obi-Wan,” you stammer. You’ve never called him that before, and it feels far too intimate once it leaves your mouth. He looks up, blue eyes full of chagrin. “Did you really think that was all you?”

“I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“Can I...could I just show you?” You swallow. Oh please I’ve missed you, please.

Obi-Wan opens his mouth, then frowns, seeming to think better of it. After a moment of hesitation he simply closes his eyes and inclines his head, an invitation. So relieved you could cry, you close your eyes in turn and drop your shoulders, relaxing. Yes, oh stars, yes. Obi-Wan. Obi-Wan.

When you reach, the door to his life Force is open -- barely ajar, but open all the same. This time you’re the eager one, the neglected one, and your Force greets him like a long lost friend. He wraps around you, hesitant but willing to take you, to listen. You feel tears slip down your face before pushing harder.

Sunshine, tea, cinnamon, cedarwood, shame shame shame. His purest parts clouded with it, making your chest ache so deep you can’t catch a proper breath. This isn’t right. This isn’t the whole picture. You long to make him understand. To let him know that you want him every bit as much as he wanted you that day, and so you flex forward and show.

You hear him gasp from the sheer volume of it. All your desire, watching him sleep and dream of you. Feeling the ebb and flow of his thoughts and thinking you’d never touched a more beautiful life Force. Watching his fantasy about you and feeding back one of your own. When you play back your affection toward him -- before Odryn and after -- he makes the smallest sound under his breath. And when you show him how you came just from feeling his orgasm, right there on the jungle floor, he withdraws from your mind so painfully it feels like a blow to the head.

“Stop,” he chokes out, eyes wild. “I -- I get the picture.” His hands clench tight to the material of his robes, arms crossed over his midsection.

“Are you okay?” you ask quietly, wiping your face. “I didn’t mean to overwhelm you -- but you need to know. It’s not just you.”

Both hands bridge in front of Obi-Wan’s mouth as he stares straight ahead. “I'm not sure if this is better or worse.”

“Why?” You lean forward, unable to keep the desperate note out of your voice. “Master -- Obi-Wan -- I don’t see the issue. This appears to be… highly mutual.” You let your eyes dart down to his waist, which he’s still keeping hidden from you. He catches your look and bites his lip, and never in your life have you wanted to break a rule more. Because you know exactly what he’s going to say before he even has a chance to explain.

“Sometimes I forget how young you are,” he sighs, shifting under your gaze. “You know why. The Code -- attachments are exactly the sort of thing we can’t have.” But you can hear how his breathing’s gone shallow and shaky. His own eyes are lingering on your mouth, like he’s imagining if you taste like you do in his dreams.

“I think that’s an outdated rule.” You cross your arms, not missing the way his gaze now bounces down to your lifted breasts. “You’re attached to Anakin. And his Padawan, Ahsoka.”

“That’s…” Obi-Wan sighs.

“If either were about to die on the battlefield, would you not run to save them? Or leave it to fate?” You quirk an eyebrow, knowing his answer.

“I suppose you’ve got me there. But that’s not -- not the same attachment. It’s familial, not -- this.” He glances up at you shyly. “I can say with full confidence that Anakin has never tempted me in the ways that you have.”

“You’re one of the only people in the Temple he hasn’t, then,” you laugh, trying not to bask in the thought that he’s just said you tempt him. Obi-Wan grins back. A bit of that sunbeam feeling returns, though his Force is nowhere near yours at the moment.

“Anakin has a...fast and loose relationship with the Jedi Code. Even more so now that I am no longer his Master,” he chuckles. “Still. I have to assert that this is a different matter.”

“Hmm.” You frown, feigning contemplation though your mind is already set. “What if we... promise not to get attached? To fall in love? Would that feel safe enough for you?” A long shot.

Obi-Wan shakes his head, giving you a sad sort of smile. “I’m afraid that wouldn’t be possible, dear. I’ve seen your thoughts. You’ve seen mine.” The seeds have already sprouted, he doesn’t say.

Unable to help it, you scoot closer until your knees touch his. “That’s too bad. I -- I really wanted to kiss you, Master.”

And there -- you’ve struck a nerve. Simply addressing him as Master in such a sweet, plaintive tone is enough. Obi-Wan practically flinches, lips pressed tight together. His eyes are bright and longing, looking right into yours now. His lashes are longer than mine. You know without looking into his mind that he remembers that particular part of his dream. Finding you in his room, bare but for your long, brown cloak.

For a moment, you stare at one another. Then he takes a deep breath. “Well. In for a chit, in for a credit,” he murmurs, and presses his mouth against yours.

Oh, it’s soft. So gentle. The barest touch of lips, yet it makes you shiver. You place a hand on his cheek with a happy hum, so glad you were able to convince him. Obi-Wan answers with a satisfied sound of his own, inching further into the kiss. When he presses harder, his moustache threatens to go up your nose. You pull away instinctively, fighting not to giggle.

“Not good?” Obi-Wan’s mouth is still inches from your own, his innocent question full of concern.

“No, it’s fine. But you’re a little,” you grin, “fuzzy.”

“Oh.” His hand drops to his mouth as if he’d never considered it before. “You’re right, I suppose. It is getting to be a bit much. Should I shave it?”

“No!”

“Trim it, then.”

“Later,” you breathe, coming for his lips at a less direct angle.

“Mm! Mmm…”

The urgency of his tone betrays him as he claims your mouth again, more confident this time. Obi-Wan’s legs fall open loosely, and you crawl forward to sit between them, not quite in his lap. His arms come around you, fingers tight on your shoulder blades. You let your mouth fall open against his closed lips as you pant, heart hammering. Gods, he’s strong. The knowledge that he could easily be rough with you -- and yet his mind shows that all he wants is to be gentle -- only makes you want him more.

Obi-Wan’s lips open against yours in turn, and you whimper at his breath mingling with your own, hot and inquisitive. You curl a hand in his hair, wondering if he’ll have the reaction you imagined in your Force projection. He doesn’t disappoint -- with a needy little gasp, he pulls you forward, effectively placing you onto the very erection he’s been trying so hard to hide. His cock flexes up into your core. Oh kriff yes there, your body sings, applying the lightest pressure back.

This time Obi-Wan is the one to pull away, dropping his forehead to your cheek. You slide back to the floor, leaning back on your palms.

“Would now be a bad time to say that I have no idea what I’m doing?” he admits with a breathless laugh. His Force is trickling back open like he can’t seem to help it, and oh, do you like what you feel.

You laugh too, just as flustered. “Doesn’t seem like it, Master.”

“I’m flattered, but really. I’m rather clueless. I assume from the way you’ve spoken about attachments that you are...not.” You sense curiosity from him, though he says nothing more about it. In return, you offer your thoughts. It’s easier -- and far less embarrassing -- to show. Your eyes seek Obi-Wan’s, asking permission to join his life Force again. He inhales shakily, and you don’t miss how tightly his hands are clenched in his lap.

Pressing a kiss to his temple, you re-enter, gentler this time. Truthfully, the experiences you have to offer aren’t that impressive. Fervent touches with a few fellow Knights who also had little to no experience, but passion in spades. Your hands on your own body, long after night had fallen at the Temple. Obi-Wan observes these parts of you, not critical or judgemental. Instead, you’re met only with his growing attraction to you, his consistent relief that what occurred on Odryn was not his fault (but you started it, you tease.).

And you? You prod. His Force shrinks a little, nervous, before opening to you further on the topic.

He hadn’t lied. In conscious practice, there’s nothing. You sift through years and years of thought in fast-forward and he’s never even laid a hand on himself, though the urge to simmers far closer to the surface than he prefers. This...definitely explains the lack of certain details in his dream. Aside from intimacy displayed by couples he’s seen out and about on-planet, he doesn’t have much to go on. This isn’t a topic they teach you as a youngling. Because why would a Jedi need to know? You remember your own firsts, everything coated with disquietude.

“Told you,” he mutters, breaking your concentration. When you open your eyes, he’s giving you a classic Kenobi smirk. Uncertainty lingers behind the kind crinkle of his eyes, anxiety that he can’t quite banish. Neither of you address it. “Are you still so eager to break the rules?” Do I still appeal to you?

In answer, you graze your mouth over his once more. When you tug at Obi-Wan’s bottom lip with your teeth, the pile of sparring sticks in the corner collapses and scatters.

“This is a training room,” you say between kisses, adrenaline flooding your veins at the noises he’s making. Quiet gasps ascend into groans the more daring you get with your tongue, his fingers trembling on your shoulder. “So we should make the best of it. Get some more experience under our belts.”

“I like -- your phrasing,” Obi-Wan manages. "But I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to stop talking," one of his hands snakes to your ass and you squeak in surprise, "and come here."

Gladly, you have time to think at him, before he grabs your hips and lifts you right back into his lap. Nothing shy about it this time -- he's put you directly on his clothed cock.

Now you're the one caught off guard, and he can sense it all over you. How badly you want it. How long you've imagined. You must smell like need. Locking eyes with you, Obi-Wan rolls his hips into your cunt, slow and purposeful. When you whine, something seems to click in his expression -- like he's filing the information away.

I see.

See wh-- !

But you're not allowed to finish the thought. In one motion, Obi-Wan is rising up and over you, crowding you onto the floor under him. You lie there, the training mat stiff underneath you, as he continues to survey you. His hips press yours firmly into the floor, a delicious pressure as you lie flat and he sits astride you.

“There are several options running through your mind, little one,” he says at last, and you blush. No one’s called you that since you were a youngling, tripping over the hem of your robes and envying the Padawans with their lightsabers. To hear him refer to you as little, when you’re pinned under his arousal, does something to you. “Show me the one you want the most.”

Licking your lips at the way his curious look has morphed to one of hunger, you offer the image that has gotten you to climax for the past few nights. You had been desperate to be claimed by the one person who hadn’t seemed to want you.

How things have changed, you muse, watching his eyes go wide as he watches the scene play out in his own mind. Obi-Wan’s full lips part on a silent moan as it vanishes, blinking back to reality slowly.

“Yes. Yes, I think we can manage that.” His voice is so soft, a contrast to the hard press of his cock and hips. “Pull your tunic up for me.”

You scramble to obey, exposing the flat planes of your stomach, then the curve of your breasts. The sturdy material of the tunic is gathered up near your neck, leaving your torso bare for him. Obi-Wan reaches down to swipe the pad of his thumb over one nipple, making you squirm under his hold. He purrs at the desperate sensation it incites in your core, feeling it almost as you do through the Force.

Staying silent as he’d asked you to, you nonetheless beg him to hurry, both with your eyes and through the Force. You know he wants this just as badly -- can feel the stiffness of his cock and the arousal pooling in his gut as surely as if it was your own body -- yet he takes his time here.

So when he finally palms his dick through his trousers, forcing it flat against your stomach, you mewl for him. Your hands reach up to dig into his thighs, urging him on.

Exhaling through his nose, Obi-Wan continues to palm himself through the material, sucking in a gasp when he finally lets himself wrap a hand around it and squeeze.

“Out of everything you imagined,” he murmurs, undoing the ties on his pants deftly, “this is really what you want most?” His erection peeks out at you now, straining his underwear. With a bob of Obi-Wan’s hand, that too is pulled out of the way. Fucking -- Maker --

“Yes,” you whimper, mouth watering for it.

It feels like you’ve waited years to have Obi-Wan’s heavy, naked cock lying full on your stomach. He’s thicker than anyone you’ve been with, and flushed red with want. The tip is already dripping, warm on your cool skin. He grabs it firmly in his right hand, a ragged groan tearing from his throat as he gives it a slow pull. Powerless to stop yourself from wanting a closer look, you prop yourself up on your elbows. Your heart jumps to your throat as the extra attention makes him flush.

Those lovely eyes, framed by copper lashes, dart away from yours as he tugs harder, biting a knuckle to keep from crying out. Kriff, you wish he wouldn’t. You want his overstimulated sounds almost as much as you want his come smearing your chest.

One hand works his shaft at an increasing pace as the other tenses in the material of his tunic. "Always -- so much," he confesses in a gasp. "Such a m-mess to wake up to." And indeed, pre-come is dribbling down his cock and hand in rivulets now, pooling below your belly button.

"I've never," he shudders, shoulders tensing, "never done this -- on purpose --" Obi-Wan looks down at you, not really seeing, brows knitted with desperation. The normally composed Jedi is falling apart, and it’s driving you insane. "I can f-feel it about to happen." In his fist, his cock is making obscenely wet sounds as he covers it with his own juices.

"How -- how close?" you ask, unable to take your eyes off of the way he's working his hips in tight little thrusts now. Fucking into his hand like no matter how fast he strokes, it won’t be enough. You feel like your hips will be bruised by how hard he’s pinning you into the training mat, but you can’t bring yourself to give a damn.

“Close --” he whines, ducking his head, face screwed up as he pants. Obi-Wan’s hand and wrist are a blur as he pleasures himself, balls drawing up in anticipation. His hair is a mess, so untidy from its normal neat part, and you wish you could run your hands through it. “Oh, gods -- oh, gods --” His Force is blazing with the chase, teetering on the edge of an orgasm he’s never been able to fully experience. Going to come all over you, stars, feels so good --

“Please, Master, please,” you beg, shoving his hips further up your torso. You’re soaking in your underwear, waiting for him to mark you.

You see it in his eyes three seconds before it happens. They go completely round with wonder, a hand slamming over his mouth as the first spurts of hot come streak your stomach.

Little one, stars -- I’m coming, I’m coming -- oh f-fuck fuck --

Though Obi-Wan hardly lets more than a whimper escape past his own hand, you hear everything loud and clear in your mind. It’s every bit as intense as you remember from that day on Odryn, and you clench as his aftershocks roll through your empty cunt. Rope after rope of come covers your chest, from the bottom of your stomach to the hollow of your throat. The scent of it coats your nostrils, thick and musky and Obi-Wan.

Obi-Wan’s eyes flutter closed, hand falling from its grip over his mouth. “That -- that was…”

“Messy,” you joke, offering a smile. Incredible, you add as a hint of embarrassment creeps into your bond. When you reiterate how good it felt to watch him losing himself in the pleasure of it, he relaxes again. With a sigh, he eases off of your hips and tucks his wilting cock back into his trousers, settling down on his side next to you.

“You do look rather pretty like that,” he admits quietly, cheeks still flushed from exertion.

“Just wait until we actually take our clothes off, Master.”

“Pfft.” Obi-Wan leans in and kisses you, as gentle as the first time. “I have to tell you something,” he adds, voice lowered to a conspiratorial volume though you’re alone.

“What is it?”

“You taste like that dreadful tea they serve in the mess.”

[the-music-maniac]

You ever notice how similar Xie Wang and Han Ying’s stories and character arcs are?

A warning here that this contains spoilers for all of Word of Honor/Shan He Ling. Stop reading now, I reference a ton of shit.

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I was actually discussing a couple fic ideas with a friend a few weeks ago, and I got to wondering after thinking about those parallels I could see -

Does Han Ying x Xie Wang exist as a ship?? Is that a thing?? That exists?? Can it please exist??

It has so much potential. There's so many narrative parallels with these two characters.

They're two people who deserved better than their respective endings, who never got what they wanted, because of the manipulation of men who wanted power and would stop at nothing to get it (Jin Wang and Zhao Jing). The manipulation of those who saw them as less then what they were.

They also have similarities in their relationships with their "mentor figures" - Han Ying and Zhou Zishu, and Xie Wang and Zhao Jing. They have quite a lot of differences too, enough that their lives parallel each other instead of mirror, and I just think that their personal experiences could make for a very compelling storyline if these two were to interact. It would be an interesting road to a development of a potential relationship, and moreover an opportunity for both of them to learn from the other and heal.

And real talk? I just want the both of them to be happy tbh (and of course that obviously doesn't need to involve a romantic relationship - I just have no self control. I'd be just as ecstatic about a really good friendship though).

I also know they never interact in the drama - but then again these two are also literally dead in the drama. Reality is what you make it 🤣🤣. And considering how close the Scorpion was working with Tian Chuang - honestly I'm pretty sure you can't really say they haven't met either.

So anyways, I guess reasons why I think this would be a good ship dynamic:

First of all, their relations with their mentors and how it's similar to each other and also not. The resulting potential for mutual support:

Han Ying's dearest wish is to be a disciple of Zhou Zishu's, as he says plainly in that one episode.

The thing is, there could be quite a lot of subtext taken from that - I've read interpretations that he's in love with Zhou Zishu, or at least has romantic feelings for him - a strong crush possibly - which I can plausibly see (I can also see it just being platonic, which I will talk about later). But yeah, a romantic interpretation just because of how strong his devotion towards Zhou Zishu is. The wistful looks?????

In that kind of situation, IF the romantic feelings are two-sided instead of one-sided - which I would like to go on the record and say that with Han Ying and Zhou Zishu, I don't believe it is - and as a result actually becomes something, that type of relationship would not be the most healthy, because there's a very strong imbalance of power. Even if the mentor figure genuinely cares and actively minds the mentee's feelings - the mentee still undeniably has that level of hero worship - it won't ever be equal. We can see that already in Han Ying's case, Zhou Zishu repeatedly tells him to stop treating him with so much formality because he's not the leader anymore and yet Han Ying still remains deferential.

In that interpretation, if that were the case of it being two sided - Han Ying would have quite a lot of similarity of experience to Xie Wang's relation to Zhao Jing -

And here I can talk about how Xie Wang and Zhao Jing's relationship is uh. Kinda sus tbh. Like. That doesn't look like a healthy or platonic father-son relationship and it gives me the creeps. In Xie Wang and Zhao Jing's relationship, I'm more inclined to believe there's some semi-incestous yifu fucking going on than anything platonic, there's just so many sus moments - and if I'm not mistaken they dubbed over a line in the show where it was basically stated plainly that it's not a platonic relationship. Or at least - Xie Wang doesn't view Zhao Jing platonically (and I don't believe Zhao Jing discourages it at all, if anything he actively encourages and guides it to make Xie Wang dependent on him). So we got another setup where it's potentially one sided romantic feelings/hero worship. Or maybe two sided for them, who knows.

But the thing is, while I talked about unhealthy romantic relationships in my section about Han Ying, a fundamental difference between Xie Wang and Han Ying's relationships with their mentors is that Zhou Zishu's relationship with Han Ying would be a lot healthier. A LOT healthier. So much fucking healthier, I cannot emphasis that enough. And that's mostly because their relationship is not two-sided, and because he sees Han Ying as a person.

He cares about Han Ying a lot but not as anything beyond platonic - he views him as a student and a subordinate and protects him as such. Han Ying on the other hand could have romantic feelings for Zhou Zishu. Not in love per se, it feels to me like it could be a mix of a really strong crush with really strong hero worship. I don't think Han Ying truly knows Zhou Zishu's other aspects of personality (yet?? I guess because if we're gonna hypothetically bring both Han Ying and Xie Wang back to life he probably will eventually get to know Zhou Zishu properly), because I doubt he ever showed anything beyond his stern assassin leader type of persona to his subordinates. He was likely caring yes, but in a way that keeps people at a distance. So, a mentor-mentee type of relationship where Han Ying could be crushing quite hard on Zhou Zishu. But still a healthy one, as Zhou Zishu, one - doesn't intend to pursue a romantic relationship with Han Ying - and moreover, although might know about his feelings, or his devotion at least(tbh you'd have to be blind not to), he treats them, and him, with respect. He doesn't try and manipulate Han Ying, or use his emotions for his own purposes. He sees Han Ying as his own person. His affection and regards towards Han Ying remains unconditional, even if Han Ying messes up or doesn't follow instructions. Instructions that, btw, repeatedly try to keep Han Ying out of the line of fire, and makes it clear that Han Ying is to put himself first.

Everything Zhao Jing does however is solely to cripple Xie Wang and make him wholly dependent on him. He's been grooming Xie Wang from such a young age, and his positive regard and care is ALWAYS conditional. As soon as Xie Wang messes up, he takes it away as punishment, and because of how Zhao Jing's made himself the center of Xie Wang's world, that action is devastating to him. He subtly encourages and toys with Xie Wang's regard for him for his own purposes, he tries to make Xie Wang jealous so he works twice as hard to earn back Zhao Jing's attention. And as we see with his intention to eventually discard Xie Wang as soon as he is no longer useful - he doesn't view Xie Wang as a person. He's merely another tool in his arsenal.

The reason why I wrote such a long ass analysis about the similarities and differences between Xie Wang and Han Ying's relationships is because as I mentioned before, one reason I think this would be a pretty interesting ship and dynamic is how these two could help each other. At first, it might be more Han Ying helping Xie Wang.

Xie Wang hasn't ever experienced what a proper and healthy guardian type relationship is like, or even what it means for someone to choose him first. He's a victim of abuse, and should he manage to survive the avalanche at the end of the show, there is potential for him to start to undo all the damage that Zhao Jing has inflicted on him all those years, especially if the man is truly no longer around. And I think Han Ying would be in a very good position to offer him support in that journey. Moreover, if Han Ying has had an experience similar to that, it could be the reason he would want to offer support to Xie Wang. He's experienced a lot of what Xie Wang has experienced, but he's also seen what it is for someone to genuinely care about him, and as a result likely has a more healthy view on that type of relationship. They're similar enough for Xie Wang to potentially not want to push Han Ying away if he ever offers his help, but also dissimilar enough that Han Ying could offer new avenues of thought.

At the same time, if you just read Han Ying and Zhou Zishu's relationship as a really strong type of hero worship, this dynamic could make sense too. Han Ying clearly looks up to Zhou Zishu quite a lot, and on top of that, Zhou Zishu in a way represents everything Han Ying has wanted and couldn't have - aka a family and a mentor figure and a home to call his own. Regardless of if it's purely platonic or not, it's still an infinitely healthier relationship, a parallel to Xie Wang's experience, so the potential of the offer of support remains the same.

Second of all, similarity in origin and life experiences, which is a small thing tbh but still an important thing:

Han Ying is someone I don't know a lot of background on tbh - I presume he doesn't have a family anymore, and somehow ended up in the Window of Heaven. I've read fics where Zhou Zishu was the one to save him at some point and offer him a position in the assassin group, and I'm inclined to take that as a plausible head canon (unless it's actually canon, idk I haven't read tyk yet).

So, in bare bones, he's an orphan who is taken in by a mentor figure, and becomes a high ranking member of an assassin group.

Xie Wang is also someone who no longer has a family - we don't know that much about his background either, but I presume he was happened upon by Zhao Jing in some way - I'm not sure at what age tbh, is it assumed that he was raised by him?? Or maybe in teenage years??

Whatever it happens to be, Xie Wang was taken in, maybe even "saved" by (although if you ask me, he'd be better off without) Zhao Jing.

So in essence it is the same thing as Han Ying's experiences, an orphan who is taken in by a mentor figure, and becomes a high ranking (or the leader of) an assassin group.

And not only that, as I mentioned from the beginning, these two both realize and know, eventually, that they’re being used by men who are desperate for power (Jin Wang, Zhao Jing).

I mention this actually as just an extension of my first point, because while I mentioned that Han Ying very obviously can support Xie Wang in that particular “past grooming and abuse” aspect, there are probably still many hidden traumas and scars for these two from the lives they’ve both lead. Their similar experiences lead to similar choices which helped shape who they are, and as a result, I think these two could truly understand each other and where they’re coming from.

Their personalities would fit pretty well with each other. I think:

I don’t know if my interpretation on how these two are is accurate tbh, so feel free to let me know if you think it’s out of character.

To me, Han Ying seems like someone who would be pretty calm around the people he cares about; responsible, smart, eager to learn, with a steady sort of presence. He seems like someone who would wear their heart on their sleeve around people he trusts too, but not in any overtly obvious way. I think the reason why I get that impression is that, upon rewatch, I could plainly see his worry about Zhou Zishu in episode one, but when I first started the show, I somehow missed it entirely. Han Ying also didn’t show any qualms about admitting to Chengling that he wants to be Zhou Zishu’s disciple - which can be a very personal piece of info. The way he was around Zhou Zishu, and Wen Kexing also gave off an air of innocent eagerness to do well in his accomplishments and for approval. I’m not saying he’s always like this, because I’m rather certain he has a darker side too - as we see with all the characters, no one is without their traumas and no one is without artifice or without complexity. They’re all grey moral in a very human way, and Han Ying is no different. We’ve seen before too that once he’s got his game face on, the man is pretty competent and also ruthless (his conversation with Gao Chong for example) - I don’t think he could be any less if he’s that high up in the Tianchuang hierarchy. But at the same time I can also see him being a bit of a very subtle disaster (almost?? Slightly dorky??) in certain situations, and we can see that kind of peek through when Zhou Zishu and Wen Kexing hijacked his kidnapping attempt and he was kind of like uhh. Okay so, I’m in a choke hold, I think that might be my former commander, so like. Let them go. It’s actually really funny cause while Wen Kexing was telling Gao Chong and Chengling to hurry up and leave, I swear you could see Han Ying contemplating his entire life.

The face of a man confuzzled.

Xie Wang on the other hand, is someone that’s more impulsive, liable to push or be mischievous, less of a steady personality and more like - for lack of better word - an absolute gremlin. A pretty murderous one. It’s a bit hard to tell all aspects of how Xie Wang is tbh, since he has many different mannerisms while talking to different people. With Zhao Jing he has a very subservient, almost dutiful, childlike and innocent air about him, and a sort of. Sa jiao (撒娇) type of demeanor. He craves approval from Zhao Jing, and is just generally very baby around him, and I’m really not sure how much of that is how he actually is and how much of that is him learning that this is the best way to get Zhao Jing’s attention. And tbh I don’t think all of that is grooming, I think Xie Wang probably does have the potential to be as soft or as innocently childlike and happy with others he cares about (just hopefully in a lot healthier way). I think we see his soft side a little with Qianqiao when he gives her the cure. Despite that though, we can still see other aspects of him surface. He makes suggestions and pushes when he thinks Zhao Jing’s refusals are unreasonable, he just goes and does his own thing sometimes (um usually murderous things. Like when he killed Song Huai Ren and told Zhao Jing he’s a traitor). He’s mischievous about some of his actions (after literally stabbing a man, ‘what? he said I should kill him if I have the ability’). He’s a lot more obviously gritty and aggressive and morally grey than Han Ying appears, which I think adds dimension to his character when added in with everything else. He’s also very smart, competent, ruthless - obviously since he runs the Scorpion, but he’s surprisingly fair and almost? Honourable? In certain aspects? And like Han Ying, he does somewhat wear his heart on his sleeve, retains that eagerness to do well and is somehow not as jaded as he could be, as he still finds the capacity to eventually care for a stranger (Liu Qianqiao). 

I may be oversimplifying how these two could be, but with their personality types I think they have a lot of potential both in a romantic relationship or as close friends. And in a way that at first glance would probably be puzzling - how in the hell did these two become friends/get together (lmao you’ll see Han Ying in his rather sensible disciple robes and then Xie Wang is just there in his braids, dramatic black outfits, winged eyeliner, etc. 🤣🤣😅😅) but on closer thought, makes sense. Han Ying could be a more steadying presence for Xie Wang, and Xie Wang in turn could help him loosen up a bit more. (That’s kind of oversimplifying it but it’s 5 am where I am rn and I’m too tired to elaborate) I also believe Xie Wang might push Han Ying to be more ambitious, be able to do things for himself more - because Xie Wang went through a process of, everything I do is for someone else, until I realized they were using me, and now I’m going to do it for myself. In that way they could potentially push each other to higher heights in what they do, and they are pretty similar in ideology and morals and previous actions. They both have blood on their hands, and they’re not afraid to be ruthless or do what’s necessary to get the job done. They have their traumas, their complexities and an understanding of what it’s like to put on masks for different people.

The potential for found family. All the found family. Gimme:

This one I feel like is more obvious and changes some things about canon, but the timeline I imagine for if Xie Wang x Han Ying would be a plausible ship is one where Han Ying survives the stealing of the fake glazed armour incident and becomes one of the disciples of Siji (second disciple of the sixth generation????). Everything else would likely proceed in a very similar way (although in this au in my mind Gu Xiang and Cao Weining are alive). And then during the avalanche incident, with WenZhou trapped in the armoury, Xie Wang ends up surviving and they end up finding him somehow.

Whether or not it’d be out of character for WenZhou to save him I think could be explored, but the bottom line is that eventually they would probably take him back to Siji. There, whether him meeting Han Ying goes smoothly or not is up to interpretation - I very much doubt it would be an amiable meeting tbh - in fact I fully imagine it to be antagonistic af at first, considering what opposing groups they used to be a part of and the knowledge of how deadly the other can be - trust would be hard to come by, which makes a slow development all the more interesting. And moreover them becoming friends or dating would likely help Xie Wang into the dynamic at Siji because now there’s a more tangible connection between him and the place, and I can see while he’s getting to know all the people of Siji, eventually thinking of them as family as well.  And Han Ying in turn gets another person who cares about him, and for him to care about.

I’ll be honest here and say that I don’t particularly care at this point how realistic or in character it all would be -  I need found family in my life I have no self control. Xie Wang and Han Ying my beloveds needs all the good things.

Another possible meeting is just Han Ying being sent to negotiate with the Scorpions instead of Duan Pengju (is that how it went? I’ll admit I’m a little fuzzy on plot points here) and meeting each other that way. There could be moments of understanding while working together, an inevitable kinda separation, and eventually seeing each other again at Siji, after all the shitshow is over. The development could continue from there.

The closer age gap:

I’d like to preface this part with a disclaimer that I’m not trying to bash any other ships that are out there, this is actually just entirely my personal preference.

I don’t really like big age gaps in my ships unless their both established adults - for example in their 30's 40's, even 50's. Even if one of them remains young in body, it’s just not a dynamic I generally like. The most popular ship that comes to mind here is Ye Baiyi x Xie Wang - and all the more power to you if you do ship it tbh, I can see it being really adorable and healing for the both of them, especially since Ye Baiyi never really gets a happy ending either (and he absolutely deserves one 😤😤😤) - but that as a ship dynamic is personally not for me, especially after Xie Wang’s kinda hinted relationship with another man that’s also older than him. Ye Baiyi obviously is ten million times the man Zhao Jing could ever be, and it would be an infinitely healthier relationship anyway, but yeah the age gap thing is just my personal bias.

So I don’t know, I appreciate that Han Ying and Xie Wang are both closer in age to each other. I know there aren’t confirmed ages (I think?) but if I had to take a guess, I’d say I think both of them are probably in their early to mid twenties.

Anyways, it’s literally 5:43 am now where I am, so I think I’m gonna end this way too long post and pass out. Honestly, I’m not even sure if this thing is coherent anymore, I’m half delirious with exhaustion while writing this. I might possibly write a fic or do something about this Xie Wang x Han Ying ship, I might not, but I just wanted to get it out there. It’s a cute idea.

Oh god my eyeballs are burning. Cheers, goodnight.

[everlarkficexchange]

The Hope that gave me hope

Written by: @ameliaodair​

Prompt 156 - Toastbaby’s perspective from the womb throughout pregnancy. Bonus points from post-birth moments. [submitted by @lovely-to the-bone/ @peetamewllark​ ]

Thank you @lovely-tothe-bone for this amazing prompt!

Word Count: 5137

Rated: K-T

Unbeta’d, edited by me

SPOILER ALERT: Anyone reading my stories, “Changing the Game” or “Another Way Out” this story DOES contain spoilers for events yet to come.

Okay, so I tweaked this prompt just a little… Instead of post MJ, this story will coincide with my Hunger Games rewrite (Changing the Game, Another Way Out, and TBA) Toastbaby’s perspective from inside the womb as Katniss goes through the arena and her time in 13.  I hope you guys like it and if you are interested in some of the things “Little One” hears/experiences, then you should check out my stories.  You can find them on A03 and FFN.

***I tried to stay true to the facts of a fetus growing (what they are doing and when) in utero, but some things may have been adjusted***

Also, as I was writing this story, a memory resurfaced from when my kids were little, and I would take them to Temple on Friday nights for Tot Shabbat.  Before I give you my story, here is a little background on Leilah, the Angel of Conception.

You know that little indentation above your lips, and (under your nose? Okay, well, keep that in mind) So, the story goes that the Angel Leilah chooses which souls inhabit which seeds and accompanies them in the womb, teaching them all the knowledge of the Torah (Hebrew Bible, ((I think)).  So, while the “baby” is in the womb, it has all the knowledge and answers in the world and when you are born, your lungs fill with air, which results in crying and Leilah tells the baby to “Ssshhh” and presses her finger to their lips, which is what causes that little indentation and thus, wiping their memory…and they have to learn everything all over again.  (At least that’s how I think it goes) Anyway, I really wanted to incorporate that story into this one, so here goes.

The Hope that gave me hope

“Listen closely child, your next journey will not be an easy one.  The world has taken a turn for the worst; war and famine has devastated much of what remains, ruled by a callous tyrant.  However, you will be conceived to a pair of great importance.  Together, they will change the world for the better, but not before enduring many hardships.  There will be pain, heartache, and deep suffering, but the end result will be well worth the struggle.”

Little One, squirmed in place as the Creator described her next assignment.

“A-are you certain they are the right ones for me?” Little One asked the Creator uncertainly, although she knew the answer.

“I am certain, Child,” his voice boomed, “Do you doubt me?  Have I ever led you astray?”

“No Sir,” Little One faltered.

“Have faith, Child,” the Creator continued, his voice much softer.  “Now go on.  Off you go.”

“But … I am frightened Sir,” Little One stumbled, shrinking back with her fear.

“What is there to be frightened of, my Child?”

“I do not enjoy the solitude, perhaps you could accompany me on my journey?”

The Creator laughed at Little One, his voice rattling the ground, “You will not be alone Child, Leilah will be with you the entire way.  She will not leave your side in the womb, not for a single moment.  She will spend her time teaching you all the knowledge of the world—”

“So that I may share it with my … what are they called again— parents?”

The Creator shook the earth again with his laughter, “Yes, they are called parents.  And no, you may not share it with them.  Leilah will be waiting for you on the outside just before your entrance into the world and the moment your lungs fill with air, your consciousness of her given knowledge will be erased.  You must rely on your parents for wisdom and guidance.”

“But Sir— what is the point?” Little One asked, her face contorting into a confused expression.

“No more questions, Little One, it is time for you to descend.  Time is of the essence; Leilah has chosen the perfect … ah … specimen for you to inhabit, but like I said, time is of the essence.”

“I have one more question Sir, if I may.”

“Yes Child?”

“What will be the names of my … parents?” Little One asked.

The Creator chuckled at her question, “Katniss and Peeta,” he said, patting her on the head just before he sent her on her way.

Gestation Period: Weeks 1-4

‘It’s dark.  But I’m warm.  I’m comfortable.  I think I like it in here.’  Little One thought to herself as she burrowed herself deep inside her mother’s womb, her cells multiplying at the perfect rate.

Gestation Period: Week 6-8

Although her ears are not developed just yet and she cannot hear a thing, Little One can sense that her mother is distraught and plagued with sadness.  ‘Why are you sad, Mother?’  Little One pondered.

“It is okay Little One, your mother is just frightened.  She and your father just became aware of your existence and face many challenges ahead,” Leilah’s voice bounced against the walls of Little One’s new home.

‘Oh,’ Little One thought to herself. ‘Do … do they not want me; will I make it to my day of birth?’ Little One communicated, fearful of Leilah’s answer.  Little One knew that sometimes certain essences were not compatible with certain pairings and their journeys came to an end before it even had the chance to begin. Little One hoped this was not the case for herself.

“No dear, it is not that.  They are frightened because the world they live in is a harsh and cruel world.  They never desired to have children of their own— they did not wish their circumstances onto another.  But Little One, they already love you dearly, so do not fret.  Everything will work out as it was meant to.”  Leilah soothed Little One and began her teachings of the world.

Gestation Period: Week 12-16

‘What was that?’ Little One interrupted Leilah during a particularly boring story.

“Do not be frightened Little One, you are just sensing the vibration of excitement surrounding your mother.“

‘What are they excited about— is their excitement geared toward me?  And … and why do I sense discomfort in Mother?’ Little One was enigmatically in tune with her mother’s feelings and emotions, even from this early in her life.

“That is not for you to worry yourself over.  Soon, within the next few weeks your ears will become more developed, and you will be able to hear so much more.”

‘But … how do I hear you if I cannot hear?’ Little One asked, plagued with confusion.

Little One continued to ask question after question, so curious she was.  And the kind, patient Angel that Leilah was did her best to answer them all— to the best of her ability.

‘Why do I bounce up and down?’ Little One asked several days later.

“Those are called hiccups,” Leilah informed her.

‘Well, I do not like them,’ Little One retorted with a scowl.  Though she did not know it, it very much resembled her mother’s signature expression.

Leilah chuckled, “No, not many people do.”  Leilah smirked and continued her teachings of the world with Little One as she tried to mask her concern over the voices she heard.

“Oh, Katniss darling; we have missed you so much!” Someone on the outside crooned.  Leilah feared the worst from the shrill voices shrieking on the outside.  Those voices only meant one thing; Katniss, and most likely Peeta had returned to the Capitol, which meant they were headed back into the Games.  It was just as the Creator predicted and she worried for Little One’s life.

“Oh Katniss, Peeta, we’re so-so, sorry!” The voices on the outside hiccupped as they sobbed.

“It’s a … you’re a … a bird, it’s a—” a loud voice boomed, which caused Little One to bounce from side to side.

“A mockingjay,” Leilah heard Katniss confirm to the loud voice.

‘What is a mockingjay?’ Little one piped up from her slumber.

Gestation Period: 18 Weeks

“Hey there little nut—”

‘EEK!’ Little One internally gasped.  ‘What was that, OH! I am frightened!’ Little One called out in fear.

“Do not be alarmed Little One, it’s just your ears that are working.  It is your father’s voice that you hear.  Listen … he is speaking to you.” Leilah spoke softly, encouraging Little One to listen.

Little One sat as still as she could and listened intently as the deep melodic voice of her father reverberated off the walls of her perfect home.

“I’m going to call you Little Nut since we don’t know if you’re a boy or a girl, I hope that’s okay.  This is your father; my name is Peeta.”

‘Peeta,’ Little One tried the name in her head and smiled, deciding that she liked the way it sounded. ‘Yes, it is okay for you to call me “Little Nut”,’ Little One longed to tell her father.  She extended her arm up and waved her hand, wishing her father could see her new trick.

“Listen Nut, I’m not sure how we’re going to make it out of the arena, but I am going to do everything in my power to get you and your mom out of there.  I … I don’t know if I’ll ever get to meet you, but I just want you to know that … somehow, I WILL keep the two of you safe.  And … I just want you to know how much I love you and that you are so loved.  But don’t you worry, you will have so many people to love you and take care of you and … I just don’t want you to ever doubt my love for you.  You will have your mommy, and yes, she is scared right now, but she will be the best mommy you could ever ask for; ever hope for.  She is the strongest, bravest person I know, and she will teach you so much.  When you get bigger, she’ll teach you how to use a bow and arrow, and … and if you ever do something that upsets her, just bring her some cheese buns.  Your Grandpa Bing can teach you how to make them, or your Uncle Rye.  Cheese buns are her favorite; she won’t be able to stay mad at you for long if you bring her cheese buns.  Oh!  In case you were wondering, Bing is my dad, and Rye is my brother.”

‘Cheese buns, gee, I hope I will remember that.’ Little One knew she wouldn’t, but she continued to sit in silence, soaking up her father’s every word and finding solace in his soothing voice.

“Then there is your Aunt Prim.  That’s your mom’s sister.  Oh, she’s going to fall in love with you the moment she sees you.  Well, actually, she is probably already in love with you.  She is probably really mad at me though.  Well, me and your mom.  You see, I did something.  When we went on stage for our interviews with Caesar, I um … I told the world about you.  I hadn’t planned on doing it; it kind of just … came out.  So, everyone back at home is probably a little shocked right now, and they probably aren’t sure if I was telling the truth.  But your Aunt Prim, and your Grandma Lilly, they are healers, and I am almost certain that after my shocking announcement they’re putting the pieces together and they know you’re real.”

‘What is Father talking about?  I am so confused.  What is ‘interview’ and ‘Caesar’ and ‘arena’?  I just like the sound of Father’s voice, so I don’t really care right now. Please Father, please talk some more,’ Little One wanted to tell him.

“Oh, Little Nut, I don’t want to leave you, I really don’t.  I want to watch you grow, I want to meet you and know you.  It hurts so much thinking I will never get the chance to be your dad.  I want nothing more in this screwed up world than to hold you, hug you and kiss you— to rock you.  And … and when you get older, I would teach you how to paint—”

‘Yes, I think I would like that, too.’ Little One agreed with Peeta.

“But … things aren’t looking so good for me, so … I don’t even know if you can hear me, but, oh, I … I just love you so much, okay?”

Little One heard sniffles and she recalled her lesson with Leilah on emotions and crying.

‘Please Father, do not be sad.  We will see each other soon, I promise,’ Little One so badly wanted to comfort her father.

Gestation Period: 18 Weeks and 4 Days

‘Why do I find comfort in this?’ Little One asked Leilah as she placed her thumb into her mouth and began sucking.

“It has to do—” Leilah was interrupted by Peeta’s voice once again as he spoke to his daughter.

“Hello again Little Nut, it’s me, your dad.”

‘T-that’s my father!’ Little One began bouncing up and down with excitement.

“I just … I just wanted to tell you I love you just in case this is the end.  You stay in there and you stay strong for your mama.  I hope … I hope I will get the chance to meet you, but if not, just know how much I love you Little Nut, okay?”

Little One felt something pressing against her, causing her to shift to the other side of the cozy womb.  Then, she heard her father’s voice once more, but this time it was further away, “I’ll see you at midnight.  Everything will go as planned, just like we talked about, okay?”

“Okay,” although her mother’s firm voice resonated strength, from deep inside her body, Little One could feel the trembling in her voice, which was undoubtedly filled with fear.  ‘Mother does not believe his words?’ Little One intuited.

‘Father’s voice is gone, and I so want him to speak to me again; I really like his voice.’ Little One whined.

Leilah knew what was happening on the outside and she didn’t want Little One to worry.

“Pay attention to me, Little One, do not concern yourself with the outside noises.  It is time for our next lesson.” Leilah said, hoping to distract Little One from the fight going on outside.

Outside, Katniss and Johanna were running, stringing Beetee’s wire from the lightning tree to the beach, and then Johanna blindsided Katniss, knocking her out with a giant log— all to cut her tracker out.

‘I do not feel so good, I wish to take a nap,’ Little One said as a result of Katniss losing so much blood.  Leilah sang Little One a song that offered comfort and nestled the growing baby in her heart while she pleaded with the Creator to watch over them all.

For a long time, there was silence and Little One wondered what was happening.  Sometimes she could hear voices from far away and she longed to know who they were.  Who they were to her, to her mother— her father?  Are they the family her father spoke so fondly of?

And then finally, one day out of the blue she finally heard her mother’s croaky voice echo off the walls of her warm home as Little One waved a hand in front of her face.  Though she could not see it anymore because her eyelids had become fused shut, she still knew that she was doing it.

Gestation Period: 21 Weeks

“Peeta!  Where’s Peeta?  And … what about the baby?” Little One startled from a deep slumber to hear her mother shrieking, her voice tremulous with panic.

“My apologies Miss Everdeen, the fetus was unable to withstand the blast when the arena exploded.  You had a miscarriage,” an icy voice commanded the room, which resulted in Little One bobbing up and down as her mother started shaking.  Little One could hear her mother’s heart accelerating and her breathing quickening.

‘Wait, what?  No, no … do not believe them, Mother, I am still here!’ Little One tried to reach her mother— to no avail, who was crying so hard.

“No, no, no.  No, you’re wrong.  I— I would feel it if she— if the baby were gone.  Just like with Peeta, I would feel it, and I still feel her—” her mother tried to reason with the people surrounding her.

“I’m sorry Miss Everdeen—” The icy voice said, though she did not sound apologetic at all.

There was a loud bang, and then stillness.

‘I do not understand, why are they denying my existence?  I am still here, right?’ Little One reached out to Leilah for confirmation.  She was not ready for her journey to be at its end.

“Yes darling, you are still very much alive.  They are confused, that’s all.” Leilah assured Little One, though, she knew the truth.

Gestation Period: 21 Weeks and 2 Days

“Katniss, if you have any intentions on keeping your baby alive, you need to stay calm and do exactly as I say,” a soft voice, not the icy one spoke to Little One’s mother.

“W-what?”

“If you can keep a secret, so can I, but I need you to stay calm,” and then Little One heard the nice voice saying words like pressure and elevation, but all she cared about was that her mother knew she was still alive and safely inside her.  Little One was counting on her to keep them okay.

‘I do not understand, why would that voice lie to my mother?  Why would she tell her I am no longer, when I AM?’ Little One pleaded to Leilah, overcome with confusion.

“People lie my dear.  Sometimes it is to shield others from pain, but oftentimes it is for vindictive reasons— for their own selfish gain.  But do not worry yourself over this matter, we have much to cover before our time is up.”

Gestation Period: 23-26 Weeks

The next few weeks, or perhaps it’s months, it’s difficult for Little One to tell time from inside her mother, but somehow— she can feel her father’s presence, yet she does not hear his voice.

‘Where did Father go?’

“He is away for now, but do not fret Little One, he will return very soon.” Leilah assured her and began to distract her with more of life’s lessons.  For days and days, weeks even, Leilah filled their time with the teachings of the world.  Leilah knew what was going on in the ‘outside’ and she did her best to keep Little One’s mind occupied.

“That THING isn’t Peeta,” Little One heard her mother shout over and over.  And then she heard many words she did not recognize, words Leilah had never explained to her.  Hijacking, enemy, snow, weapon.

“Don’t you worry Little Nut; we’ll bring Daddy home soon.  He’s finally awake, and him and your Grandma Effie are coming home soon; well, if you can actually call this place home,” Little One was reassured by her mother’s promise— her heart accelerated at the mention of her father’s return and she stretched her leg out in excitement.

“Unh!” Katniss exclaimed, “was that you, Little Nut?” Katniss asked Little One when she felt the fluttering in her abdomen.

Little One repeated this action in response to her mother’s racing heart.

“That’s right, baby.  We’ll get daddy back really soon, I promise.  That- that thing they brought back from the Capitol is NOT daddy— I don’t care what they say.  Peeta— your dad would never hurt me, no matter what.  We’re going to rescue him— him and Effie, and they’re going to do it soon, or … or I won’t be their stupid mockingjay.”

After that conversation, Katniss spoke to Little One often, filling her in and sharing many details about the world outside.  Little One would always try to stretch an arm or a leg to tell her mother she was listening.  That she believed in her.  That she trusted her.

Gestation Period: 26 Weeks and 5 Days

“K-Katniss?” Little One’s head twitched to the side when she heard the familiar voice.

‘Is … is that—’ Little One stuttered in excitement, yet she didn’t want to get her hopes up.  It had been SO long since she last heard her father’s voice.  Granted, this voice was croaky and sounded almost nothing like him, but something deep inside her knew it was him.

“Yes, Little One, it is your father.  He has finally returned.” Leilah answered her.

Little One thought that having her father back within arm’s reach would have given her mother some relief from all the tears she succumbed to each night, but instead, she cried even more.

‘Why is Mother still so sad?’ Little One asked Leilah during another particularly boring lesson.

Leilah didn’t want to burden the child with all the pain going on outside, so she just said, “Your father is just going through some adjustments.  Do not worry, they will find their way back to each other, it will just take some time.”

Gestation Period: 27 Weeks

‘W-what was that?’ Little One asked when she heard a new sound echoing off the walls of her perfect home.

“That is your mother.  She is singing to you.” Leilah informed Little One.

‘I … I like it … it’s beautiful,’ Little One crooned, swaying to the sound of her mother’s voice.

Little One tried to stretch her leg out to reassure her mother she was here for her, but it seemed her perfect home had shrunk.  Anxiety consumed her as she wondered what would happen when she no longer fit.

“Do you remember our discussion entailing your day of birth?” Leilah hummed to Little One.  “When this home no longer suits your needs, you will be welcomed into the world.  That is when your true life shall begin.  It will be cold, bright and scary, but your parents will love, nurture, and soothe you.  They will be your new home— they will provide you with all that you need to sustain your life.  Though, it is not safe for you to enter that world until you have used up every single big of space in this home.  Do you understand?”

‘Y-yes,’ Little One apprehensively answered Leilah, recalling a lesson from some time before.  She wasn’t sure if she was going to like this ‘New Home.’  The one that she was currently in was perfect and she loved it in here.  Why did that have to change?  Why did she have to keep growing?  What if she just … stopped.  Could she choose to stay in this perfect, warm, and cozy home forever?

“Stop thinking so hard, and you know the answer to that.” Leilah interrupted Little One’s thoughts.  “Everything grows, just as everything dies.  It is the circle of life.  One day, it will be you who grows a person inside of your body and then you will understand.”

Little One giggled and thought, ‘That’s so silly!’

Gestation Period: 29 Weeks

‘Leilah,’ Little One began; it was the first time she had ever addressed Angel Leilah by her name, and it made her squirm uncomfortably.

“Yes, dear?”

‘What is the point?  Why do you teach me all the knowledge of the world before I am born, only to distinguish it from my mind at birth?  It just … it seems … pointless.’

“Yes, I can see how you would see it that way, but I promise you, my child, there is a reason.  There is a reason for everything.  Do you remember our lesson about the tangible things in the world, like ‘paper’ and ‘pencils’, and things like ‘writing’?”

‘Yes, I think so.’

“If you write your feelings down on a piece of paper and then erase it, so that it is no longer visible to the naked eye, does that mean it is gone forever?  My child, the knowledge will always be within you, and as certain things in your life come to pass, you will get a glimmer of a feeling … as if a moment is familiar.  That is how you will know the path you are on is the right path for you at that time.  Just because I erase the memories of all your knowledge, that does not mean it is gone forever.”

‘Okay,’ Little One listened intently and agreed.

Gestation Period: 32 Weeks

As her time in the womb was growing shorter and shorter, Little One grew more nervous and anxious with each day that passed.  She could still hear voices on the outside, but the rumbling and gurgling coming from inside her mother drowned most everything out.  The space in her home was getting tighter and tighter— she could barely move at this point.  The walls around her home kept squeezing her for a moment, but they would relax almost immediately.

‘I’m not sure that I like that,’ Little One frowned.

“It is just your mother’s body practicing for your birth.  It is natural.  Now, we must focus, it is almost time.”

The squeezing got worse.  Instead of squeezing her for a few seconds here and there, it lasted for minutes and minutes.  Not only did the squeezing last longer, but it became harder and tighter.

Gestation Period: 35 Weeks and 6 days

“My dear child, it is time.” Leilah announced one night.

‘But … NO!’ Little One cried.  ‘I … I still have room, it- it can’t be time yet, I’m not ready!’

“No one is ever ready for change, but I fear our time is up.  It is indeed early, quite early actually, but it will all work out as it was meant to, just as I told you many months ago.”

Little One was frightened, because her entry into the world was not happening in the exact way Leilah had described.  Instead of being squeezed down by the walls of her home, where she would be pushed down, down, and eventually squeeze through a narrow canal to enter the world, a slit of light was breaking through the walls of her home.

‘What is happening, I am scared!’

“I will meet you on the other side, sweet girl, and all will be well.” Leilah assured Little One.

The slit grew bigger and bigger and creatures that looked too foreign to be human— they had bland, grey suits on, and masks over their faces, pulled Little One out.  They stuck something up each of her nostrils and then inside of her mouth, which made Little One gasp for air.

Little One opened her eyes and for the first time, she saw Leilah.  She was beautiful and glowing— radiating a brilliant light.

“Shhh,” Leilah comforted her, pressing her finger to Little One’s lips to calm her— and then she was gone.

Little One’s lungs filled with air and she cried.  She cried and she wailed.  She shrieked and she shrilled.  She wanted to tell these strange creatures, ‘Put me back!’

She was so scared, there were so many people, none that she recognized … until him.  She didn’t recognize him, but his voice; it was her father.  Peeta.  He walked over to where she was lying and looked down at her.  The moment she met his sparkling blue eyes— she knew she was home.

Little One gasped and paused her shrill crying to stare at the  man looking down at her.

“Hello Hope, I’m your daddy,” the beautiful, familiar-feeling, blue-eyed man spoke to Little One with tears in his eyes.  “Dylan Hope Mellark— that’s your name, beautiful girl.  Dylan was your grandpa’s name— your mommy’s daddy, but we both agreed it could work whether you were a boy or a girl.  But I think we’re just going to call you Hope.  Because that’s what you are to all of us.  Welcome to the world, Hope.”

Everything was scary for Hope.  Everything was bright, cold, and unfamiliar.  There were giant creatures poking, prodding, and tossing her around.  She was afraid they would drop her.

’Where did the man go?  The “Daddy,” I want to see him again.' Hope thought to herself as she cried and cried.  Nothing was familiar and she didn’t like it.  She wanted to go back inside her perfect home where it was dark and warm— and snug.  And … and there was someone in there with her, but who was it?  She couldn’t remember.  But she did know that she didn’t like all the lights, the giant creatures and all the strange noises.

“Katniss, Katniss sweetie, wake up.  They’re bringing her back.” Hope was feeling a little better now, someone had swaddled her in warm blankets, and she almost felt like she was back inside her perfect home.  She wiggled, turning her head in the direction of the familiar voice— the one she recognized from earlier.  It was the man.  The daddy.  Someone picked her up and she felt as if she was flying in the air.  She was frightened for a moment until she realized they were giving her to the daddy.

When the daddy held her in his arms, Hope did not question if he would drop her— unlike the others, he held her gently and she felt safe.  When she opened her eyes, everything was fuzzy.  Even still, she could make out the blue of his eyes and wondered if her eyes looked like his.  She hoped so.

“Do you want to hold her?” The daddy asked.

“I-is she okay?” A softer— timid voice asked and Hope immediately recognized it as the voice— although clearer, without the whooshing and gurgling sounds from her previous home— but it was, without a doubt, the same voice she heard from deep inside her perfect home.

“She’s perfect,” the daddy beamed, his eyes sparkling with tears.  The daddy gently passed Hope to the woman, and Hope prepared herself to feel that feeling again— that flying-in-the air— afraid-to-fall, feeling, but it did not happen.  The daddy slowly and gently placed Hope in the woman’s arms and scooted into the bed next to her.  Hope squirmed and gasped, filling her lungs with air as she prepared to cry— not wanting the daddy to let her go, but then she froze when a familiar scent wafted up her nostrils.

‘Hey, I know that smell!’ Hope thought, excited from the familiarity and opened her eyes again to meet the blurry face of the owner of her perfect home.  But— like with the daddy— the moment the mommy cradled her in her arms, Hope knew she was safe in her new home.

“Hello, my beautiful girl, I’m your mama.  It’s nice to finally meet you,” the woman— “Mama” said to Hope, her chin quivering and tears leaking from the corners of her eyes.

“She’s so beautiful,” the mama turned her head to the daddy.  The daddy leaned over and stroked Hope’s cheek with his finger.  Hope liked the way his finger felt, and she relaxed a little more.

“Yes she is— just like her mother,” the daddy gleamed with pride, staring in awe at Hope.

“I can’t believe we made this beautiful girl,” the mommy said to the daddy with more tears in her eyes.

The daddy snuggled closer to the mommy, wrapping his arm around her and rested his chin on her shoulder, but not before kissing the mommy’s cheek.  “I love you Katniss.”

Hope let out a little wail and squirmed from side to side.

“Hey, hey,” the daddy said in a soft voice, “Of course, I love you too, my sweet girl.  The Hope that gave me hope.”

The mommy lifted Hope up, so that her head rested against the mommy’s chest.  Hope could feel a soft pounding against her cheek— and it was familiar.  So familiar.

Swaddled in her warm blankets, nestled safely in her mother’s arms and her father just inches away, Hope got a glimmer of a feeling— that she was exactly where she was meant to be.  In that instant she knew, that burrowed cozily between the mama and the daddy— she was home.

[the-chick-of-the-air]

Hello my lovelies!

Wow ok I’m sorry I know it’s been a while- I kinda got into a writing slump that wouldn’t let me out, however I’m feeling like I’m getting back into things! Yay!

I want to thank all of you for your continued support in my writing adventures, I seriously can’t describe how much it means to me when I get feedback and love on my work, one of my favorite things to do is make people happy- or really just feel anything- with my writing and I love hearing about it so thank you thank you THANK YOU!!! 🥰❤️

So, now I’m back with a gift! A very long fic that took me way to long to get around to finishing but I wanna share! So here, have this!!

Sorry if the length is too, well, lengthy 😅 I do so hope you enjoy it!

Edit: have added a cut due to length, read below!🥰❤️

Some Wicked Type of Love

Cardan stared down at the vial he held carefully, the greenish liquid sparkled as it sloshed around with the subtle shakes he gave it. This. This would fix everything.

“So, he just has to drink that? Nothing else?” Rhyia asked, unnerved. That unnerved Cardan, his elder sister was hardly ever shaken, so seeing her nervous about something didn’t sit well.

The imp with golden skin smiled thinly. Despite her obvious skepticism, he was the one Rhyia had told Cardan about, the one that could fix his problem, rid him of his ailment.

“That is all.”

Rhyia’s eyes narrowed into slits, “And it won’t hurt him?” Despite how she, along with the rest of his siblings, chose to brush him off more often than not, she did care for him on a certain level. It was why Cardan had approached her in the first place. He trusted her alone to follow through with this task.

“The young Prince shall remain whole and hale. It is to my understanding that he is now indebted to me?”

Cardan was about to protest when Rhyia spoke first, “I will take on his debt to you. When you need a favor, come to me.”

The imp’s smile widened, “Oh it is not a favor I seek in return. Simply bring him back to me once the… effects of the cure have taken hold.”

Cardan didn’t like how ominous that sounded. Nonetheless he nodded to his sister and they moved to leave.

Once they had turned away, they missed how the Imp’s smile grew impossibly wider and a silent laugh fell from his lips.

~.~

“Are you sure about this?”

Her constant questioning was beginning to grate on Cardan’s nerves as they trekked back to Hallow Hall. “For the last time, yes. I am profoundly certain in my decision. Will you let it alone now?”

Rhyia hummed and stopped walking. When Cardan realized she was no longer beside him, he stopped as well and turned to face her. She was staring at him with an expression he couldn’t puzzle out.

“Having the love of a mortal is-”

Cardan turned away sharply and began walking again, “I do not have the love of a mortal! One simply plagues my thoughts, and this is the only way to cure it.”

Rhyia jogged to catch up with him. She linked her arm through his, “All I was going to say was that…being in love with, or having the love of a mortal, is no reason to feel shame. Many of us have loved them, dearly so. The General, our father. Even I have known the affections of one.”

Cardan stopped short. That couldn’t be right. Yes, there were some Folk who took mortals as consorts and lovers- they were good for cultivating many children. The General’s love, he knew, had ended in tragedy. One that produced the very person he so sorely wished to be rid of. His father had an affinity for many a thing unusual, and having Val Moren at his side was just that. Cardan had just always assumed it was out of need for a seneschal who had an undying loyalty to him. But Rhyia?

He glanced at her sideways and she held her chin up higher, “As I said. I am not ashamed of who I have come to adore. Many think them beneath us, I find that to be wholly untrue. They are born, they live vibrant, beautiful lives, and they die, just as we do.”

Cardan shook his head, “They are dirt. A fleeting thing made of dust and water, gone before they can live fully if they do not stay here. They are beneath us.” A practiced excuse, and his sister knew it.

“You feel the need to run from what you do not understand. Do not want to feel. The choice is yours but know this: You are a prince. You may love whoever you see fit to love. Mortals may be weaker than we are, but their ability to love is stronger even than our own. When they find someone fit to adore, they put their entire existence into loving them. They feel it deeply and should you find yourself the object of their affection, there will be nothing they will not do for you,” She looked at him pointedly, “It is an honor to be loved by a mortal.”

Cardan was silent for a moment as her words sank in. The vial in his pocket felt heavier, somehow.

An honor. Cardan had never been granted anything akin to honor before. And as thoughts of auburn hair and rounded ears flashed through his mind, he realized he never would be granted such a thing. He shook his head,

“Even if that were true, my issue does not stem from running from the affections of a mortal.”

Rhyia smiled carefully at her brother, “Of course not. Simply from the possibility that she will not love you as you love her.”

He balked and tugged his arm from her hold, stalking the rest of the way home on his own. He did not love a mortal. He just couldn’t get thoughts of her out of his mind. Her name played on an indestructible loop in his brain, carefully preserved memories of her every sneer and glare followed him into his dreams and emerged with him in his waking hours. She wouldn’t leave him alone.

The liquid in that vial would fix it. It would erase her very essence from each corner of his brain, every fold she inhabited, like a sprite infestation of the mind. He would be rid of every thought, every memory, every feeling he had ever had for her.

Without any further pondering, he lifted the vial from his pocket and uncorked it.

Before he even got inside Hallow Hall, he brought it to his lips.

He threw back the potion and blessedly forgot Jude Duarte.

~.~

Lessons had never been a source of joy for Cardan. In fact, he would go as far to say they were a bane of his existence. Knowledge and learning, taking precious time to become scholarly when he could have been lounging about instead.

An odd absence in his chest pulled at him. He felt as if there was something about lessons that should have- usually would have- brought him some level of entertainment, of satisfaction. Looking around, his comrades by his side as they set up their blankets and baskets on the great lawn for the day, there was nothing amiss.

And yet there was something…

“Here they come.” Locke muttered conspiratorially, looking at someone approaching over Cardan’s shoulder. Valerian leered and Nicasia glanced in that direction before scoffing and looking elsewhere.

Had they all met someone at a revel recently? Someone worthy of their torment? Surely, they would have told him had that been the case.

Either way, he wanted to be included, so he turned as well.

When he caught sight of her, he lost his right to breathe.

There were two mortal girls, they were linked at the arm and looked exactly alike. Twins, highly uncommon amongst the Folk, though it happened often enough for the term to be familiar.

Despite there being two of them, his eyes immediately caught on the one to the right.

She was gorgeous.

Her auburn hair was twisted into a knot at the top of her head, a golden net holding it in place along with a few decorative pins. She was wearing a simple tunic with a crest across her chest that he instantly recognized. The family crest of General Madoc. He had mortal charges?

She clutched her basket in one hand and clutched her sister’s arm even closer. She was whispering something to the other girl and when she glanced up, she locked gazes with him.

It felt as if time had frozen.

She stared at him for a moment, brown eyes boring into his. It was the most beautiful color he had ever had the privilege of seeing. What a shame she shared a face with the girl next to her, her beauty was so striking that it deserved to be all her own. Even so, she was- as far as he was concerned- far more breathtaking than her twin.

She was alarmingly attractive. Distressingly beautiful. The product of tortuous, glorifying nightmares. He needed to know her, needed to speak to her. What did her voice sound like? Was she bold or soft spoken? How long had she been in Elfahme and why had he never encountered her before?

This ethereal creature… he could feel his heart beating so quickly it was growing painful, he had to force himself to take a breath least he pass out from lack of oxygen.

“Who is that?” He knew his voice was little more than a strained whisper as he continued to stare at her.

As soon as his mouth moved, it seemed to shatter some hold that had settled over her. Her eyes narrowed and she gave him a glare so delightfully heated that he could feel it burning his very blood. She was a fiery one.

Her lips pulled into a sneer and he immediately wanted to know what she would taste like. Some strange, horrid concoction of bitter and sweet, no doubt. He had to know.

He could see Nicasia looking at him strangely from the corner of his eye. He couldn’t bring himself to tear his gaze from the mortal as she moved to an empty area on the grass with her twin in tow. He watched as they spread out their blankets and settled down.

“The Duarte twins? Madoc’s filthy mortal brats? Cardan, are you feeling well?” She asked, rare concern lacing her voice.

He would wager he’d never felt better in his life. He felt something in his chest- the previously empty and wounded area- light up as though something finally came to life in him, as though he were finally whole.

“What’s her name, the one on the right?” He ignored the strange looks his friends gave him, never looking away from the Duarte twin that had enraptured his attention, though she kept throwing disgusted sneers his way every time she looked up to find him still staring.

“Jude?” Locke inquired, glancing gleefully between the twins and the prince.

Something in his mind snapped into place, and he finally understood what had been missing, Jude.

Her name looped around his thoughts, over and over.

Jude Jude Jude Jude Jude Jude Jude Jude Jude Jude…

He needed her. He felt it, he…

Cardan Greenbriar was in love.

~.~

Waiting for lessons to end was nearly unbearable, the only consolation Cardan got was from staring at the object of his affections throughout the day.

Each time she caught him staring, she would glare and turn away sharply, as though his gaze had branded her. Each time it sent a thrill through him, something he had never felt before, even with previous lovers. Even with Nicasia, who was sitting right next to him through the whole day.

It was perhaps hasty on his part, this whole bodied acceptance of his feelings, but Cardan was never one to curb his indulgences. After all, when the Folk fell in love, it was often that it happened deeply and all at once. This was nothing out of the ordinary, and the prince looked forward to trying to shower this lovely fiend in affections as soon as he could speak with her.

As soon as they were released for the day, he issued Locke to distract her twin, having seen how they stole glances at one another during their lessons. The fox like faerie was all too happy to oblige and Cardan found himself trailing his new love off the palace grounds and into the forest, glad she hadn’t bothered to wait for her twin.

It took about two minutes for her to stop, once they were out of sight of the palace behind them. She turned and her gaze locked onto him.

He continued forward until he was a mere foot away from her. He said nothing and simply stood there, watching, waiting for her to speak first.

“What do you want?” Oh, how delightfully sharp her voice was! Even drenched in irritation, it was soothing as a balm to his aching head after listening to Nicasia’s grating prattle all day. She looked momentarily surprised at herself, as though she were normally much milder. Though she quickly shook it off and continued to glare at him.

He decided to forego beating around the bush, she seemed like the type of person who enjoyed being direct, getting straight to the point. That spot in his chest she now occupied throbbed a bit, “You’ve captured my attention. You’re quite alluring, Jude. That is your name, correct?”

A completely logical question, but she looked at him as though he had two heads. Actually no- there was at least one two headed faerie out there- she looked at him as though he had just asked her to shoot him through with an arrow, like he was an idiot in need of mental help.

“Is this some kind of trick?” Her voice was dripping disgust and her hand twitched as though she wanted to reach for something but thought better of it at the last moment. Her eyes narrowed further and he found himself wishing she would look at him normally so he could see her eyes fully. They must be exquisite this close up.

He shook his head, shifting towards her, she took a step back, “No trick. I know I’m being forward, but I find you most enchanting, perhaps we can walk together?” he smirked at her. He knew how to be charming, had won a few hearts that way. However, she sneered at him as though she were completely immune to it- even better!

“’Perhaps we’… What are you doing, Cardan?” she nearly growled his name and he found he quite liked the way it sounded coming out of her mouth.

“Expressing my interest in you,” he stepped closer and grabbed one of her hands gently, tried not to laugh when she casually pulled it away and unsheathed a small dagger at her hip, “As I said, you have my attention.”

She looked confused a moment, even slightly concerned. It vanished quickly and she held the dagger a little higher. Outright threatening him. Yes, he was definitely in love!

“What has gotten into you? Some sort of sickness the Folk get? Have you been drinking already?”

Already. For some reason that stuck in his head. ‘Have you been..’ it sounded as though she knew of his habits. Granted it was no secret that he preferred various wines over most other beverages any day, but only those who paid attention to him knew that. He was under the distinct impression they had never met before.

That spot in his heart throbbed again, painfully.

“You…” He took a step towards her and she backed up several paces, her blade gleaming between them.

“If this is some new way of trying to get me to back down, you can drop it. It’s not going to work. You’ve managed to pit Taryn against me already, and as long as you leave her alone, we have an understanding but that’s it. I won’t hesitate to hurt you if you touch either one of us. Now leave me alone.”

Cardan didn’t understand half of what she was talking about. Who was Taryn? Her twin perhaps? He hadn’t bothered with her name. How did Jude figure he had pit them against one another? And how had he and Jude come to an agreement of sorts if he had never met her before?

As she backed away, dagger still held offensively as though she expected him to lunge for her, he realized he was going to need answers to his growing list of questions before he tried to pursue her further.

He held up his hands in what he hoped was a placating gesture, watching as she continued to move away before she was far enough to turn and hastily make her way from him. He gazed after her a moment, wishing that had gone differently, then turned and started to trek his way home, suddenly in a somber mood.

~.~

Jude huffed out a breath of frustration as she re-sheathed her dagger, trying to figure out what on earth had just passed between her and Cardan.

You have my attention. That was normally a bad thing, but the way he had been gazing at her…she could feel her blood heating and it wasn’t all due to hate.

So wrapped up in trying to figure out what had just happened with Cardan, Jude didn’t realize someone else was following her until it was too late.

She jumped an embarrassingly high distance into the air when Princess Rhyia appeared beside her.

“Oh! Uh, your highness.” Jude muttered, dropping into a low curtsy.

She tried to keep her wits about her when the princess gripped her arm and looped her own through it. She smiled warmly at Jude, something she found slightly disconcerting, and said, “Walk with me.”

Her tone was gentle, but Jude understood a command when she heard one, and Rhyia was all but physically dragging her by the arm, so she really had little choice in the matter.

“Tell me, young Jude. What do you think of my brother?”

Jude didn’t bother asking for clarification. If Rhyia had followed her all this way, it was likely she had just seen whatever it was that had transpired between Cardan and herself. She was about to blurt out “I hate him, as he does me” when she stopped herself. It probably wasn’t wise to badmouth him to his sibling. Not to mention it felt…odd, to say that all of a sudden.

The princess caught her hesitation and squeezed her arm gently, “Please, speak freely.”

Well then, “Um…we don’t…we don’t see eye to eye.” A huge understatement, though Rhyia simply nodded, keeping quiet as she waited for Jude to go on. “I take it you know why he was acting so strangely back there?”

For a startling moment, the princess looked upset. She schooled her features quickly, though. “Usually, I would feel it is not my place to meddle. But Cardan… it is no excuse, I know, but… he doesn’t always understand his own feelings.”

Jude bit the inside of her own cheek. She had quite a bit to say when it came to Cardan and feelings. She kept quiet as his sister went on.

“I shouldn’t be the one to reveal all the details, but I can tell you that he feels very strongly for you. So strongly in fact, that he went to extremes to stop feeling for you. It would appear his plan backfired.”

Strong feelings? Backfired? What? “I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“Cardan approached me yesterday, asking if I knew of a way to rid him of feelings he couldn’t stand to feel. I took him to an imp I know of, who gave him a potion, a…cure, he called it. It would erase the thing that ails one from their memory.”

Jude was putting the pieces together now. For an inexplicable reason, something tugged at her chest, dark and ugly. “He…wanted to forget me?” She asked carefully.

Rhyia smiled, obviously happy Jude was understanding, “You were haunting him. He couldn’t cease thinking of you and it was driving him quite mad. So, he sought a solution.”

“A solution?” Jude scoffed, the hurt in her chest growing, “So rather than…than talk to me, he decided to erase me from his memory?!” She couldn’t fathom why this truth hurt, why she even cared-

“Well, he tried. I’ve been watching him today. It seems that, if anything, his feelings for you are much clearer now.” She nodded to herself, as if this was a completely logical situation.

Jude felt like she couldn’t breathe. Cardan, he felt something for her? Something other than hate?

She thought back to a piece of paper, her name dashed out over and over and over, like he was trying to immortalize her, pen her down on paper so she should never be forgotten.

Suddenly, she was recounting every interaction they had ever had, every weighted look and spiteful word. Each trick and torment and barb thrown at one another. The way they relentlessly targeted one another, trading blows in every form one could think of. She recalled the way Taryn begged her to let it go, to quit this twisted game but she couldn’t. She would not forfeit. She didn’t want to stop.

And he was just as guilty. Each time they went toe to toe, he wouldn’t back down, wouldn’t leave her alone, almost as if he needed this game they played just as much as she did, just to feel... and each time, there was an air of something heavier behind it all, something unspoken and deadly and mutual.

Something like obsession. A twisted kind of heart-breaking. A tragic back and forth dance. Evil, heated, something intense, some…

Some wicked type of love.

She didn’t realize she had stopped moving until Rhyia pulled her arm from Jude’s. They were nearing Madoc’s estate, but Jude found she didn’t want to go home just yet.

“He…We, uh…” Great, at a loss for words in front of royalty. But Rhyia just smiled wider.

“I heard there is a way to bring back memory stolen by a potion, a kiss of true love or something of that nature. But you didn’t hear it from me.” The princess leaned in and placed a sisterly kiss on Jude’s cheek before she winked and walked away.

Jude stood there, stupidly staring at nothing just off the edge of Madoc’s estate for far longer than she would have liked to admit.

She… she loved him? She wanted to be wrong, but it felt like she had just discovered the answer to everything she never realized she was questioning. Her chest ached, she had to get to him. What had Rhyia said? ‘kiss of true love’? Like from a story book? Ridiculous. And exactly the kind of thing that would happen to her.

Jude squared her shoulders, resigning herself to her decision.

Without giving herself a chance to reconsider, she turned on her heel and started to backtrack to Hallow Hall.

~.~

Cardan was only slightly surprised when Jude traipsed through his open balcony doors an hour later. He wasn’t sure what she had against using the front door like a normal person but epic declarations of love were often much more, well, epic when preceded by dramatic entrances.

He liked her flair.

“Somehow I knew you would show up.” He was genuinely glad to see her, though if she was here to tell him off again, he wasn’t sure how he would manage. He would find a way, though, for her.

“Shame on me for being predictable.” She muttered, moving further into the room. She regarded him coolly, “You really don’t remember me?”

Cardan held up a finger and moved to his desk. He picked up an empty vial that was sitting atop. He held it out to her.

“I assumed I was at a revel last night and that was why I couldn’t recall anything, however today’s events are making that hard to believe.”

Jude took the vial from him, careful not to touch him as she did so. She examined the glass, rolled it over in her hands a few times. She glanced back up at him and he was happy to find her eyes open wide. He was right, a gorgeous color.

“I assume you don’t know what this is.” She shook the vial.

He shook his head, “I figure it’s the cause of my lapse in memory. Now I wonder what was in it and why I needed it,” He looked her over carefully, head to toe and back up again, “And why it seems tied to you.”

She pocketed the vial, though he wasn’t sure why she would want it, “Have you spoken with Rhyia today?”

Rhyia? “What does my sister have to do with this?”

“She accompanied me home, don’t give me that look- she snuck up on me. She told me that yesterday you asked for her assistance in acquiring something. A cure, of sorts.”

Cardan ignored the jealousy he felt against his sister-how unfair that she got to walk Jude home- and mused over Jude’s words. A cure… “I don’t recall being ill before last night.” He crossed his arms, watching her. Even the way she just stood there was astounding. He could look at her forever and it still wouldn’t be long enough to give her the attention she deserved.

“Well, you weren’t sick, exactly. You…wanted someone erased from your memory.” Her voice went quiet. Odd, from what he knew of her thus far, that seemed extremely out of character for her.

“That would explain the memory loss.” Horrible attempt at a quip, though her mouth quirked up at the corner, he got her to smile! Despite her obvious upset, his chest warmed. He wanted to see her grinning, to hear her laugh. Perhaps he would, one day.

“Yeah, well, it definitely did its job.”

It hit him, then. He had wanted to forget someone, his comrades had displayed obvious distaste for the Duarte twins even though Cardan could not recall ever meeting them. Rhyia had gone to Jude after their…talk in the woods, and Cardan hardly believed it had been Jude’s twin he had wanted to forget.

“You.” He said quietly, watching her shift her weight from one foot to the other, “I wanted to forget you?” He hardly thought it possible, she was a delight! He had never known what the missing piece of his entire existence had been until he laid eyes on her for the first time- ok, not first time, rather the first time he remembers. All the same, looking upon her beautiful countenance now, he could quite confidently declare his past self absolutely mad for attempting to purge her from his thoughts.

Jude shrugged and stepped closer, “I guess I was haunting you. And you don’t like knowing there is something out there that you can’t have.”

His heart plummeted. He wished it to soar at the obvious fact that she seemed to know him so well, however her words crushed the fragile hope that had been budding within him since he left her alone in the woods, “And I can’t? Have you?”

Her gaze was intense and piercing when it landed on his own. Again, he marveled at the color. The rich hues of brown one found upon the forest floor, the cracked deck of a mighty ship, all the copper and wood and soil of the earth blending together to solidify themselves in the alluring shade of her eyes. He couldn’t breathe.

She forewent answering his question, “Your sister told me there is a way to restore your memory, if you would have it.”

“Yes.” He found himself breathing, already enticed at the prospect of remembering this wicked girl before him. Obviously, his past self had been an idiot for trying to forget her. He cleared his throat, “What is it?”

She took another step, then another, stopping only when they were so close he had to tilt his head down to meet her eyes.

“I’m not sure it will work, but I know you’ll find it entertaining.”

Gently, he reached up to wrap a lock of her hair around his finger. She didn’t seem to mind as he asked again, “Is there a chance? That I could have you?” He’d never had anything solely his, never won affections simply because someone had cared for him. He knew if she could be that for him, he’d want for nothing more in his life ever again.

Slowly, she lifted a hand to his cheek. He found himself leaning into it readily as she pulled his face closer to hers.

She seemed to hesitate, considering something before she answered, “So long as I could have you.”

He would have answered, ‘Anything, you can have anything you want’ had she not closed the distance and pressed her lips to his.

~.~

The memories came rushing back all at once and they nearly knocked his breath out of his chest. But he only gave his history with his gorgeous villain a passing thought as more pressing matters settled themselves in the forefront of his mind.

Namely, the fact that Jude was kissing him. Jude. As everything he knew about her, about them fell into place he had to wonder if he was dreaming. But no. He’d imagined this very moment before and… It had all his hopes, his expectations paling in comparison to the actual sensation. She was warm and her mouth was soft even as she roughly slanted it against his own. Even when showing affection, she felt the need to be in control and he lent it to her willingly.

In the back of his mind, he recalled having always assumed that their first kiss would be intoxicating and drenched in delirium- why else would either of them fall into the other without a fight, if not for the moment being brought about by emotions stronger than they could contend with? And while it definitely lived up to that expectation, he had also always assumed it would be over rather quickly. That she would pull away abruptly, muttering about mistakes and small, ironic acts of vengeance.

That is where the likeness between imagination and reality broke away.

In reality, as soon as her mouth met his and she gave him a moment to feel the onslaught of memories, she stepped closer, forcing him to bend slightly to accommodate their height difference. The hand that had been resting on his face slid up, over the pointed tip of his ear and into his hair while her other arm fastened tightly around his shoulders, pulling him flush against her.

He fumbled for a moment- which was really something wasn’t it? Wasn’t he the more experienced of the two? How thoroughly she had undone him already!

Once his bearings were back intact, he slipped his arms around her waist, molding himself to her. He marveled at how seamlessly they seemed to fit together. A lock and- wait, no. No Locke. Two pieces of the same puzzle finally snapping into place.

His mind gave over to a blank sort of haze, melting along to the backdrop of her name looping around his thoughts, Jude Jude Jude Jude Jude Jude Jude and for a bare moment he understood again why he had forced her out of his mind, for she was the only thing in the universe that had the power to drive him into pure madness.

He would happily crash into insanity now, with her wrapped around him, teeth tugging at his bottom lip demandingly. He obliged to her wishes, would cater to her every twisted whim if she would have it. One of his hands snaked into her hair as he deepened their kiss, he felt her fingers dig into his back harshly in response. He felt that should he die now, he would leave this existence fulfilled and whole.

Once the need for oxygen became unrelenting, he pressed his mouth firmly against hers, once more, and pulled away.

Again, his imaginings of this moment ended here or before, with her pulling away, that beautiful scowl etched across her perfect face, muttering foul and soul wrenching words like mistake and useless.

And again, reality outshone even the darkest parts of his mind. As soon as he pulled back, she stayed near a moment, waiting to see if he would come back. When he didn’t, she sighed through her nose, the sound almost content and she peered up at him.

His eyes locked on hers as she let her hands explore the breadth of his shoulders, the column of his neck which she glanced at briefly before her gaze snapped back to his own, full of something like longing.

When he didn’t move, said nothing, she tilted her head to the side as she tugged at the hair at the nape of his neck. “Well?” was all she said.

It took him a moment to register what her meaning was. She wanted to know if he remembered her, their history. He blinked, “I…remember.” He stated cautiously. He couldn’t lie of course, but he almost wanted to. So terrified was he of what that knowledge would mean for them, for what had just transpired between them. His imaginings never prepared him for this.

Or for what she did next.

A smirk, more of a small smile, really, bloomed across her features. That in itself was jarring but since this was Jude and ambition was what drove her out of bed in the morning, of course she took it further than simply jarring. She leaned in again, placing a kiss to his cheek, along his jaw, his nose even, before she finally claimed his lips again. It was past shocking. Had he known memory loss would lead to this he would have sought out his sister for help much sooner.

Though really, why was she even doing this? Just yesterday she had been scowling at him every time they glanced at each other, just an hour ago she had been threating his life, warning him to back off. What had changed?

This, while thrilling, wasn’t ideal. Insecurity was not something Cardan was overly familiar with these days, not when it came to her. This information is what had him puling away gently, looking at her in earnest.

“Why the sudden interest?” He debated throwing a quip or scathing remark of some sort her way, a sudden and desperate need to get back to their malicious bantering washing over him, though he shoved the thought away. He was genuinely curious as to what changed her mind.

She shook her head as she finally left his embrace, “I had just been thinking and realized that somewhere along the way, strong feelings of hate had shifted into strong feelings of…something else.”

She looked put out at the thought that she had developed any sort of emotion for him other than contempt, but he had to agree with her sentiment. He bristled to think that that potion hadn’t done its job right, but it had done something. Before, he had been content to half-lie to himself, to convince himself so profoundly that he was not enchanted, mind and body and soul by this girl before him.

What was it Rhyia had said? It is an honor to be loved by a mortal.

Cardan felt that maybe there was honor in loving one, too.

He bit the inside of his cheek before asking, “And you meant what you said, before?”

So long as I could have you.

“Yes.” She sounded so sure. He liked to believe she wasn’t lying. She rubbed at the missing tip of her finger as she watched him, “So, where does that leave us?”

Bring him back to me when the effects of the… cure have taken hold. He’d gotten more than he had bargained for. He held out his hand to Jude.

She reached for it instantly and he tried not to let it show how deeply that affected him, his head already wanting to go fuzzy with nothing but the thought of her.

“I owe a visit to a certain imp.”

Fin

And that is that! Please let me know your thoughts! And I am so excited to be sharing again and looking forward to what I plan to write in the future☺️ (jeez it is so long I’m so sorry for everyone who has to scroll all this way😬😅)

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Voluptas Noctis Aeternae {Part 7.23}

*Severus Snape x OC*

Summary: It is the year 1983 when the ordinary life of Robin Mitchell takes a drastic turn: she is accepted into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Despite the struggles of being a muggle-born in Slytherin, she soon discovers her passion for Potions, and even manages the impossible: gaining the favor of Severus Snape. Throughout the years, Robin finds that the not quite so ordinary Potions Professor goes from being a brooding stranger to being more than she had ever deemed possible. An ally, a mentor, a friend... and eventually, the person she loves the most. Through adventure, prophecies and the little struggles of daily life in a castle full of mysteries, Robin chooses a path for herself, an unlikely friendship blossoms into something more, and two people abandoned by the world can finally find a home.

General warnings: professor x student, blood, violence, trauma, neglectful families, bullying, cursing

Words: 3.7k

Read Part 1.1 here! All Parts can be found on the Masterlist!

______________________________

This one hour turned out to be way longer than the previous ones together. Admittedly, Robin did enjoy the youthful silliness of her friends, but for the most part she could only listen and offer her ever-too-grown-up take on matters on the few occasions when she was asked for her opinion. It was fun though, a bit like spending time with younger siblings. Not that Robin knew much about that, and when she dared to voice the thought, Simon and Michael –who had grown up with two and three little siblings respectively– only laughed in her face. Oh well, just fun it was then, but perhaps not like siblings after all. Just a group of unlikely friends.

At the end of the given hour, Robin wished her little group a good rest of the night and told them to meet her in the entrance hall half an hour past midnight. Before either of the confused people could ask about her enigmatic and sudden statement, Snape came to her rescue just as planned. He didn't say a word when he held his hand out to her, and she didn't say a word in return when she took it and let him pull her up to her feet. It was all in the eyes, in the words that didn't need to be spoken to be understood. The last Robin heard of her friends while Snape led her off towards the dancefloor was Cas saying something along the lines of 'and that's how you ask a girl to dance!' to the rest of the group. She couldn't help but silently smirk to herself in agreement.

The dance that followed was as much a delight as the previous one had been, as every single one of their dances had been, and once it ended all too soon as ever, neither of them could bear to stop just yet. So they did what most couples did, they stayed, and they danced to the next three pieces of song the musicians gifted them with as well. It left Robin quite breathless, but smiling more widely than she probably ever had in public. Who cares… she was just 'that insane girl', after all. This was the last ball she would be here for, and perhaps also the last time she got to dance with Snape. Even though she very much hoped that the latter wasn't truly the case.

When they finally decided that it had been quite enough exercise for the moment, a decision majorly influenced by the change in musical tone from sophisticated to what Robin graciously called 'jolly', they made their way off the dancefloor with slightly heaving chests and in purest contentment. That was, until no other than Damion Morgan stepped into their way, as if he had sensed that Robin's night was going too well. And he obviously had every intention to change that now. Not only did his eyes rake up and down Robin's form with an almost hungry look, but with an equal amount of scarily sweet smiles plastered onto his lips as well.

"Go on now, don't be shy, darling. Just ask me out." He finally spoke up with one of his flashiest grins, and his eyes locked with Robin's as he got way too close to her for anyone's comfort.

"Alright. Would you be so kind to get out of my sight?" Robin returned an exaggeratedly sweet smile that was dripping with sarcasm, and she was only glad that, hidden away under the billowing sleeves or her dress, Snape was still holding onto her hand.

"Ah, always sporting such a sharp tongue and an even sharper mind... that's how you seduce me, dear." Morgan chuckled, a brightly ringing sound that gave Robin chills of the uncomfortable kind. How could the man be so ridiculously positive, clear as crystal and bright as the sun, while yet he was the scariest person she had ever known to exist?

"Your advances are shameful at best, Damion, if not outright pathetic." Snape replied in a condescending and cold drawl, and his words were more in line with Robin's thoughts than anything she could have worded herself.

Morgan's head snapped around, and he glared at Snape with sharp shards of ice in his eyes. "Oh, and you think you are doing so much better than that? Is that why she hasn't even noticed how badly you are pining for her?"

Now Snape's eyes narrowed at the man in front of them in an unspoken threat as well. "You haven't the slightest idea what you are speaking of."

"Actually I know very well what I'm speaking of, Severus." Morgan quipped in radiant imagined superiority. "As it is, I also happen to know that you are absolutely right in your assessment of the circumstances; you really are entirely out of your league."

Robin didn't waste time thinking about the lunatic's words of hostility and instead caught his attention by speaking up calmly and with the subtlest touch of mocking sweetness. "If we are so far below you, then perhaps we shouldn't bother you any longer with our lowliness. It must be quite painful for you to dwell in such poor company, and we wouldn't want to hurt you now, would we?"

With that, Robin simply turned to leave without waiting for an answer, and she didn't even have to pull Snape along with her, for he mirrored her movement precisely in an instant. They got exactly two steps further down the hall before Morgan caught Robin by her free arm once again. His grip, as ever, more demand than inquiry.

"Dance with me." He said, without smiles, without brightness, and certainly without room for refusal.

"No." Was what Robin replied nonetheless, and this finally brought a new smile to Morgan's lips, a different one. A smile that made Robin's blood freeze over.

"That wasn't a question, darling. Dance with me, or I will see to it that you won't live to deny me again."

Robin's guarded expression kept her jaw from dropping and her eyes from growing wide, but the sheer panic that spread inside her mind and body still must've found a way to the surface. Her eyes moved from Morgan to Snape, in a silent plea for him to do something, anything, but going by his own expression, it was either killing Morgan right on the spot or letting things unfold. Robin couldn't blame him for having a similar reaction as she had herself, there was little else to do about such a display of dramaticism and insanity.

Gulping down the lump in her throat, Robin let go of Snape's hand and took the one Morgan was offering instead, even though every single cell in her body screamed in protest. As ridiculous as the threat was, she didn't doubt Morgan anymore. The lengths to which he would go to see her suffer still lay in darkness ahead of her, and she was more than reasonably reluctant to shed any light onto them now. So she let the man lead her back to the dancefloor, much like last year, while she was still aware of and very much thankful for Snape's eyes lingering on her. He wouldn't let Morgan harm her if he could prevent it, she knew that. And Snape's serious concern worried her quite a bit more than the actual prospect of getting injured. But no time to think about it now. The music started, and Morgan swirled her through the room alongside the oblivious students, professors and guests.

"You are hurting me." She finally spoke up in a quiet hiss, when his fingers dug uncomfortably into the skin of her back even through the layers of thick black fabric.

"Did it ever occur to you that you are hurting me, too?" He sighed in return, as if speaking to a child reluctant to understand. "With all those edges and corners of your wild personality… You make it ridiculously hard for me to put my mark on you. Perhaps, a little pain shall be the way to tame you after all."

A mere second later, when he moved his hand across her back oh so subtly, a sharp pain, a stinging and burning followed in the wake of his fingers at once, and Robin gasped before biting her lip to refrain from crying out. How the actual hell had he done that?! The pain dimmed down quickly enough, and nobody was paying them much attention, so it can't have been anything too serious, right? Right?! Robin released a shivering breath, then glared up at her dance partner in utmost hostility.

"If you think you can break me like some fragile plaything, you are utterly mistaken." She hissed, but it only served to make the man above her smirk. Robin wanted to slap that expression off his face, but all she could do was glare at him even more threateningly. "I can see way beneath those smiles and charming words. When I look at you, I see nothing but a monster."

"When I look at you, I see a beautiful masquerade covering the hollow darkness of inevitable death. Because that's ultimately what you are, and what you are ever going to be. A broken creature of ash and dust, and a mirror of shattered vanity." His reply came quickly and in a striking factuality, a seriousness that was unlikely for him. It left Robin short of an adequate answer for a moment, while his words cut a little deeper than she would've liked. And yet, when he spoke on, his tone was filled with bitter amusement. "It's rather ironic, isn't it? To see you clinging so desperately onto the one man who is the very essence of brokenness. Tell me, are you trying to heal him or do you merely reap what is left in the ashes? I cannot tell from what I see. But I shouldn't be the one to judge... I too desire you despite your darkness."

"You are wrong. Again, as always." She huffed in spite. "I don't like him despite the way he is, but for that very reason. He might have been broken once, but he put his pieces back together in his own way, and that makes him more appealing than anyone who has never known the courage it takes to go on after you shatter. Or the strength it takes to be better than before."

"You really are quite pathetically in love, aren't you?" Morgan sighed, sounding condescending and indifferent in a way that made Robin wish she hadn't said anything at all. But this damned man just had a way of getting to her and making her speak against her better judgement. "Ironic that it had to be Severus you are so willing to suffer for. Say, would you die for him, little songbird? I bet you would, wouldn't you? As I said; Ironic."

"If I'm pathetic for loving, you are just loving to be pathetic. Ironic indeed." She scoffed, and he squeezed the hurting spot on her back in return, making her yelp under her breath. The sound made him smirk. Bloody bastard…

When the music came to an end and the people to a halt, Robin feared that Morgan would keep her right where she was for another dance. It was a bit after eleven at this point, and even if there was still some time until midnight, she was both exhausted and desperate to get away from the man who was keeping a strong hold of her even now that the dance had ended. But to her surprise, he started leading her off the dancefloor before she even had to voice a protest or question.

"I better return you to poor Severus before he gives in to the urge to murder me, huh? Merlin's beard, that man loves you more than is good for him." Morgan chuckled quietly, but Robin honestly didn't care for his words now as long as he left her alone as soon as possible. It didn't even matter that he had fallen victim to the same delusions as everyone else. So when Morgan finally released Robin from his grasp and even had the audacity to give her a little push towards Snape, there was no time for her wounded pride when she was just lucky to be escaping his presence in the first place. Only once Robin was safely tucked into Snape's side two seconds later, she finally felt like she could breathe again.

"Thank you for the dance, my dear. Your divine company is always my highest pleasure." Morgan gave Robin another of his signature smiles. "I'm looking forward to all that is yet to come." His words couldn't have been more enigmatic and unsettling, but at least he bowed slightly and then disappeared into the crowd. Just like last year.

Robin let out a long breath to regain her composure, then looked up at Snape right at her side. He was undoubtedly angry and concerned in equal measure, as always when it came to her interactions with Morgan, and thus she offered him a small smile of reassurance.

"I'm alright, don't worry. The idiot hurt my back, but it's less painful than any of the times he slammed me into a wall in class, so it's nothing new really. It's okay."

"I let him hurt you, it is not okay."

"Do we need to be having this conversation again?" Robin gave him a look that was both pleading and defeated. "There is nothing you could've done and we both know that. All we can do is to start looking more thoroughly into what his problem with me is after the break is over."

"You are most likely right about that. Obviously." Snape sighed, then placed a gentle hand on the small of her back with a questioning gaze down at her. "May I?"

"Certainly." The smile that came to her lips now was genuine, affectionate almost, and she didn't bother hiding it from him. They both could use some calm and comfort now. "Perhaps… we could get away from the crowds for a bit?"

"Certainly." He mirrored with a not-smirk, and Robin shook her head with a chuckle. He really had a way of cheering her up even in the worst of situations, and that was something nobody else had ever been able to do.

Without waiting for a better opportunity that wouldn't come anyway, they soon made their way through the hall while pushing through various groups of people who weren't accustomed to the unspoken rule that it was better to stay out of their way. Robin had never taken much notice of it before just now, actually, but she usually never had to squeeze through somewhere. People usually stepped out of her way quite willingly and let her pass without effort. The same way they did with Snape. In a way, now that people did stay standing in her path, she found herself equally amused and irritated by that fact. Perhaps being the insane girl everyone feared based on a reputation alone really wasn't all that bad after all.

They reached the entrance hall soon enough, and in an unspoken question and likewise answer, they decided against winter robes and for a heating charm instead. It wouldn't be toasty, that was for sure, but it could keep the cold away at least, even if that left the wind to live with. Now that the snow had been replaced by rain for the majority of the previous week, it wasn't as harsh outside as it had been half a month ago, and this they could very well feel when they stepped outside into the nightly courtyard side by side. With the charm wrapping around them, the temperature was almost truly comfortable here, but then again, there was no wind inside these walls, so that wasn't too much of a surprise.

It again went wordlessly that they sauntered through the arcades and to the other end of the open space, out into the night and away from the busyness of the castle at long last. Away from the people, away from Morgan. His words still sounded as a dull echo in Robin's mind, now that everything else was silent. Not all of his nonsense had lingered of course, just… that one thing he had said wouldn't stop nagging at her. What he saw when he looked at her. The hollow darkness of inevitable death. It probably was just his overly dramatic way of being hostile and threatening, but then again, perhaps what he saw was the same thing that made everyone else scared of her as well. And as all things inevitable, it drew closer and closer to the surface, where everyone could see. Maybe that's why her reputation had grown exponentially more sinister over the years… Maybe that's why Morgan's words threatened to suffocate her now. Because she really was just a hollow darkness to the people around her.

"Talk to me, Robin…" Snape's voice drew her out of her mind as it did so often these days. They were sauntering down the hill now, almost having reached the shore of the lake… and she hadn't even noticed. "You are getting lost again, and by the look on your face I can tell that it isn't a nice place you are vanishing into. Will you just tell me what is bothering you for once, or do I have to ask on?"

"It's… just something Morgan said." She sighed deeply, and tried for a half smile when she looked up at Snape. "I really should know better by now than to let him get to me like that every single time, huh?"

"He has a way of getting under people's skin regardless of how hard they try to resist. It happens to the best."

"To you?"

"Obviously."

Robin let out a small amused huff in reply, but then stopped in her saunter and turned to face Snape when he did the same. "Can I ask you something odd?"

"Don't you always?" The returned question was more encouragement than tease for once, and Robin honestly felt glad for that. 

She knew she had to ask, but in the end she would also need the courage to bear the answer as well. Taking a deep breath, she kept her eyes fixed on his and finally brought up the courage to speak the words that had been threatening to break past her lips anyway. "When you look at me... what do you see?"

"Everything." His reply came in such a calm sincerity, such genuine and complete certainty that Robin forgot how to breathe for a moment. She even forgot why she had asked in the first place, with an answer that told her so much more than the question demanded. A shiver of sheer and utter delight ran over her skin; she couldn't remember how to speak with words. So all the questions and answers of the world lay in her gaze alone. She wanted to be everything to him more than she had ever wanted anything else.

"Why do you ask?" Snape finally inquired, just as calmly as before, and the fact that his previous answer obviously was just another given to him almost made Robin laugh despite the newly arising hope. Perhaps she wasn't a token of death to everyone… to the one person that mattered she obviously was quite a bit more than that. And wasn't that by far enough?

"Morgan said that all he sees in me is a beautiful masquerade that covers the hollow darkness of inevitable death." She finally sighed with a shrug, then sauntered on towards the shore with Snape following right by her side. "But then again he also said that the sharp edges of my personality make it difficult for him to put his mark on me, so I guess I shouldn't try to find truth where there is only insanity."

"A wise decision I wholeheartedly support." He replied, just when they left the muddy path behind and crossed over onto the pebbled edge of the lake that lay in front of them as a black mirror now, reflecting only the blanket of stars above their heads. A beautiful sight that made Robin sigh as much as Snape's question that came a mere second later. "Was there anything else he said that might be disconcerting?"

"Just the usual things he keeps saying to me from time to time… How much he hates that I 'desperately cling onto you', for example. Or that you love me too much." She said before her brain had the time to fully process how stupid of a move that was. Maybe it was the hope gaining the upper hand again… but the idea that perhaps she could be everything to him indeed was burning her up from the inside now. Her hope had turned into a wildfire.

"Dumbledore really should have Morgan gagged, if he already refuses to dispose of him entirely." Snape grumbled under his breath, and Robin's heart fell a little. That wasn't the reaction she hadn't technically allowed herself to hope for but had hoped for nonetheless. Of course it would upset him to hear these accusations… what had she been expecting? Ridiculous.

"Oh, you'd have to gag quite a few more people than him if it's just about these remarks." She finally replied with a sad chuckle, then with a silent sigh. "Too many people have been insinuating things like that recently. You know… about you and me. Us."

"Ah." His voice dropped down an octave, and the deep frown on his falling features was suddenly accompanied by a tinge of rising bitterness in his tone, a shadow of sincere sadness in his eyes. Then it was all apathy again before the fleeting emotions could be grasped. "I can see why that thought would be repelling to you."

And for once, encouraged by the shadowy ghosts of expressions she had seen on his face, Robin let her heart speak instead of her mind. "Actually, it just makes me wish quite desperately that it was true."

______________________________

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[ddarker-dreams]

Malaise. Yan Fugo x Reader [Implied x Giorno]

word count: 6.3k warnings: implied sexual relations, angst later on notes: i wouldn’t say there’s super heavy yandereness going on here, but given the context i figured yandere would play out a bit differently. it’s more like slight yandere if anything ...

i.

Interacting with someone so close to your own age shouldn’t be this miserable. Bucciarati is far easier to converse with, it’s not even a close competition. He’s a pleasant conversationalist, humoring your ideas and offering valuable input. If you had it your way, you’d only be speaking to him and not… this bratty teenager who turned his nose up whenever you were around. As if your mere existence is the highest insult to his own. You’ll never forget how he looked from you to Bucciarati with a quirked eyebrow when you were introduced, the awkward encounter forever burned into your mind. 

You blow a strand of hair out of your face, nose scrunching up at the current dilemma. Bucciarati had asked, more like softly nudged you, to get along better with Fugo. You’ve been trying, ever since he introduced you two that fateful day. In the back of your head, you wonder if the same task was assigned to Fugo in private. Though seeing as he’s remaining nose deep into his book, sitting as far as humanly possible from you on this couch, you doubt it. The phrase “avoid like the plague”, doesn’t even scratch the surface of Fugo’s attitude towards you. He’d sooner embrace the Bubonic Plague than you, should prior encounters be recalled.

“Was there something you needed?” 

Speak of the devil. He must’ve seen fit to grace your presence with his most sacred articulation, filling the tense air with some much-needed conversation. The words aren’t malicious on a surface level, seemingly a reasonable inquiry considering you’ve been staring at him for a solid ten minutes. It’s how his voice is strained, knuckles whitening as he grips the book tighter, which gives him away. Fugo’s too easy to read at times, the same can’t be said when it comes to dealing with him. This might be the most difficult task Bucciarati ever assigned to you. 

“Need isn’t the word I’d use,” you decide to ignore the not-so-subtle irritation on his features, pushing your strained luck as far as it can go. Linguistics aside, you put your cards on the table. “But, I was hoping to get to know you better.” 

With the ball now on his side of the court, all you can do is wait, for whatever rebuttal Fugo decides to dish out. When Bucciarati isn’t around, Fugo’s preference is to act like you’re no more than a fly on the wall. Buzzing around his head and making it impossible to focus on anything that he does in his rare downtime. Honestly, he can’t comprehend why Bucciarati felt so desperate as to pluck you from whatever hole he found you in. You don’t even hold a candle to his own intellect, taking a naive, happy-go-lucky approach to life. Sure you’re a Stand user, and while it’s not a useless Stand, Fugo couldn’t picture you making the choices necessary in a fight to stay alive. The fact you haven’t been reduced to a bloodstain on the pavement is the only thing he finds impressive about you so far.

His eyebrow twitches at your pesky insistence, face settling into a grimace. “Am I right in assuming that if I don’t humor this pitiful attempt, you’ll continue to stare at me and disrupt my otherwise peaceful evening?” 

You place a finger to your cheek, considering the proposition, before nodding your head. “It looks like you’ve got a better understanding of things than I expected.” 

Fugo lets out a long sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. So be it. He’ll wait until you fall asleep to finish his book, mentally noting the page number and setting it by his side. The act of surrender takes you off guard. You were fully anticipating a snarky one-liner, or for him to disregard you in some other way. Instead, he looks at you with disinterest, arms crossed over his weird swiss cheese shirt. You learned never to mention your inner critiques of his fashion sense, as it once earned a plate of parmesan being narrowly dodged at Libecco. Scary stuff.

“Now that I have your undivided attention,” Fugo winces at this like he heard nails on a chalkboard, “What do you like to do? Y’know, hobbies and stuff.” 

It’s as good a start as any. Finding out a person’s interests unravels the essence of who they are, what they believe is worth their time and effort. Fugo gives your question an unexpected amount of thought, probably sensing you’ll call him out for a lackluster answer. Which you would, of course. For all his stubbornness, he’s gotten good at reading you. Maybe you should try shaking things up a bit to rattle him, keep him on the edge of his seat… 

“Honestly, you couldn’t pick something more original…? I don’t know. I read, and I can appreciate a good movie.” 

You let out a hum of acknowledgment, considering his words. A very safe, Fugo-like answer. It didn’t take a seasoned detective to assume Fugo liked to read, but the movie detail is a new bit of information that you will take full advantage of. He strikes you as the type to be snobby about his tastes in movies. Most likely only watching them if they’re popular with critics and saying the general population has no appreciation for the fine arts, too busy consuming braindead action flicks instead of true cinema. Not that you have any intention of voicing this conclusion to him, seeing as you’re trying to worm your way into a friendship.

Fugo snaps his fingers in front of your face, bringing you back into unfortunate reality. Maybe that statement earlier this morning about you zoning out too much holds some merit. Before he can berate you as he’s taken an apparent liking to, you speak up. “That’s good and all, but I need specifics.” 

“Care to elaborate?” 

“With pleasure,” you lean forward, waving your hands enthusiastically to emphasize your point. You get the sense that Fugo regrets asking for clarification, but neither of you are willing to back down now. “How about this. If you could only watch one movie for the rest of your life, which would you pick?” 

“Is this some kind of job interview?” Fugo murmurs to himself, massaging his temples. You shrug your shoulders and offer a bright smile, and he knows sarcasm isn’t gonna cut it. “It’d need to be something interesting… maybe The Silence of the Lambs.” 

He somewhat defied your expectations, not listing some obscure black and white flick filmed on a Blackberry. Maybe you jumped the gun on your initial assessment of Fugo Pannacotta, and he isn’t as grandiloquent after all. This confrontation is going better than you ever anticipated, and you almost feel guilty for selling him too short.

That is, until he sees fit to present an unnecessary addition to his previous statement. “Was that bit of English too much for you?” 

So much for that. Once an asshole, always as an asshole. Shakespeare may have said something similar, but your reimagining is far more of a pinnacle in literary achievement. You deflate back into the couch, huffing at his indignant comment. Well, might as well burst his bubble now. It may be the only bubble Fugo has that you’re capable of the aforementioned bursting, so you’re going to savor every second of it. The entire reason you’ve never mentioned this facet of yourself is that you never viewed it as imperative. Bucciarati knew, you knew, that’s all that mattered. Until Fugo decided to dig under your skin and rub salt on the wound in one fell swoop. Figures he’d do that.

“Fugo.” 

“[First].”

“You know English is my first language, right?” Your voice is more of a deadpan than anything, tilting your head to the side as if it is the most logical conclusion. The hypothetical cogs in Fugo’s head begin turning. There was that time you stumbled over a Naples exclusive dish, sfogliatella, Bucciarati kindly offering the proper pronunciation after you stumbled on it. Or how you have the slightest of accents, sometimes referencing pop culture that goes beyond him. He always wondered why muttering “cazzimma” to you only earned a light reprimanding from Bucciarati, and never offended you as more common insults would. He just thought you were some type of misfortune idiot. Whoops. 

Not willing to throw in the towel yet, Fugo takes a posture of defense. This is a hill he’s willing to die on, you have to be playing some kind of cheap trick. “I don’t buy it.” 

“Should I start reciting the entire Star-Spangled Banner by heart, or talk about how much I love fast food and baseball? Did you think my Stand would be a bald eagle that shot out apple pie? If that’s the case, you’re fresh outta luck. I’m living in Naples for a reason.” you respond in fluent English, flexing your hypothetical muscles. Fugo recalls his English classes from years prior to roughly translate some of your words, scowling at the realization you’ve proven him wrong. By god do you wish you had your phone with you to snap a picture, print it out, frame it in every room of this apartment, make it your lock screen, and send it to Bucciarati. 

You’ll settle for drinking in the moment instead, Fugo muttering curses underneath his breath. Much to your surprise, from this moment forward, Fugo earned just an ounce of respect for you. Not that it says a lot, seeing as the cup of [First] respect was drier than the Sahara desert until recent times. 

It’s still a step in the right direction.

ii.

Neither of you says a word.

Coming down from your individual highs, you feel how your hair sticks to the sides of your perspiring face. Your bare chest heaving with every labored breath, Fugo in a similar state of disarray next to you. Now that it’s all said and done, you’re unable to look at him out of embarrassment. Instead, you seek solace in staring at your ceiling, thoughts scrambling to rationalize the previous events. 

It all started innocent enough. The two of you had been growing closer, becoming more comfortable in each other's presence. Even Narancia, who could be notoriously poor at picking up on subtleties, could sense your connection and even pointed it out. Until Fugo told him to knock it off (in far more vulgar language), saving you the shame of saying it yourself. You felt content with the state of things with Fugo, after months of getting him to come out of his shell with you. His words were still pointed, but not full of ill will. Even when three more additions were brought to your little group, Fugo remained the person you prefer the most. It might be wishful thinking, but you think he feels the same towards you. 

Tonight had been like all the ones that came before. The two of you sitting on the couch, talking about pointless endeavors. Mista and Narancia were out at the time, leaving you all on your lonesome. For such a sizable couch, you didn’t realize how close Fugo was sitting next to you. Your thighs practically touching, occasionally brushing over one another. To combat the summer heat and mediocre air conditioning in your apartment, you were wearing short shorts and a tank top. Seeing as everyone else could walk around shirtless at their discretion, no one ever made a point to call you out on the less than modest choice. Even if they felt the itching, you’d shut them up without a second thought.

Fugo found himself focusing less on the words coming out of your mouth, and more on your glossy lips. He could smell your strawberry chapstick, the choice so tempting he found it offensive. Mixed with the chocolate gelato that you stole from Mista’s “hidden” stash, Fugo was bewitched on a level that shouldn’t be possible. Your skin, slightly glistening from the summer heat, eyes full of passion as you explained why you hated pretentious movies. At a certain point, you must’ve noticed how Fugo stopped responding to your impassioned rant. All he could think about was how much he wanted to kiss you, to feel every inch of your body.

So he did. 

It was far from suave, an amateurish clashing of teeth and tongue. You let out a surprised noise at the unexpected events but melted into it. While the kiss didn’t go as smoothly as he pictured in his head, you seemed to savor every second of it. He still remembers how eagerly you responded to his every desperate touch, how you wrapped your arms around his neck and brought him even closer. The scent of your floral perfume and the sweet noises that left your lips almost made him drool, prompting him to go even further. Fugo’s brain almost shut down when you lowly whispered into his ear to come to your room, bodies soon falling onto your bed in a heated embrace. 

You feel sore, but it’s not so bad. 

Fugo’s the first to speak up after some painstaking thought, breaking the silence that’s resonated ever since he climbed off of you. “Are you… are you okay?” 

It’s so unlike him to be this unsure, not knowing what to do or say. His heart still pounds in his chest, cheeks flushed and lips bruised. Suppressed emotions came crashing down over him like a tidal wave, drowning him before he could make sense of it all. You didn’t push him away or seem offended by his advances as he’d feared you’d be. Instead, you accepted all of him. Allowing him to carry out his pent-up yearning for you, in a state of bliss by how you called his name out. 

Shameful as it may be, Fugo had envisioned this scenario in his head numerous times. He’d always hated himself for it, thinking he’s no better than a common pervert for the way he thought of you. All the ways he pictured you, in all the lascivious situations, only to see you bright and early for breakfast the next day. When you smiled and told him good morning, all he could do is look away in disgrace. Not that you ever knew about this, or that you ever needed to find out. 

You let out a carefree, light giggle at his serious inquiry. Fugo’s eyebrows scrunch together into a scowl at your sudden laughter, finally working up the courage to look at you again. Any frustration melts away like winter snow in the spring at how breathtaking you look, your skin iridescent and eyes softening. They aren’t softening just for anyone, it’s for him and him alone. Does he deserve to be the one you look at with all this adoration? And should he even bother with the self-deprecating thoughts, when losing himself with you is so much better?

“S-sorry, I’m not laughing at you, it’s just,” you cover your mouth with the back of your hand, the skin underneath your eyes tightening from the wide smile. “I never took you for the sappy, pillow talk type.” 

Fugo’s nostrils flare, huffing without any malice at your teasing. He doesn’t have the slightest idea of what he’s doing, improvising as he goes. Everything that happened, every shared touched you shared, felt so surreal. Cheesy as it may sound, it was like a dream come true. What is there to say after a passionate encounter like that? He’s still rushing to get his bearings, hating the sensation of being this out of control. How you make his stomach erupt into a swarm of butterflies with every action, from the simple fluttering of your eyelashes to the cute way your nose scrunches up when you’re concentrating on a task. Fugo knows what this could be, in the back of his head. A quiet, hard to push down voice tells him what he’s been dreading to hear. That he’s a fool, deep in the throes of love. 

It takes a few minutes for you to calm yourself down. Fugo’s observant, much to your chagrin, having picked up on your nervous tick of laughing when you’re unsure of what to do. It’d make sense, seeing how you just slept with your teammate who frequently called you an idiot a few months ago. You prop yourself up, bedsheets covering your bare chest. “I’m fine, thank you.”

He looks away, despising how your revealed skin makes his face flush a bright red. Even without looking at you, he can picture the knowing smile on your angelic face at his embarrassment. It’s the same smile you have when Narancia tells a particularly funny joke, when Mista goes on a silly tangent about his latest concerns, when Bucciarati says you’ve done a good job, or when Abbacchio chooses to sit down next to you when everyone else is being too annoying. Most importantly, it’s how you always look at Fugo, even when he didn’t think he deserved it. 

You poke his cheek, murmuring his name. Fugo’s violet hues flicker back to you at the unprecedented action, perplexed countenance betraying his inner thoughts. He knows he shouldn’t be thinking like this. That the occupation you two are involved in is too dangerous to sustain a relationship, and that death is a possibility every day. It’s too late for him to nip these feelings in the bud -- that opportunity passed long ago, as he let it -- but he can’t allow it go past the point it already has.

Fugo lets out an inaudible gasp when you make yourself comfortable against his bare chest. Here he is, being torn on the inside between desire and duty, and you’re snuggling up without a care in the world. It’s the stark contrast that separates you, the same one that has him so hopelessly enamored. You have no intentions on making this easy for him, do you? He knows the answer when he sees your eyelids closing, threatening to fall asleep. 

All is comfortably quiet until he hears your muffled voice speak up. “You didn’t push me away.” 

“Huh?” 

Fugo’s own response isn't the schooled, thought-out string of words you’ve come to expect. It’s a kneejerk reaction to a confusing observation, that he’s having trouble rationalizing in his head. While never the most forthcoming with his emotions, he was essentially ravishing you like a man possessed a few minutes prior. You can’t be that dense, can you? Scratch that, the more he thinks about it, the more it makes sense. Even if not many got to see that side of you, there are still insecurities that weigh heavily on your heart. In the same way he struggles with self-worth, you fight a similar battle. The thought tugs on his heart, lips set into a deep frown. Everyone’s got something to deal with.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Fugo responds in a harsher tone than he intended. When he feels you tense against his chest, he curses himself, intentionally softening his next set of words. “But, uh, do you really want me to stay? The others might be back soon.” 

You let out a hum of acknowledgment at his concerns, promptly waving them off. It’s not like Narancia and Mista are capable of sneaking into your shared residence, it’s ridiculously loud when they come home. “Just a few more minutes.” 

He expected an answer like that and still has trouble relaxing. Truth be told, Fugo would prefer to lay here with you forever. To see what you look like when you sleep, to feel the gentle rise and fall of your chest in sync with his own, to kiss your forehead and whisper goodnight. In an ideal world, that’s how it would be. Reality is a lot less forgiving, and there’s too much on the line. Being this close to someone else is vulnerable, painfully so. To hurt and be hurt, the opportunity now having the room to manifest. He knows all this, and he still can’t bring himself to mention the full force of his anxieties. Would you hate him? Think he was using you and then ditching you? 

Fugo decides to be selfish, more so than usual. While there’s no way to push down all of these emotions, looking at you puts him at ease. His fingers ghost over an area on your neck he learned was sensitive, almost smiling when you lean into the touch. The way he feels with you is addicting. From your quick wit that matches his own, never being afraid to challenge his positions, it’s like he found his match. While he’s always found you begrudgingly cute, even when he was colder to you, it’s evolved into something greater. More serious and heartfelt. It’s horrifying and exhilarating all at once.

“Does this mean we’re dating?” you ask what’s been troubling you, hearing how Fugo’s heartbeat ramps up in speed. It’s a rational conclusion, seeing how comfortable you two are with one another. You don’t know if what you feel is love, not just yet, but you want to give whatever this is a shot. Fugo’s hesitation says all you need to know, though you wish it isn’t like this. 

“I… I don’t know if I’m ready for that just yet.” Fugo answers honestly, the words so quiet you struggle to pick them up. It’d be a lie to say you’re not disappointed, though you don’t want to push him into anything he’s not ready for. Fugo has his own emotions to work through, and the last thing you need to do is jump into a relationship and ruin everything. So you lift yourself up, looking him deep in the eyes, Fugo blinking at the abrupt movement. 

“Then I’ll wait.” 

He doesn’t notice how close to crying he’s been this entire time. The world through his view goes blurry, a lump forming in the back of his throat. Fugo takes deep breaths to steady himself, and instead of berating him, you wipe away his tears with the pad of your thumb. Whispering reassurances into his ear, combing through his tousled hair with your fingers. Fugo wipes at his eyes furiously, cursing himself for breaking down in front of you of all people. He’s overwhelmed with gratitude when you decide not to comment on it further, to save him the embarrassment. Your words echo within his head like a holy mantra, a promise that he’ll hold onto. 

If there were ever a reality where you looked down at him with disdainful eyes, he’d hate himself. 

iii.

Wandering aimlessly isn’t the worst part.

No, that’d be letting himself off too easy. It’s not the sleepless nights, tossing and turning while his stomach churns, or even the tear-stained pillowcases. When walking around Naples, all he can do is submerge himself to the shadows. There’s shame in the act of hiding, and it’s all he’s come to know. Seeing the light of day feels too good for someone like him, someone who had been abandoned by everyone he cared about and was too cowardly to prevent it. It’s a suitable punishment to wallow in his own self-pity and loneliness, cursing his entire existence for the mistakes that haunt him every day. 

It’s always a mistake to come to this café. This is your favorite café, and on days like this, all he can do is watch from afar. There are times he stares at the spot you frequent for hours, waiting to see if you decide to stop by that day or not. In a way, it’s almost better when you don’t. He doesn’t get a taste of what he’s missing out on, a forbidden fruit that he’s too ashamed to reach for. Most of the time you come here alone, with your favorite pastry and coffee, scrolling on your phone or laptop before leaving. He’s seen you meet with Mista a few times, even Trish once, but it’s mostly Giorno who accompanies you. 

Today you’re on your lonesome, speaking to someone over the phone and then hanging it up with a smile. Fugo can’t help but wonder, who is it that makes you smile like that? As he sits from afar, drowning in his anguish, it’s what plagues him the most. That used to be the smile he saw on a daily basis, the one that made him fall head over heels in love. Now he’s too afraid to approach you, in fear of what you may say, or do. Even what you wouldn’t do would hurt. Would you look at him in pity, or curse him for his cowardly actions? Condemn him for not joining you on that boat, or ignore him all together?

Is it possible… that you’ve simply forgotten all about him? It has been almost two years since the worst day of his life. While he’s caught up in the past, you’ve moved into a brighter future. He doesn’t know how he feels anymore. Surely you deserve any happiness you can get after all the suffering you went through, but the thought of you being happy without him stings. It digs talons into Fugo’s heart, ripping it out of his chest. One of these days, he tells himself, he’ll work up the strength to speak to you. Even if it’s but a moment. 

Though some part of him knows he’ll never be able to face you. Not anymore.

v.

It’s early in the afternoon. Chatter from other patrons reverberates off the tastefully decorated walls, in a restaurant that Fugo’s been to numerous times. This particular visit is different than the ones years ago. Instead of the bustling atmosphere he’d grown used to, there are only two people at the table. Where laughter and lighthearted conversations before work used to occur, there’s nothing but silence save for some polite discussion. Fugo’s throat feels persistently dry, no matter how much water he gulps down. 

Giorno sits across from him, legs folded and nursing a glass of iced tea the waiter brought seconds prior. Maintaining eye contact with the revered Don of Passione is no simple task. It’s a daunting experience, regardless of Giorno’s insistence on no formalities being necessary when interacting with one another. Fugo holds immense respect for him, otherwise, he wouldn’t be willingly sitting here right now. Still, his mouth is set in a straight line, leg bouncing underneath the table. Respect isn’t enough to snuff out the uncomfortable memories that appear up in this room, suffocating him from the inside out. 

“Is there a reason I’m here?” The words come out more forcefully than he intended, Fugo’s eyes darting around his familiar surroundings, looking for something he won’t find. Someone he won’t find. He’s grateful to Giorno for his benevolence, as speaking this way to someone who’s technically his boss isn’t advisable. Someone as sharp as Fugo knows this better than most, but he also knows Giorno. While not understanding him entirely, his actions make logical sense in the grand scheme of things. 

Being in Giorno’s position means being busy. Every second of the day has to be taken advantage of, whether it be discussing with other mafioso about recent happenings or plans, making multiple phone calls, and plenty of other headache-inducing tasks. So it doesn’t make much sense to Fugo why Giorno called him this morning, asking to meet him in person for lunch. While the two aren’t on bad terms, he doesn’t feel deserving of the specially allotted time. And in his gut, he feels there’s a hidden justification for the meeting that he’s yet to uncover. A few unpleasant theories come to mind, but they only serve to unnerve Fugo further, so he stuffs them down. 

“I wasn’t sure of the best way to deal with Purple Haze. Your Stand… you’re already aware of the potential consequences it could’ve posed, so I won’t rehash it more than necessary,” Giorno begins to offer his insight into the matter, finally revealing the true reason Fugo was called out here today. “There were a variety of methods that could’ve been used, with varying degrees of success, but I took a gamble. Ultimately, she didn’t want you to suffer anymore.”

Fugo feels his heart drop, jaw slackening despite his best efforts. “Who… who do you mean?” 

At this, Giorno quirks an eyebrow up. As if to wordlessly say, you know who. 

“It might not be my place to delve into your past,” Giorno continues with a serious air, contrasted by his closed-mouth smile. Fugo never knows for certain what Giorno’s plotting behind that smile, and a part of him wants to remain oblivious. “But for you to overcome it, and in turn gain total control over Purple Haze, it must be addressed.”

He can guess where this is going, and he doesn’t like it. Giorno gives him a moment to consider the words, briefly glancing at his buzzing phone and then returning his attention back to Fugo. It’s a subtle change in body language, how Giorno’s shoulders stiffen just slightly as if he’s anticipating something. Fugo loosens the tie around his neck, the pair returning to tense silence. While the Don made valiant attempts in loosening him up, it only served to make Fugo more suspicious. All of his fears are confirmed when he overhears two voices from the room over, one of them sending his heart racing.

That’s… that you and Mista speaking to one another. He knows your voice better than he knows any other sound on the planet, even if it’s been years since he’s heard it up this close. Fugo still dreams of you, the way you used to stumble over certain Neapolitan lingo, or how wonderful it sounded when you graced his ears with a laugh. Now, he’s unsure of what to feel when hearing the muffled conversation between you and Mista. The sound grows closer, and with it, his dread. After rejoining Passione at Giorno’s behest, Fugo knew this reunion couldn’t be avoided. Nothing could prepare him for it. 

There’s a telltale gasp when you turn the corner, spotting the back of someone you haven’t seen since you were a teenager. Someone who you used to hold in high esteem, who practically fell off the face of the earth after betraying the old boss. While Mista had hastily given you the details on the car ride over, it still felt too surreal, like a cruel joke. There’s a lot that weighs down on your heart, like stones wrapped around your ankles, dragging you into the depths. The details Giorno gave you about Fugo’s whereabouts were purposefully vague, most likely in consideration of your past feelings. 

“Fugo…?” 

You’re by his side before he can even process it, bending down and wrapping his stiff shoulders into a warm embrace. He doesn’t reciprocate it or stop you, his thoughts not capable of rationalizing what’s going on. Fugo can’t bring himself to look up at your countenance, in fear of what he’ll see staring back at him. That you’re even hugging him means you must pity him, viewing him as a scared little boy who was too weak to do what was necessary. It’s the only explanation that makes sense to him, and why he can’t return your affections. While it’s no longer his place to desire anything from you, not after all his shortcomings, he silently prays. That there may be some part of you that still cares for him, in the same way he has loved you from afar. 

“I’m so glad you’ve come back.” you sniffle, emotions swirling and enveloping you. You lift your hand, using your finger to swipe away forming tears. That’s when Fugo sees it. It doesn’t hit him at first as one would expect. No, it’s a prickling sensation that starts from his chest and spreads throughout his body like a virus. His body feels ice cold, like a corpse clinging onto shreds of life, consumed from the inside out by sorrow. Nausea comes in waves, tempting him to flee from this heart-wrenching scene and never look back. Your hand falls back to your side, and Fugo’s eyes follow it with precision, unable to look away.

There’s a rose gold band on your ring finger. 

Of course. Looking at you here, it makes sense why this would happen. Your body has filled out, beauty like that of an angel. The ability to draw people in and befriend them like a glowing aura has always been your strong suit, it was warm enough to thaw the ice around Fugo’s heart. It’d be a fool’s prayer to beg God to keep you for himself, and still, he had tried. Now that leaves the burning question, who? Who was the person that erased himself from your mind, taking the place that was carved out specifically for him? He looks at your beaming face, searching for answers he won’t find outright. 

Your perfume is the same as it was before. Light and floral, but mixed with a hint of something new. Of someone new. It sickens him, the scent dizzying as it taunts him. Where has he smelled this before? It’s on the tip of his tongue, fizzling out before coming into fruition. The words you speak next are drowned out by Fugo’s throbbing head, too absorbed with dark thoughts to process them. He needs to know. He has to know. Fugo looks over your shoulder to Mista in search of answers, the gunslinger holding an uncharacteristically grim expression. They hold eye contact, Fugo staring at him with potent intensity. 

Give me a hint. Anything, please.

Not everyone gives Mista the credit he deserves for being observant. Fugo must’ve looked like he’d seen a ghost, Mista swallowing at the pale complexion and vacant eyes. Believing that his intentions weren’t clear enough, Fugo almost looks away. Before he gets the opportunity, Mista offers a slight inclination of the head. Fugo closes his eyes, all his strength going into holding himself together. Picking up the shards of glass that maintain his emotions, hands growing bloody in the process. It’s a subtle movement, though there’s no denying in what direction it went, as much as Fugo wished otherwise.

Towards Giorno. 

You move towards your seat, realizing Fugo must be going through a lot of emotions of his own. The last thing you need to do is suffocate him when it’s clear he’s processing the unfolding events. “I don’t know the last time you came here, but they recently added more desserts. I’m partial to the zeppole… it’s so light and fluffy.” 

Mista walks over, taking a seat next to the befuddled Fugo, and speaking up to ease the uncomfortable silence that resonates in the room. “I’m starving, haven’t had anything to eat all day. Let’s get the waiter over here.”

While he flags down a passing employee, Fugo’s eyes follow your form. The table is different than how it used to be. Abbacchio would be sipping on wine, no matter the time of day. Bucciarati wouldn’t always be sitting down for long, seeing as he had lots of work to do, but he always made time for a good meal. Narancia loved conversing with you, seeing as you had lots of knowledge of the English music he was so partial to. You always sat next to Fugo, who’d lightly reprimand Narancia for being more passionate about rap than his studies, or telling Mista to knock it off with the unappetizing conversations he loved to start. 

Now, you take the chair next to Giorno, who had pulled it out in kind when you walked over.

You said you’d wait for him, and Fugo fooled himself into believing that statement would last a lifetime. He always had regrets about not joining his team on the boat that day, too many to count. A new one has sprouted up like a weed, strangling his heart. If he had joined you, would it have been him you’d have married? Would it be him that you’d look at with that dazzling expression instead, the one that he had grown used to seeing? Now that he knows the full extent of the truth, Fugo wonders how he could have ever been so blind. Even Giorno -- who often smiled just for show -- had unmistakably lightened up as soon as you entered the room. 

This… This is Fugo’s despair.

The rest of lunch goes as smoothly as it can. He forces himself to speak when spoken to, Mista kindly filling the room with conversation to prevent any awkwardness. This can’t end fast enough. He needs to get out of here, to excuse him before he does something truly stupid. A serpent whispers temptations of evil into his ear, and he doesn’t want to tune them out. Not anymore. Now isn’t the time to pull any idiotic stunts, so he remains still as a statue. When all is said and done, Fugo can’t get up from the table to dismiss himself any faster. He pays the necessary respects to his Don, swiftly offering his goodbyes. With his back turned, he hears your voice call out to him in the darkness.

“I’ll see you later, right?” you ask in between bites of your dessert, the words meaning more for him than you. He doesn’t know. He’s not certain of anything anymore, even after making up his mind on returning to Passione. The situation has taken a turn for the worst, in a way he couldn’t stomach any longer. So for now, he’ll offer up an unconvincing response, not capable of looking back at you. 

At the reminder of all his failures.

“... Of course.” 

[sage-nebula]

I was thinking about how Zelda absolutely has PTSD from trapping Ganon in Hyrule Castle for 100 years, and that made me want to write about it. I ended up writing 2,483 words, and while this is in no way up to my standards and is also not polished at all (or even a full fic; it’s like little pieces strewn together until my brain ran out of steam), I’m still happy I actually managed to write given how hard that has been for me over the past year and a half due to my critical exhaustion. So I’m going to post this rough draft here, for any who want to read it. 

- - -

Every morning, Zelda woke with fire and malice in her throat.

 It was something strange to cough, to gasp, to choke on something that existed only within her mind. It was odd, a curiosity—but one she couldn’t care to study as she hunched over the crevice between the bed and the wall for the second week in a row, trying desperately to stifle her coughing and hide her sweaty face with her hair so that Link wouldn’t see. She coughed, and scraped her tongue with her teeth, fighting to rid her mouth of a phantom substance she tasted with every breath she took, and every morsel of food she chewed.

 She couldn’t, of course. It was impossible to rinse out something that didn’t exist. Even as she took the proffered cup of water Link had fetched the moment he noticed her stirring (knowing, she knew with shame, what was going to come next) and gulped it down her burning throat, she knew it was no use. One hundred years of saturating her lungs in Ganon’s essence with every breath she took meant she’d never really be rid of the taste.

 But even so, she drank the water, and smiled in thanks at Link as she handed the cup back to him. He smiled, too, but it didn’t mitigate the concern in his eyes any more than the water had mitigated the flavor behind her teeth.

 ———

 For one hundred years, Zelda did not eat.

 She did not sleep.

 She did not dream.

 At least, not in any real sense. There were moments, especially as the decades ticked past, that she let her consciousness wander. She thought back to days—to years long past, to faces she could scarcely remember and voices that were now nothing more than bad echoes of her own. She checked in on Link, as much as one could check in on someone in a coma, and tried not to let herself feel disappointed each time she received nothing but silence in return. She wondered how Hyrule was faring, in the wake of the calamity; wondered how they managed to rebuild, to survive, and—in moments when she allowed herself hope—thrive despite the devastation that had ravaged them. Had they left the ruins of their former lives scattered along the landscape? Were there any still alive who remembered what happened the day the kingdom was torn asunder, and so many lives along with it?

 Her consciousness always returned to her when her captive growled, guttural and menacing, and she could not say what emotion she felt when her awareness was yanked back into the castle in those moments, whether it was fury, determination, or something else altogether. But as she stared at the beast she held bound in her golden chains, and tightened her grip on them enough so that she could feel her own power burning through her palms, all she knew was that the rush of emotion she felt in those moments meant that she would never, ever let go.

 ———

 Zelda didn’t remember very much of the journey to Hateno Village, and she certainly didn’t remember the seven days she spent asleep in what had formerly been Link’s bed. (“Ninety-nine years and . . . a lot of days to go before you beat my record,” Link had said.)

 But it didn’t take her too long to become aware, and when she did, she wished she hadn’t.

 Every morning, she woke with smoke and malice in her throat. Every night, she was back in the castle. Her fists were taut around golden chains wrapped around her forearms again and again to give her better bracing. Those same chains wrapped endlessly around a monster, a demon of unimaginable horror who had murdered her people, her friends, her family. A demon who stared down a putrid swine snout at her, snorting and snarling in her face, thrashing and roaring like a beast aside from the moments it tried to catch her off-guard like a man.

 For one hundred years, Zelda didn’t sleep. She couldn’t. Any time she let her grip slacken, the chains loosened, and the beast took advantage of the moment to raise a bloody moon so his monsters could savage the people of Hyrule. Princesses slept; wardens of demonic beasts did not.

 The beast was gone now, and Zelda knew that. She had used her power to banish it herself the moment Link landed the ending blow. The beast was gone, and for the first time in one hundred years, Zelda was allowed to sleep.

 She wished she wasn’t.

———

 She didn’t know what day it was, but in a way, she supposed it didn’t matter. One hundred years after the calamity and Hyrule had moved on in such a way that each day was now very much like the last. Each night, she was back in the castle. Each morning, she had fire and malice in her throat. Each day, she did her best to get herself in order so that she could stop the cycle from repeating. So far, she had yet to succeed.

 But if there was one thing her life, both pre- and during-calamity, had given her, it was determination. She would not quit. She could not quit. Link was helping her; he had brought her to his home, had given her his bed (despite her insistence that he should keep it, or that at least they should share, at which point he pretended to hear his horse neighing for him outside and had taken the stairs three at a time to escape), was cooking meals for her to help her recuperate. One hundred years was a long time to go without food, he’d said, as he’d handed her a hearty meat stew (and had corrected her that it was indeed hearty, not hardy, because of the hearty truffles he’d put in, see?). She needed to regain her strength, albeit with foods that were easy on the stomach at first, so that she could get used to eating again.

 Not eating for one hundred years wasn’t why she kept rubbing at her wrists, or felt wobbly on her feet. It wasn’t why she woke every morning gasping for clean air, or why her hands shook around the cup of water Link always had ready for her. But he was trying, and she wasn’t about to tell him otherwise, not when she had been enough of a burden on him already.

 So that morning, after she gulped down the cup of cool water that Link had left on the bedside table for her, Zelda brushed her sweaty hair from her face and took a deep breath. Today, she would have Link show her how to cook some recipes, so that she could take some of that burden from him. She would feed their horses, and actually start to get to know the one Link had saved for her—the one that was descended from her own horse, one hundred years ago. She would suggest an activity for them, perhaps fishing, and then see it through without there being an incident. Today she would get herself together far more than she had any of the days previous, and put the past one hundred years behind her where it belonged.

 As he always was on the mornings he wasn’t at her bedside, Link was outside cooking breakfast. He looked up as Zelda stepped through the doorway, and smiled—but Zelda saw his smile for only a fraction of a second before the smell of the food hit her, and her stomach curled.

 Smoke malice fire Ganon—

 One second, she was standing in the doorway of Link’s home. The next she was behind the horse stable, one hand braced against the house, the other arm wrapped around her stomach as she heaved all the water she had just drank, plus a few remnants of last night’s dinner, onto the grass. She retched, skin clammy and body shaking, and might have fallen to her knees in her own vomit if it weren’t for Link gripping her shoulder with one hand, his other hand holding her hair back from her face. Zelda coughed, and swiped the back of her hand across her mouth as her heaving subsided.

 “I—” she began, and swallowed hard as her throat closed tight again. “Apologies, I’m not sure what came over me.”

 “Sickness, I think,” Link said, and if she didn’t know him as well as she did, she might have thought he was being sarcastic. He waited until she was standing firm (or at least as firm as she could) before he let her go. “And you don’t have to apologize for being sick, Princess.”

 There was too much she could say to that, and yet not a single thing felt right. “What—what were you making?”

 “Eggs and bacon, with a side of saus . . . oh.” Link’s eyes widened at something he saw on her face. “Oh no. I’m sorry. I’ll throw it out.”

 Zelda shook her head. “There’s no reason for you to waste perfectly good food. I’ll just . . . eat around the pork.”

 “No, I’ll get rid of it. I can cook any number of things for breakfast,” Link said firmly. “Tell you what, we’ll have wildberry crepes instead. How’s that sound?”

 She smiled weakly. “That sounds lovely.”

 Link smiled back in the same way he always did, with concern still alight in his eyes even as his lips soundlessly told her he’d do his best to make everything all right. He offered her his hand—and it was silly, and embarrassing, and a bit patronizing, because she could walk well enough on her own and she had to fight the urge to smack his hand away—and she took it. He led her back around the house and quickly indoors, away from the smell of the now burned pork on the cooking pan, and told her that he’d have breakfast done in a flash. And he would—she knew he would, he always did. But as she sank into a chair at the table, her hair sticking to her flushed cheeks, she also knew that wasn’t the problem.

 ———

 It was two months, by Link’s calendar, before she felt up to a trip to Kakariko Village—a trip to see Impa.

 She had seen Purah, of course. Purah hadn’t waited for Zelda to make the trip to Hateno Tech Lab, and instead had made her own way to Link’s house, though how she’d managed to get there on her own given her stubby six-year-old legs, Zelda didn’t know. Meeting with Purah again was . . . an experience, to say the least. She had the same spirit Zelda remembered, a bouncy countenance both familiar and overwhelming, and Link thankfully managed to distract Purah with something outside before Zelda was overcome with sobs. The strange thing was, in the moment, Zelda couldn’t have told anyone why she was crying. Even now, weeks after the fact, she still wasn’t sure. Mentally, she hadn’t felt like crying. She hadn’t felt it emotionally, either. But somehow, seeing and hearing Purah one hundred years later, it had all been a little too much. She’d cried before she could help herself.

 It was that, at least in part, that made her stave off the trip to Kakariko, before the guilt gnawing at her gut told her she could stave it off no more. Rather than warp with the Sheikah Slate, Link suggested they ride. It would be good for her to spend time with her horse, he’d reasoned, and it would also give her a chance to see a little of Hyrule. The Dueling Peaks stable was at the midway point between the two villages if it got too late, but even that was unlikely given that Kakariko was only a half-day’s ride from Hateno.

 Link hadn’t needed all the justifications, and Zelda thought that perhaps Link knew he didn’t. But he gave them, and she took them, and in the end she still felt that even the extra half-day wasn’t quite enough.

 It was one thing for an old friend to have the body of a child due to a science experiment gone awry. It was another to see one hundred years of lost time reflected in every canyon etched into another friend’s face. Impa’s hair had always been white, but her hairline had receded to reveal age spots and crows feet around sunken eyes. Her lips were thin now, her shoulders hunched with arthritis, her joints cracking with every movement.

 But when Zelda stepped through the doorway of her home, and their eyes met, Impa smiled as if not a day had passed.

 “Princess,” Impa said, her voice a warm wheeze around her words. “It is so good to see you safe and whole once again.”

 Zelda nodded and smiled. Tried to smile. “Thank you, Impa. It is . . .” She was safe, she was . . . “It is also good to . . . to see you.”

 This time, she wasn’t aware of her tears until she saw them fall upon the kerchief Link offered her, splashing as she blinked in surprise at the cloth suddenly put in front of her face. Impa’s smile was gone, replaced by a look of sadness—of pity?—as her granddaughter, who looked so much like Impa used to, squeaked something about calming tea and dashed from the room. Zelda sniffed, gasped, choked hear tears back as she dabbed them away with the kerchief, and tensed every muscle in her body to keep from throwing Link’s hand off her elbow as she said, “I’m—I’m fine.”

 For she was fine. She was there, standing there, in Impa’s home in Kakariko Village, with two friends and an oddly familiar stranger. She was safe, and she was as whole as she could be, as she ever would be. She was fine, even as she sobbed into the kerchief Link had given her, hands trembling too badly to take the tea that Paya brought out a few minutes later.

 ———

 “Y-You know . . .” Paya said, stretching her tunic over her legs as she sat beside Zelda on the grass outside, while Link and Impa spoke within the house. “I think it’s—it’s okay if you need to cry. You’ve been through so much. You were trapped in the castle with Ganon for one hund—”

 “No,” Zelda interrupted, before she could stop herself. Paya startled, and looked her way. Zelda could feel Paya’s wide eyes on her, but she did not remove her own from her wrists—wrists that could still feel the weight of heavy golden chains made of her own power. “I . . . was not locked in the castle with him. He was locked in the castle with me.”

[dismuch47]

ADVANCED SETTINGS (Part 3)

ONE MORE CHUNK AFTER THIS. And it’s the sexy one. This has been such a joy to write, as spaced out as it is. Hoping to finish this THIS WEEK, so I can begin on SHORT drabbles. (Am I capable of short?)

Advanced Settings: Wanda and Vision find there is more to iron out in making their relationship “work”. Rated Mature.

It was not a very restful night. Wanda’s tired and aching body didn’t move at all, but her dreams had raced chaotically with no reprieve. They were usually quelled with the reassuring warmth and weight of Vision’s form beside her, which she would slip her arms and legs around, finding solace in the comforting white noise of his serene and positive thought computations.

Her eyes instead shot open, the stark morning-light mercilessly bringing her to full consciousness. She saw that the bedding beside her was undisturbed, then peered over at the living area from the bedroom nook of the hotel room. Vision had remained on the couch, facing away from her gaze. She almost thought he hadn’t moved from that spot since their parting last night, but she could see a new shirt upon his shoulders. Blue. He liked blue. Because she liked it on him.

Almost as if sensing Wanda’s awakened state, he looked up from his lap, but didn’t turn towards her.

“Good morning, Wanda.”

Wanda noticed the guarded politeness of the greeting. She took a pillow and firmly fluffed it back into shape before tossing it haphazardly back upon the bed.

“Morning, Vis.” She lightly padded over to him, clad in her faded night shirt and sporty red underwear. She leaned over the back of the couch and peered over the synthezoid’s broad shoulder. “That must be some book…”

She saw that, though he was staring at the literature in his graceful hands, it was only the title cover page.

“Oh…” She fought rising hurt. Perhaps he had just begun another. He could read exceptionally fast. It didn’t necessarily mean that he would have preferred to stare at a title page in the dark rather than come cuddle with her…

Vision pulled his gaze away from whatever distant thought he was processing and closed the prop in his hands. “I admit, I found myself too… distracted… to properly enjoy the novelty of physically reading, nor thoroughly contemplate the mastery of Tolstoy musings in it’s original Russian language.” He finally chanced a side-look at Wanda. “Not with more pressing perturbations to consider…”

He patted the seat cushion beside him, encouraging her to join him. Wanda obeyed, though she pulled her bare legs to her chest, wrapping her arms tightly around her knees. Vision let her have her space, though his cognitive intuition told him that he should be holding her. He instead tentatively mirrored his hands against each other, creating a gesture of thoughtful regard.

“I have given a great deal of consideration to our conundrum regarding... well, regarding…”

“Sex?” Wanda offered, her turn to be unabashedly pragmatic.

Vision looked down, gentle smile on his lips. “Yes.” The smile then faded. He looked back at her. “And I have come to the conclusion that, perhaps preserving the other intimacies of our relationship, encouraging unperturbed growth, should be the primary focus. Rather than focusing on the … incompatibilities.”

Wanda sat in silence. Stunned. “I... I knew it was different, but I didn’t think it was… unbearable.”

Vision’s head reared. “No. Oh no, you misunderstand me, Darling.” He risked placing a hand on one bare knee, for consolatory contact.

“Well I can’t make you feel the way YOU make me feel.” Wanda placed a hand on his, clinging tightly. “I can’t do what you do for me, and the moment I point it out, you don’t want to take comfort in me, anymore…” She was doing her best to speak levelly, but her eyes watered with imminent tears. She tightly pursed her lips together to keep composure.

Vision now scooped her towards himself, embracing her lovingly. “Wanda, no. Please cast that conclusion from your mind.” He stroked her shoulder tenderly. “You are being far too gallant, taking the blame for my obvious and… and-and staggering limitations as a synthetic person.”

“Vis…” She held him back now. He was stuttering, like he usually did when he displayed nervousness or broached sensitive topics.

“The truth is, perhaps I’m speaking from a place of self-preservation. I… I don’t know if I could cope. If you came to resent me… for such limitations.” He gave a humorless huff. “I think I would rather cease to exist than witness that day…”

“That day will NEVER happen, Vision.”

“I see that my non-reciprocation upsets you, Wanda” He insisted. “I saw it last night, and the beginnings of it in other nights before.”

Wanda was silent a moment. “I never said anything that would insinuate-”

“No, but I can see it.”

“How?”

Vision opened, but then shut his mouth. Trying to explain how he could interpret the electric impulses of her aroused body would be yet another reminder of their physiological differences.

“Nuance” he said. “I know your body well enough to know when you are stimulated and when you are not.”

Wanda’s head shook, incredulous. “How could you think that I could ever resent you?” She reached out a hand to cup his face.

“Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow. But some day, when my limitations keep preventing you from reaching important milestones in-in your life…” He trailed off. Unable to finish. It was unbearable for him to ponder.

“No. Not EVER.” Wanda retorted.

“Wanda…”

“NO, Vision” she said firmly. “I don’t see a future with kids, or a house with a picket fence… a dog. Hell, I don’t even know if in this line of work I’m going to make it to a very old age.” She held his face, gently. “All I see… all I feel… is you. And that’s enough for me.”

Vision placed his hand atop of hers, closing his eyes as her words deeply touched him. But after a moment, he reopened them. His gaze sad.

“It shouldn’t be” he murmured.

She tilted her head at him, full of love and emotion in those wounded, deep hazel pools. She caressed his cheek, tracing some of the patterns of his face and the etched seams of his forged skin. He closed his optics as she moved down his prominent, straight nose, until her touch loomed over his lips.

“Do you remember our first kiss?”

Vision smiled weakly. “I’m incapable of forgetting it. Nor would I ever wish to.”

She returned a soft smile, focused on her finger tips upon his attractive lips. “It was after I saw how you felt about me, through the mindstone. I could see into you and how you saw me… how you felt about me…”

It was a diversion. And it was successful, as the synthezoid was lowering his forehead to her instead of keeping her on topic. But it was only borrowed time. They had undoubtedly arrived at the precipice of a chasm that couldn’t be bested with assuring words and tender embraces alone.

Wanda’s hand skimmed up to the stone, her powers emanating in scarlet wisps of light as she moved her fingers in graceful, fluid motions. Vision’s eyes opened as he felt her administrations. It made him light-headed, but also completely enveloped by her essence. He could feel her observance of him. He didn’t even try and hide what he had come to know as profound feelings for the human before him. All his thoughts and motivations completely bewitched with maintaining her happiness. He watched as her closed eyes looked so serene. As she basked within his thoughts of her.

And then her hand bore down upon the yellow gem. Startled, Vision’s eyes fluttered opened. Her grasp was firm. For a moment, he winced as he remembered that day at the Avengers compound, when he and Wanda had found themselves on opposite sides of a rift. She overrode his mobility drives, controlling him from the inside out. He knelt before her, helpless, though unharmed. But this sensation was different. There was a struggle of control… but it was not within him. He watched as she gritted her teeth, furrowed her brows. The reflecting force that showed her the rich abyss of his adoration, suddenly flipped.

Vision sharply inhaled with shock. She was already in there, entwined with his consciousness… but he felt as though his was being drawn in by hers, and down into her depths…spiraling with the currents. An up and close look at her forceful oceans… until the roar of sensory newness calmed into…

Love. 

She loved him. She never said it. But she felt it. It was overwhelming and consuming beyond explanation.

Vision tried to find himself again, to process this, but the connection was so potent. It was easier to simply accept it rather than try to quantify. It was senseless to quantify. Quantifying was stupid.

“W-Wanda-“ He tested his voice, but was silenced by her lips. Her lips, which he could feel. Not his against hers… but simply HERS. He tasted himself. Felt the texture of his skin against her pleading buds. How it delighted the delicate skin with sensation. She urged against him and it was so clear what she wanted and why. Vision opened to her, his breath hitched as hers did. The rhythmic thump of her heart felt as though it was within his own breast, increasing in pace with the prolonged contact. Suddenly the shimmering shores of Wanda’s pleasure centers became more than just a map to analyze for productive response. There was aching. And a hunger that Vision had never known possible…

Wanda removed her hand from the mindstone and reality came back to disorienting focus. Both she and Vision were breathless from the kiss. Vision’s eyes were still closed, his body working in overdrive to adapt settings in order to accommodate and categorize the new sensations. His cerulean eyes slowly opened when he felt Wanda nuzzle against his nose.

“I had to show you…” She breathed. “You are enough.”

Vision grinned broadly, on the brink of happiness and humility. That she could feel as she did for a being like him. He pulled her face to his once more. His core pounded. Odd as he was not under duress… but he accepted, and even enjoyed, it. He breathed and gasped against her lips with the intensity… and there was that hunger once more. But it was now his own.

[mittelfrank-divas]

Dance of the Black Heron chapter 3

In which Dorothea attempts to sort out how to teach Hubert to dance and words are exchanged. 

AO3 link here!

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"No, no, no." Dorothea dropped the spoon that she'd been using to tap out a steady rhythm on the side of an overturned crate, letting it clatter onto the sun-bleached wood. "Are you dancing, or are you attempting to recite chapter five of our tactics textbook to Professor Byleth?"

Hubert dropped his stance to fold his arms together. Twenty-five minutes into their dance lesson, and he already felt sweaty and overly warm in his uniform. The afternoon sun beat down on them despite the mid-autumn season, making him regret his preference for black. His long hair was already starting to stick to his cheek on one side, and he was pretending not to notice this. "I do not understand the question."

Dorothea advanced on him across the small room. Well… "room" was a generous term for the location of their private lesson. Hubert had spent weeks sniffing out the more abandoned corners of Garreg Mach when they first arrived at school. The monastery grounds were a maze of ruins, both above ground and below, and many of the abandoned locations appeared to never be included on the guards' regular rounds. Of course, he had always imagined that when he utilized such hidden spaces, it would be for much more nefarious purposes than practicing for a dance competition.

The size and dimensions of this particular building were reminiscent of the knights' hall, but whatever use it had seen in centuries past was long since lost. The wood roof had long ago rotted and caved in, and no door remained in the doorframe. But the tile floor, once cleared of debris, made for a smooth enough surface to dance on without risk of tripping, despite weeds pushing up between a few of the cracks, and the brick walls offered some amount of privacy while they practiced. The open door faced away from the monastery, and the path here was overgrown enough to dissuade anyone from choosing to wander in this direction, so he could be confident that none would be nearby to witness his humiliation. In essence, they had their own private courtyard in which to stage their lessons.

Dorothea took him by the shoulders and gave him a shake, even though she had to reach up to do so. "You're too stiff! You look like a waiter in one of those fancy Enbarr restaurants where they fold the napkins to look like doves."

Strictly speaking, Hubert had hardly visited any restaurant, in Enbarr or anywhere else. Restaurants existed for those who were socializing or traveling, or who did not already dine in the actual Adrestian Palace, served by the royal family's own chefs. But he had a vague impression of what she was describing. "And I am to understand that that is a bad thing."

Dorothea's hands flew to her head in a dramatic fashion. "Yes! The point of dancing is movement! You cannot move and be rigid as stone at the same time. The scowling doesn't help, either."

Hubert felt himself flush. "I was merely concentrating."

Dorothea pursed her lips sympathetically, but her voice retained some of its impatient edge. "Concentration is important, but you'll need to learn not to let that show on your face. The judges want to see a smile. Can you do that, Hubie? Do you know how to smile?"

With some effort, Hubert conjured the most pleasant smile his face could allow.

Dorothea visibly recoiled, her hands leaving Hubert's shoulders so she could step back. "Never mind. You look like you intend to flay me alive. Don't smile like that at the judges, alright?"

Hubert tried to ignore the sting that her comment induced. "I was not intending to be sinister." Not at this exact moment, anyway.

"I've never met someone who could be threatening by accident, but somehow you manage it." Dorothea threw herself back onto her seat and took up her spoon again. "Fine! Let's start from the top!" With that, she began drumming out a beat for him. With a groan, he went back to it.

It surprised Hubert how quickly the dance came back to him. He had not even thought about waltzing for years, let alone put it into practice. His feet still remembered the steps, his shoulders still remembered how to set themselves as though preparing to cradle another in his arms. The basic mechanics of it were really quite straightforward.

And yet he could feel Dorothea's eyes on him, evaluating his every movement. The steady drumming of her spoon on the crate provided a simple enough beat for him to keep time to, but it was a grating sound, one that reminded him with every strike that he was not simply one dancer among a crowd. He was alone on an empty floor, foolishly dancing along to cutlery. Could the entire school hear the noise? Would a face appear in that open doorway any moment? He felt horribly foolish and woefully exposed.

"Augh, just stop!" Dorothea suddenly snapped, the spoon slamming down on the crate. "Honestly, could you look any more miserable? You act like you don't even want to be here."

Hubert bent over to catch his breath, hands on his thighs. There was a reason that he devoted most of his energy toward magic, something that allowed him to stand perfectly still while still fighting with deadly force. "This may come as some shock, but no part of this experience delights me. I am here for my duty, nothing else."

"Really? You think I love being here, pretending to be happy about you getting chosen over me?" Something in Dorothea's voice broke. Hubert tilted his head up to look at her through the sweaty bangs hanging in his face, and realized that she was on her feet, hands clenched at her sides.

He stood upright, hands still clutching at the stitch in his side. Hellfire, was he out of shape. "Is that what you think this situation is?"

Dorothea snorted. "At least have the decency to be honest with me. You and Edie just couldn't have your class represented by a commoner, could you?"

Hubert would have laughed, if he had the breath for it. Instead he merely stared at her in confusion. "Where in Cichol's cursed name did you get that idea?"

"Come on, Hubie. We both know I'm the best dancer in our class. And you come to me with the flimsiest of excuses for why I wasn't chosen? That you need me to concentrate on learning magic? Dancing is a magic class! There is no reason I couldn't do both." Furious tears were pooling in her eyes, threatening to spill. "I'm not an idiot, Hubie. I know there are plenty of people who think I don't deserve to be here. And maybe that would be enough to sully our house's reputation, having someone like me represent us. I just thought you and Edie were above that sort of thing."

Hubert tried to work out where exactly this situation had gone horribly wrong and saw that he'd mishandled it from the start. He should have seen how this would look to her. He straightened his jacket and laced his hands behind his back, feeling that he owed her at least some proper manners. "On the contrary, the thought of watching you outmatch those pitiful nobles and inflict upon them the shame of failure that they have too rarely encountered in their wretched lives fills me with a joy that I rarely know. Yes, you are in every sense the ideal candidate for this competition, and the Black Eagles would be proud to have you represent us. Not despite your origins. Your unique experience is exactly what makes you so adept at what you do. You know what it is to hone your skill for professional use, not as some parlor trick. It was not I who argued against your candidacy, nor was it Lady Edelgard. It was the professor's preference."

Dorothea processed this quietly, her green eyes fixed on something behind him, her arms crossed defensively. "I really thought they believed in me more than that."

"They do," Hubert said flatly, not wishing to obscure the message with what might seem to be insincere reassurance. "Enough to ensure that you do not deviate from your aspirations. Dorothea, why exactly did you come to the officer's academy? Gaining admission while working full time as a Songstress could not have been an easy task."

Dorothea sniffled, giving a dismissive shrug. "Oh, you know. A school filled with Fodlan's wealthiest young noble bachelors? How could I pass up an opportunity like that?"

Hubert rested his chin on his palm, letting his gaze drift to the tall, sun-dappled grass outside the door. "If that is your goal, then it's certainly not the worst plan for going about it. In fact, I would call it downright shrewd. But of course, the fact that you would also be learning skills here that could be used in any number of positions in the future must have crossed your mind. A backup plan, as it were."

Dorothea snorted, though it came out more as a sniffle. "I mean, what gal wouldn't want to learn how to strike a guy with lightning whenever he gets a bit handsy?"

"Indeed, but you could have learned that in Enbarr. There are other schools, easier schools to access." Dorothea said nothing, impulsively reaching to fix her long hair, as if it were ever anything less than perfectly coiled about her shoulders. Hubert persisted. "I have read your application."

Her gaze snapped back to him, wide-eyed. "But that's--"

"Highly confidential, of course. I don't trust just anyone to have such free access to Lady Edelgard. I need to know just who is sitting behind her chair every day." It had not, in fact, been a remotely easy task to gain access to the academy's records. Hubert was still trying to puzzle out where the bishops hid their archives. Fortunately, Professor Byleth was not quite so paranoid about the files they were given, and so he had managed to leaf through the documentation on the Black Eagles. Would that the other two professors could give him such ready access to their own classes.

"It's also very rude," Dorothea muttered.

"I do not tend to concern myself with what is polite." Hubert felt a faint smirk tug at his lips. "Quite an impressive application, actually. Your test scores were average, but your essays were most engaging. You have a practicality that many others lack. You do not allow the big picture, as it were, to blind you to facts. You have valuable insights that our class needs."

Dorothea flushed, looking away from him. For someone who seemed to thrive on attention, she did not seem to know what to do with this sort of praise. She sighed impatiently. "Is there a point to all of this, or are you just heaping compliments on me so I'll drop it?"

"My point, Dorothea, is that you did not come to the officer's academy just to be a Songstress by a different name. The professor fears that making you a Dancer would send a signal that you are valued only for your appearance. That it would lead you to limit yourself. Frankly, I would be inclined to disagree, had I not seen you in action."

"They said that?" Her voice hitched a bit when she said it.

"That is what they told me. That they want to see you succeed as a gremory, a class that very few ever manage to achieve. Though I do not agree with our professor on every front, their instincts on our class composition have been largely accurate. Do not think I haven't noticed you studying the chapter on Meteor, a spell so complex that I doubt even Linhardt would be bothered to learn it."

She gave him a startled glance, but did not deny it.

Hubert nodded to her. "So I ask you again: why did you come to the officer's academy? If you are happy remaining as a Songstress, if you would be satisfied only to become a Dancer and nothing else, then I will gladly end this farce and accompany you to persuade Professor Byleth to change their mind. But if you came here to prove something, as I suspect you did, then I would be remiss to allow you to make such a sacrifice."

Her eyebrows arched disbelievingly. "Hubie, that almost sounded generous of you."

He chuckled. "Lest you mistake my actions for kindness, allow me to remind you that I seek only to ensure that Lady Edelgard's people are maximizing their potential."

"Right, of course. You could not possibly be trying to help your friends achieve their dreams the way you're always talking about helping Edie with hers." She was smiling now, even as she wiped at the corner of her eye with her sleeve. "To answer your question, I... I don't know if I have just one answer for you. But I do know that I have been around simpering nobles my whole life. And I would give just about anything for the chance to wipe the smile off their faces. And beating them at their own game? Learning the spells that all their fancy tutors and expensive libraries couldn't teach them? I'd like that very much."

Hubert smirked in triumph, and offered her a low bow. A proper bow, the likes of which he normally reserved only for Edelgard. "Then, Miss Arnault, I suggest a trade. I will help you reach your goal if you help me reach mine. Teach me to survive this blasted competition and I promise that all I know of magic is at your disposal."

Dorothea laughed. "Okay, okay, no need to turn this into the opening of an epic drama. Though... hmm. I think I have an idea of how we're going to present you now. You are actually quite charming in your own way, Hubie. There's no reason to try to cover it up with a fake smile."

Now it was Hubert's turn for skepticism. "Somehow I doubt there is much charm for you to find."

Dorothea waved him off. "Oh hush, you'll see what I mean soon enough. Anyway, we're focusing on your stance right now. Here, take my hand." She stepped forward and placed a hand on his shoulder and held out the other for him to hold.

He surveyed her in confusion. "Does the contest not require each contestant to be performing alone?"

Dorothea huffed. "Yes, despite the waltz being a couple's dance. It's a silly requirement, really. But right now you're letting your nerves get in the way of your movement. You need to stop being so embarrassed about me watching you. So let's take out the audience factor entirely. There is nobody left to watch if we're both participating, right?"

Hubert sighed as his gloved hand took hers, the other resting lightly on her waist. "Perceptive, as ever."

She grinned up at him. "That's why I'm your teacher. Now, you lead. Teach me to waltz as though it's my first time. I'm a lowly commoner who's never been allowed to join in on such a high class dance before."

Hubert chuckled at her, pulling them into a slow, steady rhythm. Dorothea followed smoothly, exposing her lie for what it was. "Does that work on the brainless nobles you seduce? Pretending to be clueless?"

"Some of them." She smirked, unapologetic. It was harder to match each other's steps without music, but Dorothea was a professional. She adjusted to Hubert's pace, reading his body language well enough to anticipate his steps. "Good. Loosen your grip on my hand a bit. You're directing me, not pulling me like a dog on a leash."

"Quite the analogy."

Her head quirked in an approximation of a shrug. "You'd be surprised how necessary that comparison is. Far too many noblemen can't tell the difference."

"Not as surprised as you might think." He complied with her instruction, letting her hand simply rest in his rather than gripping it.

"Better, but you're still too rigid. You're worrying too much about what I'm doing. Dancing with someone is about trust. Which I know is in short supply with you."

"What gave you that impression?" Hubert tried not to stare down at her feet, certain that he was about to tread on her toes.

"I can't believe I have to tell you this, but my eyes are up here." She laughed at his startled look. "Trust, Hubie! You need to trust me that I know how to keep up with you. And you need to trust yourself. You know these steps, right?"

Hubert studiously kept his eyes on hers, realized his hand had tightened around hers again, and pointedly loosened it. "Knowing and doing are not the same."

Dorothea sighed. "Alright, stop. New plan. I'm cashing in that magic lesson right now."

Hubert let his hands fall away from hers as she stepped back, and tried very hard to keep pace with Dorothea's shifting moods. "I did not realize you were in such a hurry to learn."

"I am now. The wall makes a good enough target, right?" She moved to stand beside him so that they both faced the same direction, with only a wall of bare brickwork ahead of them. "So? What's the most basic Dark magic you know? What's the spell you can cast in your sleep?"

Hubert regarded her. "You are aware that Dark magic and Black magic are quite different, I'm sure. Black magic utilizes the elements, while Dark magic draws on something more internal and primal."

Dorothea sighed impatiently. "I have read chapter one of the textbook, yes, thank you Hubert. Show me anyway."

Hubert puffed out a breath. At least this would be a respite from his stumbling around. "Alright. The simplest Dark attack is Miasma Δ. It goes like this." It was easy. So easy to gather the dark magic in his chest. To draw his hand across his body as he muttered the incantation, feeling the cold sting of power spreading its tendrils down the length of his arm. To flick his fingers outward just as the magic reached them, casually lobbing a sphere of crackling darkness at the bare wall. The impact resonated with the magic's hollow sound, leaving a blackened scorch mark on the bricks. How strange that trying to dance had felt like wading through waist-deep mud, but casting this spell felt like stepping back onto dry land, as light and easy as walking on a summer day.

"Hmm." Dorothea experimentally moved her hand across her chest. "Like this?"

"Palm inward. Arm parallel with the floor." He reached over and tilted her elbow up a few degrees. "You want to draw the magic in toward your hand before you expel it. If you allow your arm to droop, you risk casting at the floor rather than at your target."

Dorothea imitated his movements, right down to a small flourish in her wrist that, strictly speaking, was not a necessary addition to the spell, but that Hubert habitually added on principle. "And your feet? Do you step forward with your right or your left?"

"Always lead with your casting side."

"Right. Of course." She practiced the motions again. Hand across the chest, elbow out, step forward, flick of the wrist. Again and again she repeated the steps, imitating him perfectly without the actual orb of magical darkness firing from her hand. And then she tried it again using the other hand.

"Dorothea, what are you doing?"

Dorothea flicked one hand in front of herself and then another. "What's it look like?"

Hubert crossed his arms. "It looks like you are being very smug."

She grinned, but did not stop her impromptu dance routine, working in much more hip sway than the original spell called for. "Don't I have a right to be? I'm finding all your secrets, Hubie."

He could not help the amused smirk that crossed his face. "I very much doubt that."

"Well I've found one, anyway. You are a good dancer when you're not getting in the way of yourself. We just have to draw it out of you. What is spellcasting other than a very precise dance routine with a purpose?" She did a careless twirl, her hair fanning out around her. It looked so effortless.

"Ah yes, deadly magical force is naught but prancing about." Hubert watched as Dorothea spun the movements he had taught her into an intricate routine that grew with each new iteration. Here he was, betrayed by his own lesson.

She came to a standstill, grinning in triumph. Whereas Hubert felt bedraggled and exhausted by dance, she looked invigorated, her peach skin glistening radiantly. "From now on, we'll warm up our sessions with a magic lesson. It's something you're already confident in, so it'll get you into the mindset you need. Come on now, let's get back to it. We've got lots of time yet before the sun goes down."

Hubert groaned, casting his eyes up at the treacherously clear blue sky, still shining bright with the low evening sun. If only he believed in the Goddess, he might be tempted to beg her to nudge it towards the horizon just a bit faster.