#but a bit of gold glitter works to hide any mistakes!

[siriscrafts]

I did my nails for the season! I'm super happy with how they turned out, the hollies were especially fun 💅

[aesthetically-dying101]

The Catalyst for Anguish

A/N: Idk how to format things on tumblr help, anyways,

WC: 15,000 (give or take) anyways this was fun, and miserable very slay im on a roll rn, locked and loaded idc. I love writting for pathetic men, yearning is iconic, also angst in this one? Sort of? (a tiny weany bit of 'im not like other girls' behavior IF YOU SQUINT) Reader is lowkey mean (shes scared ur honor), Gojo gets his feelings hurt, readers gets hurt, EVERYONE gets hurt (not the horses tho). if theres any mistakes, im sorry, ts not proofread

Shoko and Geto’s arrival for the wedding and After

Do not copy nor translate my work. :)

Over the top.

Lavish.

Fucking dramatic.

Those were the correct terms to refer to the Gojo family, and they were the only words that could possibly do justice to the event before you. 

The chandeliers-yes, multiple, above glittered like diamonds, casting a soft glow over the sea of silk and satin that filled the room. The scent of roses and incense swirled in the air, mingling with the laughter and gossip of nobles, merchants, and foreign dignitaries alike. It was a symphony of excess—an orchestra of opulence—curated by the very hands of the Gojo family.

These types of events were grand affairs, and this time around, your dear mother, had dragged you to one. It was rare- you hadn't gone to one in a while.

The grand hall of the Gojo estate was a spectacle, and you were there.  Just a shadow in it all- an expensive looking shadow. 

You didn’t belong here, not really. 

Not in this world of gleaming tiaras, sharp suits, and the incessant murmur of politics and status. You were the youngest daughter of a noble family, and to your mother’s dismay, the least remarkable.You were the youngest daughter of the esteemed, but not quite exceptional, noble family of Cordova, and you weren’t exactly the one anyone was eyeing tonight.

Five older sisters—each more beautiful, more charming, more eager than you—had long secured their place at the centre of every gathering. They glittered in conversation, graced the floors with smiles and flirts, and were cherished by the men and women who populated these extravagant walls.

But you?

You were relegated to the edges, left to fade into the background, a quiet observer.

In fact, you preferred it. 

Solitude was a friend you could rely on, while attention was a curse you could do without. You weren’t shy—not exactly. You simply knew the game, and you knew where you stood in it. Cold indifference was your armor. When they looked at you, they didn’t see much. No one cared to look closely, and that was fine by you.

The evening, as always, was about him. 

Prince Gojo. The returning hero, the darling of every highborn woman in the room, the man whose presence could send hearts fluttering and whispers scattering.

He stood at the centre of the room like he belonged there—because, of course, he did. Prince Gojo, the living embodiment of a fairytale prince, dazzling smile, impeccably tailored suit, and all. His hair gleamed under the light of the chandeliers, catching the faintest glimmer of gold, like the gods themselves had decided to put a little extra effort into his creation. Tall, handsome, charming in that effortless way that could make even the most cynical heart skip a beat.

Not yours, though. You were immune.

'Look at him,'you thought, sipping your champagne, 'the man who probably wakes up every morning to applause from the heavens.'

You snorted at your own thought.

'Does he even know how to walk into a room without acting like he owns it?' you mused, leaning against the cool marble pillar at the edge of the hall. 'Probably not.'

Your mother’s voice echoed in your head: 'Smile. Mingle. Be noticed.' The poor woman thought this was your golden opportunity. 

As if Prince Gojo would even spare a glance for the quiet girl hiding in the corner, dressed in a gown that, while very lovely, was more understated compared to the shimmering jewels and frothy tulle around you.

'Yes, Mother, because that’s exactly what I want—to throw myself at the feet of a man who already has a fan club bigger than the royal army.'

A passing servant offered you a tray of hors d'oeuvres. You plucked one absentmindedly, nibbling at it as you continued to observe the spectacle. 't’s all a performance,' you thought, 'and he’s the star.'

Yet, something about it all felt hollow, didn’t it? Beneath the glitter and the grandeur, beneath the adoring smiles and lavish praises—what was left? Did Prince Gojo ever get tired of it? Did he ever feel suffocated by the weight of everyone’s expectations? Or did he truly enjoy being the centre of attention, basking in their admiration like it was his birthright?

You sighed, finishing your champagne and setting the glass on a passing tray. 'Who am I kidding? He probably thrives on it.'

The thought was cut short as, almost as if he had heard you, Prince Gojo’s gaze swept across the room—and stopped. 

Right. On. You.

For a brief moment, your breath caught in your throat.

'Oh no.'

His eyes sparkled with something that could only be described as mischief, and that infuriatingly perfect smile widened, as if he’d just spotted his next amusement.

'Don’t you dare,' you thought. 'Don’t you even think about it—'

And then, to your horror, he began to make his way toward you, his stride confident, his smile never faltering.

The crowd parted like the Red Sea as Prince Gojo strode toward you, his smile gleaming like it was carved out of starlight. His every step seemed calculated for maximum impact, the way the silk of his jacket caught the light, the casual confidence in his movements. It was infuriating.

'Oh, wonderful,' you thought, panic bubbling just beneath the surface. 'Here comes the royal peacock himself.'

“(Y/N)!” he called out, his voice rich and warm, like you were old friends—like he hadn’t just upended the social balance of the entire room-also he knew your name??? Huh????. He smiled wider, as if this wasn’t the most mortifying moment of your life. “It’s been too long!”

'Oh gods, kill me now.'

He stopped in front of you, towering slightly, and leaned in like he was sharing a secret, though his voice carried for everyone to hear. 

“I almost didn’t recognise you. You’ve grown up since the riding lessons.” He tilted his head, the playful spark in his eyes unmistakable. “Do you remember those?”

You blinked, your lips tightening, trying to keep your expression neutral. Of course, you remembered. Barely. You’d spent those lessons keeping to yourself while Gojo entertained the world with his effortless charm, even as a child. And now he had the audacity to act like you were suddenly important?

“Vaguely,” you said flatly, arching a brow. “But you were always hard to miss.”

His grin widened, as if he thought you were flirting. Typical.

“Ah, I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said smoothly. “You were always the quiet one. But you were better on horseback than most of the adults.”

“Still am,” you replied, your tone sharp enough to cut glass. “Not that anyone noticed back then.”

His expression flickered for half a second, like he wasn’t used to people meeting his charm with cool indifference. Good.

“But I noticed,” he said, softening just a touch. “You were good. No—better than good.”

You didn’t bite, though. Instead, you took another slow sip from your glass and leaned back slightly, letting the silence stretch between you two. 

Let him squirm. It was oddly satisfying to watch the seemingly unshakeable Gojo flinch, even if just for a second.

He seemed to catch on quickly, though, his smile flickering slightly, as if he hadn’t expected you to challenge him.

“Not going to play along?” His voice was amused, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes- curiosity. 

“Enjoy the ball, Your Highness. Try not to break too many hearts.”

With that, you turned on your heel and walked away, leaving him standing there in the middle of his grand, glittering court. But not before you heard his final words, soft and amused, trailing after you like a whisper:

“I think you just broke mine.”

Yeah right, you thought, the sarcasm laced in your mind like armor. Like you even have one to break.

*-*

The ride home was suffocating.

The carriage rattled over cobblestones, the silence inside far more oppressive than the extravagant noise of the ball. Your mother sat across from you, hands folded neatly in her lap, lips pressed into a thin line. It wasn’t until the estate gates came into view that she finally spoke.

“Well?” she began, her voice clipped and cold. “Do you care to explain why you squandered an opportunity like that?”

You didn’t even pretend to misunderstand- if you did, she'd be angrier than she is. You knew exactly what she was referring to. Prince Gojo. The scene at the ball. The conversation that, to any prying eyes, must have looked like some grand, promising moment.

“I don’t see what there is to explain,” you said flatly, staring out the window at the passing darkened fields, thought the situation did make you slightly nervous. “We talked. Nothing more.”

Your mother clicked her tongue, and you had to physically restrain yourself from rolling your eyes. You hated this, your sisters had been far more suited for this.

“You can’t keep doing this,” she hissed, her left eye twitching ever so slightly, the anger bubbling beneath her otherwise composed demeanour. “Avoiding opportunities, brushing off perfectly good matches. Do you want to remain unmarried forever? A burden to your family?”

“I didn’t realize avoiding shallow conversation with a man who barely remembers me from childhood was such a grievous crime,” you said, turning your gaze back to the window. The fields outside blurred in the darkness.

“He remembered you,” she snapped, as if that alone should have sent you into paroxysms of gratitude. “He spoke to you. In public. Do you understand how rare that is? How valuable?”

Valuable. 

As if you were some rare trinket on display. You kept your gaze fixed on the passing fields, your jaw tightening. Yes, Mother, how valuable to be the girl everyone forgets—until a prince remembers. Yaysies.

The distant glow of your estate’s torches grew nearer, and your mother, with her spine straight as an iron rod, she looked almost imperial. You finally spoke.

“Valuable,” you repeated under your breath, as though tasting the word would somehow make it less insulting. “He was joking, Mother. What do you think? That I should be thrilled that Prince Gojo, in all his glory, noticed me for five minutes? That somehow, after all this time, that conversation is some kind of grand gesture?”

Her eye twitched again-oof not good.

“Yes,” she said through gritted teeth. “Yes, I do think you should be thrilled. Do you know how many young women would kill for even a passing glance from him? And you—” She paused, her voice rising, trembling with fury barely held in check. “You threw it away like it was nothing. I will be telling your father about this."

“He wasn’t serious, Mother,” you said quietly, bitterness lacing every word. “He was mocking me.”

The carriage jolted over a rut in the road, but neither of you noticed. Your mother’s eyes narrowed. “Mocking?” she echoed, her voice dripping with disdain. “Mocking? Is that what you tell yourself so you can avoid responsibility for your own failures?”

You remained silent, knowing that the worst to come.

The instant your father would hear that the prince had called you out by name during the ball, that you had spoken... you were in for a long lecture. Maybe etiquette class? 

A little while later, the carriage arrived to your families estate. 

You stared at the entrance, knowing exactly what waited inside: more lectures, more disappointment, and your father’s sharp, practised disappointment. 

Lovely. Just the perfect way to end the night.

Your mother gathered her skirts, stepping out with the grace of someone born to make everything a performance. 

Straight to your father,” she said, her voice tight with anger and restrained fury, as if she were barely holding herself together. “You will explain yourself.”

 Explain what? That you had the audacity to not care that a prince—THE Prince Gojo—had noticed you, spoken to you, and made you feel like some kind of display piece for five minutes? Explain that to your father, who would somehow find a way to twist it into yet another lesson on how you were destined to be left behind if you didn’t start playing the game? 

Sure, no problem.

Easy peasy.

Your mother didn’t knock, just swept the door open and stepped in, her back straight and stiff with resolve. You followed behind her, your feet dragging like lead, your heart heavy with the impending confrontation.

“Lord Cordova,” your mother greeted your father with a cold nod. “We need to talk.”

Your father looked up from his desk, his brows furrowing slightly at the tension in her voice.

 “She wasted an opportunity,” your mother hissed, not bothering with preamble. “In front of the entire court, she spoke with Prince Gojo and—”

Your father took in a sharp breath.

"Who?!"

Ah fuck.

“Who did she speak to? Prince Gojo? The Crown Prince Gojo?” Your father looked like he went through all five stages of grief in an instant.

Oh, great. Here we go. The Prince Gojo. As if there were multiple Gojos strolling around the ball, handing out attention like confetti.

“Yes,” you muttered, keeping your tone flat, hoping the ground might open up and swallow you whole. “We spoke.”

He laughed, but there was no humor in it. It was cold, hollow, the kind of laugh that made you feel like a child being scolded for something ridiculous.

"Ha..." he chuckled, but there was nothing even remotely funny about it. "You spoke with Prince Gojo..." He repeated the words like he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing, as if it was somehow a joke.

Your mother didn’t give him time to process, of course. She was too furious, too eager to see you punished. 

"She refused to even entertain the possibility," she snapped. "Turned away from the chance of securing a match with one of the most eligible men in the entire kingdom." She turned to you, her eyes narrowing. "Do you know how many women would kill for that chance, and you—” she practically spat the words, “—you wasted it.”

You stayed silent, knowing that if you spoke, you would be digging your own grave.

“Do you realize how rare an opportunity that was?” he asked, his voice now hard, stern. “Prince Gojo is—he’s everything.” His words trailed off, as though he didn’t even know how to finish the sentence without sounding ridiculous.

"It was just a conversation, just about how we used to have horse ridding lessons when we were younger-" You didn't even finish.

"So?" Your mother snapped. "You turned away from him first. You could've done something."

"Right. Of course. My apologies." 

And of course your parents went on tirades, but you simply tuned them out. Instead, you closed your eyes, wishing that this time, you could just disappear—vanish into the shadows where no one could find you, where no one could make you feel this small.

*-*

The first letter arrived on a dreary Tuesday morning. 

It was simple, almost annoyingly so, like a child’s handwriting scribbled on the back of a napkin. Your mother found it first, of course, her eyes nearly bulging out of her head when she saw the wax seal-the royal was seal. She'd nearly ripped the damn thing open with more enthusiasm than a child on their birthday.

“It’s from him,” she breathed, more to herself than to you. “Prince Gojo… he wrote to you.”

You blinked. Once. Twice. 

And then, with the full force of your sarcasm, you said, “Did he? How nice.”

“How nice?” she shrieked, as if the sheer understatement of your words might cause her to combust. “This is more than nice! This is…” She couldn’t even finish the sentence, her breath catching in her throat, choking on the excitement. She turned toward the door, already calling for your father. “Edward! Edward, come quickly!”

You lifted your brow at that, your mother using your fathers first name was a rarity. 

You sighed, leaning back in your chair, already tired of whatever circus was about to unfold. 'Of course. Let’s make it a family affair. Gods forbid we handle this with a shred of dignity', you thought.

Your father came stomping in, his heavy boots thudding against the floor, looking as though he expected to find the house on fire , or worse- one of your sisters involved in something disastrous, like an elopement with the local baker- that would probably kill your mother. 

“What is it?” he demanded, brow furrowed in concern.

Your mother shoved the letter toward him like it was a trophy, her hands trembling. 

“It’s a letter. From the prince. To her.”

He stared at the letter for a long moment, then at you, and back again, like he couldn’t quite believe it. Finally, he snatched it from her hands, his eyes scanning the outside of the envelope, his expression unreadable.

“Maybe he's inviting me to be the court jester? Because I think he’s already got that role covered- but hey, the more the merrier.” You ironised. 

Your father's gaze snapped to you, his expression hovering between disbelief and exasperation. “Do you ever take anything seriously?” he asked, voice low and edged with frustration.

Your father finally opened the letter, his fingers trembling just slightly. He read it once. Twice. His brow furrowed. 

“Well?” your mother demanded impatiently, her voice barely holding back her excitement.

It was an invitation to one of the royal riding events, something Prince Gojo had apparently personally requested your presence at. He’d written that he remembered you from childhood, and he thought it would be enjoyable to reconnect. No pressure. No formalities. Just company.

Your father read it once, then twice, before handing it off to your mother.

“This…” your father began, his voice tight. “This is… this is something.”

Your mother, clutching the letter like a prize, barely contained herself. 

“Do you see this? Do you see this? He remembers you. He wants to see you again!” Her voice was a high-pitched.

“I can’t believe this,” your father said, his voice barely a whisper. He seemed stuck somewhere between disbelief and awe. “He actually wants to see her. The Prince Gojo. The one who could have any woman he wanted, and he wants you.”

Ouch. Right in the ego.

The room was silent for a moment. You could practically feel your parents’ hopes, their expectations, suffocating you from all sides.

"You will go. You will. I will personally drag you there myself." Your mother noted. 

"Yes mother." You answered in a monotone voice. 

*-*

The riding 'lesson' was arranged for the following week. You almost didn’t want to go. In fact, you spent the night before convincing yourself that you could fake illness, or perhaps just lock yourself in your room and claim to be otherwise occupied. 

But, you found yourself in the stables, eyeing your horse with a mixture of indifference and dread. It was a beautiful animal—sleek, strong, and clearly well-trained. But the very idea of being around other people, let alone royalty, still twisted your insides.

When you’d reluctantly agreed to Gojo’s invitation, you hadn’t really expected him to show up. Or at least not without some entourage. 

'A royal event', you thought with a smirk, 'where the prince shows up with five of his closest companions—each more glamorous than the last'.

But Gojo arrived alone. His usual confident stride looked a little off today, his posture less assured. His usual charisma had dimmed to something quieter, more subdued.

"Ready to ride?" Gojo’s voice cut through your thoughts, and you blinked, momentarily startled by the directness of his gaze. He was smiling, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

"Guess so," you replied, trying to match his tone, though the sarcasm was laced thick enough to cut through steel. "Although I must admit, I’m disappointed. No royal entourage? No retinue of nobles to witness this grand moment?"

He chuckled, but there was a flatness to it, a humorless edge that made you look at him with a little more curiosity.

 "I thought you’d enjoy the peaceful version," he said lightly, motioning to the open fields behind him. "No drama, no politics, just... us. And a couple of horses."

"Just us? Hmm... sounds too simple for a royal prince. You sure you’re not secretly plotting something elaborate, like a dramatic rescue or a battle of some sort?" You lifted your brow.

He just laughed, as usual, like your sarcasm was nothing but a joke to him. “No, I promise. But seriously, I’m glad you came.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What, are you that desperate for company?”

He shrugged, and gestured towards the saddles, the horses. 

“Ready to show off your legendary riding skills again?” Gojo teased, grinning that carefree, almost annoyingly perfect smile of his.

You shot him a sideways glance, unimpressed. “Well, I won’t hold back just because you’re the prince. I’m still better than you.”

Gojo laughed, the sound like a sudden burst of light. 

“I wouldn’t expect anything less from you.” He mounted his horse with an ease that came from years of practice. You couldn’t help but notice how effortless he made it look, how comfortable he seemed in his own skin, even when surrounded by expectations.

The ride was uneventful at first, the two of you pushing the horses into a steady trot, the rhythmic sound of hooves against the dirt grounding you both. You fell into a comfortable silence, and though it was easy to pretend this was just another day, you couldn’t ignore the subtle awkwardness between you. He didn’t seem like someone who thrived on small talk, and you weren’t exactly an expert in pretending to care about things you didn’t.

“You know,” Gojo started, his voice cutting through the quiet as his horse matched your pace. “It’s been nice. Having someone to ride with again.”

You raised an eyebrow, glancing at him sideways- the fuck was he on?

“You don’t seem like the lonely type.”

He chuckled, but there was no humor in it. 

“Well, that’s the thing, isn’t it? I am.” He took a deep breath, the smile slipping from his face as the tension in his shoulders became evident. “Geto and Shoko left. And I didn’t realize just how much I’d come to rely on them…until they were gone.”

"Ah. So that's what this is? You're in need of company? Don't you have a flock of people that would love to be in my place?"

Gojo didn’t flinch though. 

Instead, he just looked at you—really looked at you, as if he was searching for something in your eyes. And you almost short circuited. No one had looked at you like that in a very, very long time. 

“It’s funny, right? You think I’ve got it all, that everything is handed to me on a silver platter. But it’s not like that. I’ve had friends... well, used to have friends.” His lips pressed together in a thin line. “Geto and I had a big fight before he left. And Shoko? She went south to be a physician. Guess there was no room for a prince in her life.”

“I’m sorry,” you said, almost automatically. The words felt out of place coming from you, but there they were, falling from your lips like some strange, uninvited guest. "I didn’t know."

He shrugged, the motion light and careless, though there was a heaviness in his light blue eyes.

“You don’t need to be. It’s just... it’s just been hard, you know? I’ve got this image to keep up. But sometimes, I just need someone who isn’t... impressed.” He paused, glancing at you with a kind of odd sincerity. “Someone who doesn’t expect anything.”

“Well,” you said, your tone sharper than you intended. “I guess I’m good at not expecting things.” You smirked. “It’s a talent of mine.”

Gojo grinned at that, though it was more subdued this time.

“I’m starting to think that’s why I liked you when we were kids. You don’t care about any of this.” He gestured loosely to the royal estate in the distance, his voice light but the weight of his words not lost on you. “The politics, the attention, the obligations. You don’t care.” 

“Well,” you said, forcing a nonchalant shrug. “That’s probably because I’m too busy trying to stay out of the spotlight. Honestly, I’m just trying to keep my head down until everyone forgets I’m here.”

He laughed again, though this time it was more like a soft exhale, as if the laughter itself was a little bittersweet. 

“If only it were that easy for me.” He glanced back toward the estate, his eyes distant. “Sometimes I wish I could just disappear, you know? No one expects anything from me. No one looks at me like I’m the answer to their problems, like I’m supposed to be the one to fix everything.”

And silence settled, the two of you rode together, the silence between you almost comfortable, the distance between your worlds just a little bit smaller. But as the day wore on, you realized that even though Gojo had invited you for a ride, what he’d really been looking for was someone who could just be.

 No titles. No expectations. Just two people.

And maybe, just maybe, you were the only one who didn’t want anything from him.

Just a friend.

*-*

When you finally returned home, the estate felt quieter than usual, the kind of eerie silence that only came after an eventful day. You had barely gotten past the front gates when you saw your mother standing near the foyer, her eyes wide with that familiar glint of excitement. 

Your mother’s sharp eyes followed your every move, and the unmistakable glint of hope was in her gaze—if you could call it hope. It looked more like desperation mixed with a touch of victory. Your stomach twisted in response.

You barely made it inside before she pounced.

"How was the ride?" she asked eagerly, her voice high-pitched, almost too enthusiastic. "Did His Highness say anything interesting? How did it go? Tell me everything, everything!"

You blinked. Almost tempted to say that the prince fell off his horse and died.

Maybe she'd leave you alone.

"It went fine," you muttered, doing your best to sound as uninterested as possible. “We rode. We talked.”

She caught that last word like it was a golden nugget. "Talked? Talked?! What did he say? Was it—was it personal? Oh, I bet it was. I knew you two would get along!" She clapped her hands together, her eyes wide with hope.

"Talked about riding lessons," you deadpanned. "And horses. You know, the usual riveting topics."

Your mother blinked, momentarily deflated, but then quickly recovered. "Horses... horses?" Her voice cracked a little as she tried to keep the excitement alive. "Well, that’s a start. That’s fine. But it’s not just about horses, darling. You know what’s important, right?" She leaned forward, her eyes glinting with that familiar, almost manic gleam. “This is Prince Gojo we’re talking about! The Prince Gojo. He could choose anyone, and he’s choosing you. That’s what matters!”

You stifled the urge to groan. Of course, she’d see it that way. To her, Gojo wasn’t a person. He was a prize, a trophy, something to elevate your family’s standing.

"Yeah," you muttered, glancing down at your boots. "He’s really chosen me, alright. He’s not after anything, though. He just needs someone to talk to." You could almost hear the sarcasm dripping off your words.

"Oh, darling," she said with a dismissive wave, “you’re being modest. I know you’re not used to being pursued like this, but that’s exactly what’s happening. Can’t you see it? He’s interested in you. Not your sisters, not anyone else. Just you."

You opened your mouth to answer that no, he didn't want you, he just wanted a friend. But she didn't let you. 

"Why are you so determined to downplay this?" Her voice cracked, though you could tell she was trying to mask it with an air of control. "Do you understand what this could mean for our family? You’re not just some noble daughter, darling. You’re a potential princess. Think of it!"

“A potential princess?” you echoed in disbelief, shaking your head. “I’m a nobody. I’m not some prize for Gojo to win. I’m not some... not some step in the right direction for his royal bloodline.” You let the bitterness seep into your voice now, because really, what else was there left to do?

Your mother didn’t seem to hear any of it. She was too lost in her dreams of grandeur. 

"You’re wrong. You’ll see. He’ll come for you. He’s just being careful, like all men are-especially one of his standing." She smiled as if she had already won the game, as if all her efforts were somehow paying off, one letter at a time. “This will be the beginning of everything.”

You could only stare at her, a hollow ache in your chest. Maybe it wasn’t even about Gojo anymore. 

Maybe it never was. Maybe it was just about your mother wanting so badly for you to mean something in the grand scheme of things. To be something more than just the second youngest Cordova, the one who wasn’t quite pretty enough, wasn’t quite clever enough, wasn’t quite anything enough.

You were tired. So tired of all the expectations. 

So tired of never being enough in the eyes of your family.

“Sure, Mom,” you said quietly, fighting back the sting behind your eyes. “I’m sure it’ll all work out.”

But you couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling that it wouldn’t. That, in the end, you weren’t the one who mattered at all. 

You were just a pawn, waiting to be played.

And that was the worst part. You didn't even know if you could blame Gojo for it.

*-*

That white haired, blue eyed motherfucker didn't stop sending you letters.

Much to your shaggrine.

Every event, every horse ride... it meant your parents planning and scheming further.

Now even the gossipers knew of you- and not like they had in the past, as the failure daughter of the Cordona family, but this time, as the girl who caught the Crown Prince's eye.

How fun.

*-*

The first time Gojo asked to hang out again, it was after one of the many royal events you’d been dragged to. As usual, he’d found you hiding near the back, surrounded by delicate conversations about politics, fashion, and all the things you couldn’t care less about. When his presence loomed at your side, you thought for a second you were imagining things.

“Hey,” Gojo said, a playful glint in his eyes. “Fancy a walk?”

You blinked. “Is this part of the royal entertainment package? Because I’m not really in the mood to be paraded around like a prize horse.”

“Come on,” he said, unfazed. “You could use a break from the charm of the nobility.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re starting to sound like you’re in a bad romance novel.”

He grinned, his eyes gleaming. “Well, if the crown fits…”

You snorted. “It doesn’t, though. You’re not that charming.”

“Right. And you’re definitely not that sarcastic.”

You shot him a look. “I’m not sarcastic. I’m just... realistic... and funny. ”

By the end of the walk, you were both a little damp from the rain, but Gojo seemed completely unfazed. There was something... unnervingly easy about being around him. No masks, no titles, no expectations. Just him, and you, having a quiet moment where neither of you had to be anyone but yourselves.

Too bad it’s all just a game. A distraction. Whatever.

*-* 

It happened over the course of multiple months.

It started innocently enough. He appeared another morning at the stables, after summoning you again, and far too early for any reasonable royal, but of course, it was Gojo. 

Grinning, sparkling, irritating as ever.

“Thought I’d join you for a ride,” he announced, as if this was the most natural thing in the world.

"Again, didn't have a choice, you summoned me." You eyed him, unimpressed. “Since when do you get up before noon?”

“Since now.” He swung himself onto a horse with an obnoxious flourish. “Admit it, you missed me.”

“Like a hole in the head,” you muttered, but rode alongside him anyway.

*-*

The rain battered the windows of the small sitting room where you found yourself, Gojo lounging across from you with a chessboard between you. 

He was terrible at it. Absolutely atrocious.

How was he the crowned prince and couldn't play chess??

“Is it normal to lose three pawns in one move?” he asked, moving a piece in some bizarre diagonal.

“No,” you deadpanned, flicking your knight into position. “But it is impressive.”

He squinted at the board, lips quirking. “I think you’re cheating.”

You arched a brow. “You think I need to cheat?”

His laughter filled the room, and for a moment, the storm outside seemed distant. 

You smiled, even if it was a tiny bit.

'It’s nice,' you thought, surprised at the warmth that bloomed in the quiet. 'But it’s just Gojo. Nothing more.'

*-*

He insisted you come to the royal festival with him. You didn’t want to—large crowds, loud music, pointless parades. But he showed up at your door anyway, eyes shining.

“You need to see the fireworks,” he said, practically dragging you along. “They’re better than the ones at the palace.”

“I hate fireworks,” you lied, trying to ignore the way your heart jumped when his hand brushed yours.

“Then you’ve been watching the wrong ones,” he replied, grinning.

And later, as the sky exploded in color, you caught him staring—not at the fireworks, but at you.

"Fucking hell.." You mumbled- your mother would've slapped the back of your head if she had heard?

“See?” he said softly. “Better.”

You looked away, pretending you hadn’t noticed. 'It’s nothing. He’s just… Gojo.'

*-*

A letter arrived, unexpected and short. Just a few lines, hastily scribbled.

"Thought you might like this."

With it was a small pressed flower, one from the field where you used to ride as children.

You stared at it for a long time, unsure what to feel- friends right? Yeah. Friends. 

Your mother, of course, thought it was a declaration. “He’s clearly smitten!” she said, eyes gleaming.

“He’s not,” you replied, setting the flower aside. “He’s just bored.”

But the ache in your chest didn’t agree.

*-*

It happened slowly, almost imperceptibly, like rain softening stone over time. One moment, you were just a quiet figure in the background of Gojo’s grand, glittering world—a respite from the endless parade of sycophants and expectations. And the next, without warning, you were more. More than the silent companion. More than just the girl who gave him honest, unfiltered conversation. More than a friend, though Gojo didn’t have the self-awareness to name it.

Not yet.

*-*

It started small. Little things that, to anyone else, might’ve seemed insignificant.

Gojo found himself lingering longer after your rides, watching as you meticulously tended to your horse, the way your hands moved with a practiced ease, the faint crease between your brows when you concentrated. He liked that you didn’t fawn over him like everyone else. You treated him like an equal—or sometimes, like an annoyance, which was oddly refreshing.

'She’s just a good friend', he told himself, leaning casually against the stable wall, arms crossed as he watched you brush down your horse. 'That’s all it is. A good friend who’s good at ignoring my jokes and doesn’t care that I’m a prince. Simple.'

"Do you need something?" you asked without turning around.

Gojo grinned, but it faltered slightly when you didn’t look up. 

"What? Can’t a guy enjoy some quality stable time?" he quipped, even though part of him felt like an idiot for standing there, loitering like some lovesick stablehand.

You glanced over your shoulder, arching a brow. “Stable time,” you repeated flatly, as though the words themselves were somehow offensive. "Right. Because that’s what you’re here for. Not to avoid your royal duties or anything."

He laughed, but it felt a little hollow. “You know me too well.”

You shrugged, returning to your task. "Someone has to. You’re not exactly subtle, Gojo."

Not subtle. He rolled the words over in his mind later, lying awake in his ridiculously oversized bed. His head sank into the silk pillow, but sleep wouldn’t come. He told himself it was the simplicity he appreciated. No pretense. No hidden agendas. Just the two of you, existing in a space where titles didn’t matter. He sighed, running a hand through his hair, staring up at the ornate ceiling. He could still hear your voice, low and unamused, calling him out on his nonsense like no one else dared.

*-*

Meanwhile, your mother was relentless, the moment you stepped through the door.

“Another afternoon with the prince,” she cooed, practically draped in self-satisfaction. “And still, you act as though it’s nothing. Darling, do you understand what this means?”

You dropped your riding gloves onto the table, your face carefully neutral. “Yes, Mother,” you said, voice void of emotion. “It means I’m the only person who isn’t throwing themselves at him.”

Her smile faltered for a moment, but she rallied quickly, the determined sparkle returning to her eyes. “Exactly. That’s what makes you different. That’s what makes you special. He doesn’t want someone like your sisters—he wants you.”

You resisted the urge to scream, your voice cold and clipped. “He wants someone who doesn’t expect anything from him. Someone who doesn’t care.”

She smiled wider, not even hearing the ache in your voice. “Exactly.”

*-*

The first time Gojo realised something had shifted, it was months later- 7 months later exactly, it was raining.

 Not the pleasant, soft drizzle that made you want to curl up with a book, but the kind of torrential downpour that turned roads into rivers and made the air thick and heavy. He’d been sitting by the window in his private study, watching the rain streak the glass, when your face flashed in his mind.

She probably loves this kind of weather, he thought absently. Probably smirking right now, pretending not to be annoyed but secretly hating every second of being soaked.

The thought came unbidden, and it should’ve been harmless. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t because he could practically hear your voice in his head, that sharp-edged sarcasm you wielded like a weapon. He could hear you teasing him, calling him out on his ridiculousness, and it made him smile.

Then the smile faded as realisation clawed at him. Why am I thinking about her?

*-*

Then came the letters.

More of them. Invites to more royal events, more occasions where he made it clear—without actually saying it—that he wanted your company. It wasn’t about love. No, you knew better than that. But somehow, every invitation felt like it was designed just to keep you in his orbit.

"You’re coming to the ball next week, right?" he asked, casually, his fingers trailing over the rim of his wineglass. "It’d be good to see you again."

You leaned back in your seat, crossing your arms. "Why? You’re not tired of my company yet?"

He paused, his smile faltering for just a moment. "I don’t get tired of good company," he said softly, the words as sincere as they were out of place. You caught the edge of his gaze—a look that said something more, but he was too busy pretending it wasn’t there.

Yeah, right. Good company. More like he was trying to convince himself of that, trying to make himself believe he wasn’t doing all of this because, secretly, he was trying to win you over.

But you knew better than to fall for that. He was just playing the game. The same one everyone else played. He didn’t know how to stop. Not when it came to impressing people.

The worst part was, you could see it now. You could see the game. You could see the subtle moves, the small gestures, the extra attention. But that didn’t mean you had to play along. Did you?

Did you?

Your sarcasm was your armor, the only thing you could rely on, because deep down, it didn’t matter what Gojo really felt. It didn’t matter if he was falling for you or if this was just another phase for him. What mattered was that he never seemed to notice that you weren’t like the others.

The others? They would’ve eaten this up. They would’ve been flattered by the attention, thrilled by the idea of the prince wanting their company.

You?

You were tired.

And no amount of his flashy tricks or his stupid little gestures was going to change that.

"Yeah, I’ll come to the ball," you said finally, your voice flat. "But don’t expect me to act like I’m impressed."

Gojo blinked, his grin fading, and for a brief moment, you swore you saw a flicker of something in his eyes. 

A flash of doubt and guilt.

But you didn’t stick around long enough to find out. You turned away, your heart heavy, and left the room before you had to see him try any harder.

Because you both knew how this would end, didn’t you?

In the end, it was never going to be enough- you were never going to be enough.

*-*

The music swelled as he spun you into the center of the ballroom, other dancers parting to make room as though you were the only two people there. His hand rested at your waist, his grip firm but not unpleasant. It was almost… gentle.

"You didn’t have to," you said quietly as he twirled you. "I’m sure someone else would’ve been far more excited for this."

He tilted his head, feigning innocence. "Didn’t have to what?"

"Make a scene. Drag me onto the floor."

His smile faltered for a split second, and there it was again—that flicker of guilt, maybe. But it passed quickly, and the mask of charm slid back into place. "I wasn’t aware I was dragging. I thought I was dancing."

You rolled your eyes. "You know what I mean."

He sighed, spinning you again, slower this time. "Maybe I just like spending time with you."

You snorted softly, shaking your head. "You like the idea of it, maybe. The simplicity. I’m not like the others, right? No expectations, no drama." The bitterness bled through, and you didn’t care enough to stop it. "But it’s not real. You’re not real."

Gojo’s grip on your waist tightened, just for a moment, and his expression darkened. "Why do you do that?" he asked softly, voice low enough that only you could hear. "Act like I’m a joke."

You blinked, startled by the seriousness in his tone. "Because you are," you whispered back. "And so am I."

The music swirled around you, but neither of you moved. You were stuck, locked in a dance that felt more like a battle. His smile had vanished completely now, replaced by something raw, something too close to real.

Everyone was staring.

"I’m not mocking you," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "I never was."

You swallowed hard, trying to keep your composure. "Then what are you doing?"

He didn’t answer. He just stared at you, searching, as if he was trying to find the right words and failing. And for once, Prince Gojo—the man who always had something witty to say—was silent.

The music ended. He let go of you slowly, his hand lingering for just a moment longer than it should have. You stepped back, breath shallow, and forced yourself to smile.

"Thank you for the dance," you said, cold and polite, like it hadn’t just broken something inside both of you.

You walked away before he could say anything else, leaving him standing alone in the middle of the ballroom.

Your parents’ faces glowed with triumph as you returned, but all you felt was hollow.

Because the truth was, it didn’t matter if he was falling for you.

You weren’t sure you wanted him to.

*-*

ately, there were moments when his confidence faltered, when his eyes seemed too earnest, too searching, as if he was looking for something that wasn’t there.

It was during a sparring session, of all things.

You had agreed to join a small group for practice, mostly to pass the time. You didn’t care for swordplay, but you knew it was something that would help you keep your mind distracted from the incessant pressure of your family and the mounting tension with Gojo.

At first, it was the usual: he was flawless, dancing around opponents with that cocky grin on his face, effortlessly deflecting blows and making mockeries of anyone who dared challenge him. The onlookers laughed, cheering him on like he was some kind of legend. He was a legend, to them—he was a prince, after all.

But then, as the practice wore on, Gojo’s gaze kept flicking to you. It wasn’t the usual teasing, the usual flirtation. It was almost… nervous. Like he was waiting for something—waiting for your approval?

Was he?

Those couple times when you managed to lock eyes-for a fleeting moment, he looked like a little boy, begging for approval, wanting to be seen beyond the prince-the soldier he was.

'Nuh uh' was the only thing going through your head.

*-*

The next time you saw him was days later, at another royal gathering. Of course, your mother insisted you attend, as if every event was an opportunity for you to be seen, to make a perfect impression. You slipped into the corner of the ballroom, barely noticed by the glittering crowd around you.

And that’s when it happened again.

As soon as Gojo stepped into the hall, his eyes locked on your figure, almost as if he always knew where you were. This time, there was something different—something almost desperate. You tried to focus on the sparkling chandeliers and the murmur of conversation around you, but your gaze kept straying back to him. He wasn’t smiling like he usually did. He wasn’t the carefree, cocky prince. 

He looked… lost.

Was it just you, or was it really happening? Was Gojo—Prince Gojo—the untouchable, flawless man—falling for you?

And if so, why?

You couldn’t risk believing in him. Not when you were just another thing to conquer.

*-*

The tension in the royal court had been simmering for months, and now it was boiling over.

So you withdrew from court. 

Naturally, you feigned illness, you wanted nothing to do with the crown prince. Much to your parents dismay. At first your mother was beyond furious-but your father.. your father noticed how exhausted and distant you had become. So he laid off your back. 

But it didn't matter, the damage was done, eight months of being friends with the crown prince doesn't just disappear. The air buzzed with whispers, rumors spreading like wildfire. It was no longer a question of if Gojo would marry—it was who. And the speculation only grew louder as the days passed.

You heard it all, of course. Curtesy of your mother- and sometimes your sisters who would come have dinner. And anyways, the nobles had a way of making sure you knew, especially since your family’s name had started to surface in hushed conversations. The Cordova family was respectable, wealthy enough, but not particularly powerful. That was, until Gojo began to show interest—or whatever it was he was doing—in you.

And now? Now, suddenly, your family was worth noticing.

You stood on the balcony of your estate, the cool breeze brushing against your skin. Below, in the garden, your mother and father were deep in conversation with some visiting noble. No doubt they were basking in the newfound attention, relishing every rumor like it was gold.

*-*

Inside the palace walls, things weren’t much better. Gojo sat in the grand hall, his advisors gathered around him like vultures. The marble floors gleamed beneath them, the high ceilings amplifying every tense word.

He wanted to strangle one or two- actually no. The lot of them.

“You cannot continue like this, Your Highness,” one of the elder advisors said, his voice trembling with a mix of exasperation and desperation. “The kingdom needs stability. A marriage alliance would provide that.”

Gojo leaned back in his chair, the lazy arrogance he so often wore like a second skin noticeably absent. Instead, he looked tired, his usual spark dimmed. He didn’t even bother to hide the irritation in his voice.

“And you think marrying someone will solve all our problems?” he drawled. “I wasn’t aware a wedding could fix political unrest.”

Another advisor, younger and more ambitious, chimed in. “It’s not just about you, Your Highness. It’s about the future of the throne. You need someone who can solidify alliances.”

Gojo sighed, dragging a hand through his hair. “I know what you want,” he said quietly, his voice sharp with annoyance. “You want me to pick some perfectly obedient noblewoman, smile for the portraits, and pretend everything’s fine.”

The older advisor stepped forward. “This isn’t just about you! You owe it to the kingdom.”

“Owe it?” Gojo’s voice rose, and for a moment, the tired prince was gone, replaced by a man on the edge. “I’ve given everything to this kingdom. My time. My freedom. My life. And now you want me to hand over my heart too? No.”

The room fell silent, the tension palpable. 

*-*

Back at your estate, the rumors finally reached your ears in full force.

Your mother burst into the sitting room, eyes alight with barely contained excitement. “It’s happening,” she whispered, practically vibrating with glee. “The court is pushing for a match. They’re pressuring him to choose.”

You didn’t look up from your book. “How fascinating,” you said dryly. “Do you think they’ll host a tournament? Maybe I should start sharpening my sword.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t be so flippant. This could change everything for us.”

“For us,” you repeated, glancing up at her with a raised brow. “But not for me.”

Her face flushed with frustration. “You are so ungrateful. Do you realize what an opportunity this is? You could be queen.”

You laughed, the sound cold and hollow. “Queen of what? A man who doesn’t care? A court that sees me as a pawn? No, thank you.”

She advanced on you, eyes blazing. “You think you’re above this? You think you’re better than the rest of us?”

“No,” you said quietly, your voice like ice. “I think I’ve just learned the difference between being wanted and being used.”

She stared at you, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, before she finally turned on her heel and stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

*-*

A month after withdrawing from court, your mother had had enough of your 'tantrums', and dragged you to another ball.

It was another grand affair, another gilded evening of silks and jewels—this time, a royal ceremony commemorating some diplomatic victory. You wore a dress chosen by your mother, a confection of midnight blue that made you feel like a reluctant participant in someone else’s dream. 

You were staring at the small champagne glass in your hand, it was half full- wondering if you could potentially drown yourself in it.

The chandeliers glimmered above, casting golden light across the gathered crowd, but the weight in your chest had nothing to do with the elegance of the scene.

It was the conversation you’d overheard.

You hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. You were wandering the fringes of the ballroom, hoping to find a moment of peace when you caught the hushed voices of Gojo’s advisors behind a column. You didn’t recognize all the voices, but one was unmistakably his chief advisor.

“Prince Gojo has been far too indulgent,” the man said, his voice clipped and frustrated. “It’s time he stopped playing games. The Cordova girl is a practical match. Their family isn’t as high as some, but they bring wealth, connections. And she’s pliable enough.”

Pliable. Like you were some piece of clay to be molded.

“Does he know?” another voice asked, quieter but equally firm.

“He doesn’t have to. He’ll come around. He’s already spending all this time with her, isn’t he? A few more nudges, and he’ll fall in line.”

You felt like the ground had dropped beneath you-then you felt foolish, embarrassed even.

Everything—the letters, the riding lessons, the moments that felt almost real—was nothing more than a well-calculated push. You’d been naive, hadn’t you? Letting yourself believe, even for a moment, that maybe you were different. Maybe you weren’t just another pawn in this game.

But you were.

*-*

From that moment, you decided to pull away. Emotionally, physically—you retreated into yourself.

Those fuckers had tried to play you? Well two could play that game.

You became colder, more distant. When Gojo sought you out, you found excuses: sudden headaches, an urgent need to be elsewhere. You danced with others at the ball, smiled at others, but never him.

Gojo noticed.

Of course he did. He noticed everything about you. Down to your breathing pattern.

He cornered you in the gardens a month later, in the evening, the moon casting silver light over his face. His usual playful grin was gone, replaced by something more fragile, more confused.

"You’ve been avoiding me," he said, his voice soft but edged with tension.

You didn’t meet his eyes, focusing instead on the stone path beneath your feet. "I’ve been busy."

Gojo scoffed, stepping closer. "Busy? You’ve never been good at lying, you know."

Your heart twisted painfully, but you forced yourself to stay distant. "What can I for you, Your Highness?"

Oof, formal tittle? That wasn't good. His frustration bubbled to the surface, and for once, his mask slipped.

 "I want to know what I did. One moment we’re fine, and the next, it’s like I don’t exist. Did I offend you? Say something wrong?"

You laughed, a bitter sound that echoed in the still night. 

"Offend me? No, Gojo. You didn’t offend me. You’ve been perfectly charming, as always."

"Then what is it?" His voice cracked slightly, and that vulnerability you’d seen creeping into his eyes was suddenly laid bare. "Why are you pulling away?"

You finally looked at him then, your expression carefully blank. "Because I know what this is."

He frowned, confusion flickering across his face. "What are you talking about?"

"I heard them," you said, the words tasting like ash. "Your advisors. Talking about how this—" you gestured vaguely between the two of you, "—isn’t real. How they’ve been pushing you toward me because I’m a ‘practical match.’"

His face paled. "That’s not—"

"Don’t," you interrupted, your voice sharper than you intended. "Don’t lie to me. I’m not stupid, Gojo. I know how these things work. I know what I am."

"You don’t," he insisted, stepping forward, his eyes desperate now. "You don’t know. They can push all they want, but that’s not why—"

"Then why?" you demanded, your voice trembling. "Why did you seek me out? Why the letters, the rides, the—everything? If it wasn’t because they told you to, then why?"

He opened his mouth, but no words came. He looked like he wanted to say something, like he was on the verge of some great revelation, but nothing emerged.

You laughed again, softer this time, but no less bitter. "That’s what I thought."

"No," he said, almost a whisper. "It’s not like that."

"Isn’t it?" You shook your head, stepping back. "You don’t even know what you want. You’re torn between your heart and your duty, and I’m just the convenient middle ground. You don’t have to choose if I’m already here, right?"

"That’s not fair," he said, his voice breaking. "I didn’t want this."

"Neither did I," you snapped. "I never asked for any of this, Gojo. I never wanted to be part of your world. But here we are. And now I have to watch you pretend this is something more while knowing it’s just another move in a game I never wanted to play."

He was silent, his shoulders slumping as if the weight of the world had finally crushed him.

"You should go," you said softly, turning away. "Go be the prince they need you to be."

For a long moment, he didn’t move. Then, finally, you heard his footsteps retreating, leaving you alone in the cold moonlight. As he left, you swore you heard him whisper:

"I just wanted a friend."

But you couldn't be sure, it was probably the wind.

And for the first time, you allowed yourself to cry.

*-*

At first, Gojo had told himself that it was just a phase—that you were upset, perhaps, or just needing space. But with every passing day, the silence between the two of you became louder, more suffocating. He had spent so many years avoiding the weight of responsibility, always choosing to float above it all with his charm, his wit, and his easy smile. 

But now, in the cold quiet of the night, as he sat alone in his study, the weight of his actions hit him with full force.

'I’m an idiot.'

He had been blind. So incredibly blind. He had spent all this time thinking he was merely enjoying your company—thinking that what was happening between the two of you was simple, carefree friendship. But now he realised, painfully, that it was so much more than that. It was love. It had always been love.

'Gods, how did I not see it?'

Gojo’s heart pounded in his chest as the truth sank in. With you.... With you, he had fallen so effortlessly, so completely, that he hadn’t even realised it. And now, it was too late. You were gone, pulling away from him, and he didn’t know how to fix it.

He had tried to show you his affection through small gestures—inviting you to ride with him, sharing private conversations, letters he knew you’d roll your eyes at—but now, with the realisation crushing him, he understood: 'those weren’t gestures of friendship. They were attempts to show her the part of you that you’ve hidden for too long.'

'How could I have been so stupid?'

*-*

He found you in the garden during the next ball-so like a week later, sitting beneath the ancient willow tree. The early sun filtered through the leaves, casting dappled shadows on the grass, but the light felt wrong—too soft for the weight of what he was about to say.

You looked up when he approached, your expression as guarded as ever. "Prince Gojo," you greeted coolly, and the formality in your voice stung more than it should have.

He winced. "Don’t call me that."

"What should I call you, then?" you asked, your tone dripping with sarcasm. "Your Grace? Your Highness? The man who doesn’t know what he wants?"

"Stop," he said quietly, his voice raw. "Please."

You stiffened, but you didn’t move to leave. You just stared at him, waiting. He realised he hated the distance between you, both the physical space and the emotional chasm he had carved with his own carelessness.

"I didn’t come here because they told me to," he began, his voice trembling. "I never sought you out because of politics. I came because I wanted to. I came because you were the only one who didn’t expect anything from me."

You scoffed, looking away. "And that makes it better?"

"No," he admitted, stepping closer. "It doesn’t. But it’s the truth."

There was silence, heavy and suffocating, before you finally spoke. "Why now, Gojo? Why tell me this now?"

"Because I’m a fool," he said, his voice cracking. "I didn’t realize it until I lost you."

You laughed, bitter and broken. "You never had me to begin with."

"But I wanted to," he whispered, the words trembling with desperation. "I wanted to have you. Not as a trophy, not as a political move—because I’m in love with you."

A beat passed.

"You’re in love with me," you repeated, the disbelief in your voice sharp. "How nice."

The sarcasm cut through him like a blade. He had expected anger, confusion, maybe even pity—but not this.

"Yeah," he murmured, eyes falling to the ground, his voice barely above a whisper. "I know. It’s pathetic, isn’t it?"

"Pathetic?" You scoffed, your voice low. "No. It’s just... convenient."

Gojo winced at the sharpness of your words. 

"You don’t love me," you continued, your voice steady but hollow. "You love the idea of me. You love what I give you—peace, escape. But that’s not love, Gojo."

He shook his head, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "No, it’s more than that. I swear it’s more than that."

"Then what?" you demanded, your voice rising with anger. "What is it? Because from where I’m standing, it looks a lot like convenience."

"It’s not," he said fiercely. "It’s you. It’s the way you look at me like I’m just a man, not a prince. It’s the way you challenge me, the way you make me feel alive." He paused, his voice softening. "I didn’t realize it until you walked away, but it’s you. It’s always been you."

Tears burned at the edges of your eyes, but you refused to let them fall. "And what about your duty, Gojo? What about the throne? Are you willing to throw all of that away for me?"

His silence was deafening.

You laughed bitterly. "Exactly. You can’t. You never could. So don’t stand here and tell me you love me when you’re still tethered to a life I’ll never be part of."

"Please," he said, his voice breaking. "Don’t do this."

"You already did," you whispered.

The tension stretched between you, fragile and aching-like a bowstring about to snap. He reached out, but you stepped back, shaking your head.

"I can’t be your escape," you said softly. "I won’t."

Gojo’s face crumpled, and for the first time, you saw the man beneath the crown—heartbroken, vulnerable, lost. "I’m sorry," he said, and it sounded like the end of everything.

"So am I."

And with that, you turned and walked away, leaving him alone beneath the willow tree, where the sun rose on a man who had everything but the one thing he truly wanted.

*-*

The door slammed behind you as you stumbled inside, the heavy weight of the night pressing down on you like a suffocating fog. You didn’t even notice your mother standing in the entryway until her voice broke through the haze of your own misery. You couldn’t. Your mind was consumed with the image of Gojo’s face, his words, his hollow confession that had shattered something inside of you. His love. Or was it? What was he even doing?

“What happened?” she asked, her tone far too calm for the storm brewing in your chest. Her eyes widened when she saw the state you were in—tears streaming down your face, mascara smudged, and your body shaking with the aftermath of an emotional breakdown.

You didn’t want to answer. You couldn’t. Your throat felt tight, like you couldn’t breathe without choking. Everything was suffocating.

“I... I can’t... I can’t breathe,” you gasped, stumbling towards the nearest chair. The world spun around you, and you felt your knees buckle under you. You barely managed to sit, burying your face in your hands.

She didn’t say anything at first, just watched. But then, with a look that made you feel small—insignificant—she crossed her arms. 

"What on earth happened at that ball?" Her voice was sharp, an edge of disappointment threading through every word. "The one time I allow you to go alone.."

You couldn’t answer. The sobs wouldn’t stop. You clutched your sides, gasping like you were drowning.

By the time she got you inside, your mother was frantic. She guided you to the drawing room, where the fire was still burning low, and knelt before you as you collapsed onto the settee. Her hands were surprisingly gentle, brushing the hair from your face, though her voice trembled with impatience and fear.

“Speak,” she urged. “Tell me what’s happened. Is it Gojo? Did he—did he hurt you?”

You laughed through the tears, a broken, bitter sound. “No, Mother. Not like that.”

“Then what?” she demanded, her voice tightening. “What has reduced you to this? You’re acting like—like your heart has been ripped out.”

"Maybe it has," you choked out, biting back another sob. "I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore."

Her face softened for a moment, as if she wanted to understand, but she couldn't quite manage it. “You’re being dramatic,” she said, though her voice lacked its usual sharpness. “You always knew this would be complicated. He’s a prince. His heart was never truly yours to keep.”

"Complicated?" you echoed, laughing bitterly. "He made me believe he cared, Mother. And maybe he does, but it doesn’t matter because he will never choose me. Not when the crown’s at stake. I’m nothing to him but a temporary distraction."

Her brow furrowed. “You can’t know that. He—”

“I heard them,” you interrupted, your voice cracking. “His advisors. They were talking about marriage, alliances. And do you know who they suggested?” You looked at her through your tears, your face twisted in anguish. “Me. As if I’m just a pawn to be moved across a board.”

Then the crying got worse- your mother became worried, she had never seen you like this- not in years.

“I’ve never seen you like this,” she continued, her voice trembling now. “Not since you were a child.”

And then she did something she hadn’t done in years: she wrapped her arms around you, pulling you close, and for once, you didn’t push her away.

“You poor thing,” she murmured, stroking your hair like she used to when you were small. “You foolish, foolish girl." She wiped a mutlitude of tears from your face, "You were brave. You did what you had to do.”

“But I loved him,” you confessed, the truth spilling out like a wound that had festered too long. “I loved him, and now it’s over, and I don’t know how to make it stop hurting.”

Her eyes softened, filled with a pain that mirrored your own. “It will hurt,” she said gently. “It will hurt for a long time. But you will survive this. You always do.”

Hours dripped by, like the tears than ran freely across your face. Aftger a while you had basically cried yourself to exhaustion. Your mother helped you to your room, helped you into your sleepwear.

She straightened up, gathering herself, trying to regain control of the situation. “We’ll talk about this later. You’ll compose yourself and we’ll handle this properly.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t.

*-*

The rain was relentless, pounding against the windows of the Cordova estate like a desperate plea. You sat in the drawing room, watching the storm rage, feeling every bit as turbulent as the sky outside. Your mother was off somewhere fussing over another scheme, and your father had retreated to his study—content to stew over the latest disappointment you’d no doubt become.

You had cried so hard in the last couple days that your eyes, lungs.. everything hurt.

You weren't even dressed properly.

The carriage wheels had barely stopped when your mother’s shriek rang through the halls of your family’s estate.

“WHAT?!”

You had just been sitting in the drawing room, lost in a book, when the servant burst in, panic-stricken. “The prince… Prince Gojo... he’s here. At the gate.”

Your heart skipped a beat. Gojo. What the hell is he doing here?

Your mother was already moving toward the door, face flushed, her words tumbling out in a rush. “I’ll speak to him, I’ll—” She didn’t even finish the sentence before she was gone, no doubt already scheming some sort of disastrous charm offensive.

You glanced at your father. He sat there, frozen for a moment, clearly unsure of what to make of this, before he let out a low growl. 

“Prince Gojo? That’s… bold. Damn bold.”

Your parents stood near the fireplace, stunned into silence, clearly trying to figure out how to act. Your father’s arms were folded, but his fingers twitched as though he was ready to start waving them around like a conductor.

“Your Highness,” your mother stammered, still in shock, “What—what brings you to our humble home?"

Gojo glanced at you, and you felt his gaze like a physical weight. It sent a strange shiver down your spine, but you didn’t let it show. You refused to. Not again.

“I came to see her,” he said, his voice softer than it had ever been before, but loud enough to break the tension in the room.

Your mother blinked, a bright flush creeping up her neck. “Her? You mean—”

“Yes,” he said, cutting her off with an expression that was a mixture of apology and resolve. “I mean her. I need to speak with her. Alone.”

Your father finally spoke up, his voice tight with suspicion. “You’ve come all the way here to speak to my daughter, Your Highness? At this hour?”

Gojo stood straighter, nodding solemnly. “Yes. I have.”

Your father looked to your mother, who was still gaping, before he sighed, clearly not sure how to react. “Very well, but we’ll be in the next room,” he said with a nod. “We’ll leave you two alone for… a moment.”

The instant the door shut, Gojo fell to his knees- literally.

Gojo Satoru. 

Crown prince, was kneeling before you.

For a moment, your brain refused to comprehend what you were seeing. Your mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. 'What the hell is he doing?'

“Gojo, what—” You couldn’t finish the sentence. You didn’t even know what to say. 

He was the prince. The untouchable, charismatic prince. 

He didn’t kneel. 

He didn’t beg. 

He was never the one to put himself in a vulnerable position. And yet, here he was, on the floor in front of you, as if his entire world had come down to this one moment.

The great, untouchable Gojo, who had women at his feet and entire kingdoms in his pocket, was kneeling in front of you, like he was begging for something you couldn’t even grasp yet.

His head was bowed, eyes closed, but you could see the tightness in his jaw, the muscles in his neck straining. He wasn’t just on his knees physically—he was on his knees emotionally. 

“Gojo—” Your voice cracked in surprise, the sarcasm you’d buried deep suddenly bubbling up like a bitter reflex. “What is this? A royal performance? Because if you’re trying to impress me, you’re failing miserably.”

“I’m not trying to impress you,” he said, his voice soft, but thick with something raw and desperate.  “I’m just... asking you to believe me.”

You took a step back, your breath hitching in your throat. 'This is insane'. You had to be dreaming.

“Do you have any idea how stupid this is?” you said bitterly, voice shaking with suppressed emotion, feeling the heat of your frustration rise in your chest. “Do you have any idea how much it hurts to even think you’re doing this for me?”

“Then don’t think,” he whispered, his voice just above a breath. “Don’t think, just listen.” He lifted his gaze, his eyes wide, pleading. “I’m not doing this for anyone else. Not for the throne. Not for my advisors. I’m doing this because... because I can’t stop. I can’t stop thinking about you. I can’t stop wanting you, even if I don’t deserve you.”

You tried to swallow, but the lump in your throat was impossible to push down. 'God, why did this have to hurt so much?'

“Why now?” you asked, your voice laced with bitterness. “Why didn’t you care before? Why didn’t you come to me before everything was so messed up?”

He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing-you had to remind yourself to look at his eyes- as he tried to find the right words.

 “I didn’t know what I was doing. I thought it was just another thing. Another distraction. But the moment you pulled away, I realized I was... wrong. I was stupid. I was always stupid.”

“Yeah, you were,” you muttered under your breath, too angry to care about the tears threatening to spill over. “You still are.”

Gojo didn’t flinch. His gaze never left yours, even as his shoulders trembled ever so slightly. 

His head dropped for a moment, his long hair falling into his eyes. 

“But I swear to you, I didn’t come here to play with your emotions. I didn’t come here for some political match, some obligation. I came here because I can’t keep pretending that I don’t love you.”

“Gojo, this—this isn’t some story,” you said, your voice cracking slightly, even though you didn’t want it to. “You can’t just—this doesn’t just happen. You don’t just fall in love with me. Not like this. Not after everything—”

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” he interrupted, his voice barely a whisper now, but full of intensity. “I didn’t plan it. I didn’t choose it. It just... happened. I convinced myself that I just wanted your friendship, that I could ignore it, but every time I walked away from you, I felt like I was losing a part of myself. I was... I was terrified. Terrified of you because you—” He inhaled sharply. “You see me. You see through the prince, through the crown, and I— I didn’t know how to deal with that.”

He raised his eyes to meet yours, his gaze intense and full of something you didn’t know how to name.

 “But now? I can’t run anymore. I can’t pretend I don’t feel this. I can’t pretend I don’t need you. I don’t care what the court says, what my advisors say, what my duty says. I want you. I need you.”

You were frozen, unable to move, unable to speak. His words were washing over you, stirring emotions you had long buried deep down. Why now? Why me? All the doubts you’d carried for so long began to surface, but underneath all of that, a quiet yearning grew. He was laying it all bare in front of you, exposing himself in a way you didn’t know was possible.

 Gojo continued, his voice breaking with frustration, a soft sob of helplessness caught in his throat: “But please—please just let me show you that this is real. I’ve never been more serious in my life. I don’t care what the kingdom expects from me anymore. All I care about is you. If you’ll have me.”

And the worst part? You found him so very pretty, his pure blue eyes shinned with tears-No. Stop it.

“I don’t know when I fell in love with you,” he said, his voice softening, trembling. “Maybe it was during the first ride, or maybe it was when I started to see the real you. The person who doesn’t bow to expectations, the person who doesn’t get caught up in all the nonsense. I fell in love with your strength. I fell in love with how you see the world. You’re not just another woman to me, you’re the woman who makes everything else fade away.”

Gojo reached out slowly, his fingers brushing your arm, and you didn’t pull away. His touch was warm, and his gaze never left you.

“You’re not a conquest,” he said softly, his voice breaking. “You’re everything. I’m not asking for perfection, I’m not asking for guarantees. I’m asking for the chance to love you. I’ll fight for you, even if it means tearing my world apart. Because you’re worth it.”

You shook your head, tears threatening to spill, but you kept your composure. 'This can’t be real. Not with him. Not with the crown prince.'

And yet, as you stood there, your breath shallow, you realised something—deep down, buried under the scepticism and the fear and the doubt—you wanted to believe him, so bad. 

He finally stood, ha-he was taller now.

How annoying.

You sniffled.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted, his hand tightening around yours just slightly. “But I’m willing to try. I’m willing to fight for you, for us. I want to be the man you deserve, not the prince who everyone expects me to be. But I need you to take a chance on me, just as I’m taking a chance on you.”

Your breath hitched in your throat. 'Gods, he’s serious. He’s so serious.'

You couldn’t pretend anymore, not with him looking at you like that, so broken, so earnest, so full of desperate hope.

“Don’t make me a promise you can’t keep, Gojo,” you whispered, your voice catching in your throat.

He shook his head, his eyes hard with determination. “I won’t break it. I’ll keep it. I swear to you.”

And when Gojo finally kissed you, it wasn’t some dramatic declaration. It wasn’t a grand gesture. It was soft, tentative, and filled with the weight of everything that had come before it.

But in that kiss, you felt something shift. You felt something like love—raw, imperfect, and painfully real. And for the first time in your life, you didn’t want to run from it.

It was also a very, very wet kiss.

Miserable and wet. 

*-* 

The evening had been... overwhelming. That was the only way to describe it, right? Overwhelming and, in a way, utterly absurd. Gojo had confessed his feelings, dropped a bomb on you, and now... now, he was standing in front of your parents, looking entirely too calm for someone who had just ruined whatever sort of normalcy you’d once clung to.

What the fuck.

You had gone from crying over the crown prince a couple days ago, to... to this??

He had just kissed you, for the gods' sake—kissed you—and now you were supposed to just sit here and pretend that your world wasn’t about to spin completely out of orbit.

Your mother, sitting across from you, was holding herself together with an unnerving amount of composure, despite her hands shaking slightly. Your father, on the other hand, was staring at Gojo with all the suspicion of a man who had just been handed a live grenade.

Gojo, ever the composed prince, looked at your parents like this was just another day at the office—something he could handle with that all-too-charming smile of his. But tonight, that smile had a certain edge to it.

Gojo’s eyes flicked to you for a brief moment, the softness in them betraying the calm air he was trying so hard to maintain. And then, just like that, he turned his attention back to your parents.

“I have a request, actually,” Gojo said, his voice carrying a quiet weight. You froze, suddenly feeling like your heartbeat had gone missing. You had no idea what was coming, but it felt big. Too big.

Your father raised an eyebrow, his expression still guarded but curious. “A request?”

Gojo nodded, not a hint of hesitation in his posture. He was so sure of himself. “Yes,” he said, leaning forward, the words about to spill from his lips like an irreversible truth. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while now, and I’ve come to a decision.”

“I’ve spent a lot of time with your daughter,” Gojo continued, his gaze flicking to you once more, this time more lingering. “I’ve gotten to know her, and I’ve realized something important. Something I didn’t expect. I’ve fallen in love with her. And I…” His gaze hardened a fraction, eyes now fixed on your parents with that undiluted confidence he wore so well. “I wish to marry her.”

The room seemed to hold its breath. 

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t blink. Did he just—

You stared at him, trying to make sense of the mess your heart had suddenly become. “So... you’re really serious about this?”

He grinned widely, that familiar sparkle in his eyes. “I wouldn’t have come all the way here, and kneeled like a fool, if I wasn’t serious.”

Your mother’s jaw nearly dropped, and your father blinked a couple of times as if the words had to be translated into something that made sense.

Your mother, composed as always, finally found her voice. 

“Well,” she began, her tone strained but polite, “that is quite the announcement.” Her eyes darted toward you, narrowing slightly, as if to silently ask, What have you done?

You didn’t respond. You were too busy trying to remember how to breathe.

Gojo, infuriatingly calm, kept his gaze on your father, clearly waiting for his reaction. There was no trace of his usual arrogance, but there was an undeniable determination in his expression—a resolve that made your stomach twist in a way you desperately didn’t want to think about.

Your father cleared his throat, rubbing a hand over his face like he was trying to wake up from a particularly strange dream. 

“You’re serious,” he repeated, sounding tired, bewildered. “You want to marry my daughter?”

Gojo leaned back in his chair, his usual smirk nowhere to be found. Instead, he was oddly serious, his hands folded in front of him like some kind of noble. He nodded.

'If you squint hard enough', you thought, 'he’s almost dignified- and even worse- he looked really pretty. Ew.'

Your mother's gaze softened for a brief moment, before it quickly turned back to Gojo. “But... this is Gojo Satoru. Crown Prince of the Kingdom. You think we—”

“I know exactly who I am,” Gojo interrupted, a rare note of seriousness in his voice. “But I also know who I am when I’m with her. And that’s someone who wants to spend every moment I can with her. Not because it’s convenient. Not because it’s politically advantageous. But because I genuinely love her."

Your father sighed: 

"Well.. who are we to refuse the crown prince?" He took a deep breath, "If you’re serious, then...” He trailed off, glancing at your mother for support. “I suppose we should discuss this properly.”

“Great,” you said flatly, sarcasm coating your words. “So, you’ve professed your love, secured the approval of my parents, and what? I’m supposed to swoon now?”

“Swooning would be nice,” he teased, but there was a nervous edge to it, like he wasn’t sure how far he could push. “Or, at least, less glaring.”

“I don’t trust you,” you said finally, quietly.

Gojo’s face softened, and for the first time, he looked unsure. Vulnerable.

“I know.”

“I’m not sure I’ll ever trust you.”

“I’ll wait,” he said simply. No hesitation. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“You’re an idiot,” you muttered, though your voice lacked the bite it should’ve had.

He grinned then, bright and disarming, like he hadn’t just knelt before you, kissed you, and then asked you parents for your hand in marriage. “I’ve been called worse.”

*-*

The spring air was cool, crisp, carrying the scent of blossoming lilacs across the estate’s sprawling grounds. It was the kind of evening that felt suspended in time, the sky bruised with hues of gold and lavender, the sun clinging stubbornly to the horizon as if it too didn’t want this moment to end.

You sat beneath the ancient oak tree on the edge of the gardens, your skirts spread out in a careless pool around you, watching as the last light painted everything in soft warmth. It had been a long year. A tumultuous one. And yet… here you were.

"You're hidding from me again." 

'Of course he found me. He always finds me.'

“I’m not hiding,” you said, your voice lazy, dripping with feigned innocence. “I’m merely... avoiding you.”

“And here I thought we were past the whole avoiding-each-other phase,” he said, his tone light but teasing. “Is this because I stole the last piece of cake last night?”

You finally lifted your gaze, glaring at him through narrowed eyes. “You didn’t steal it. You demanded it, like the royal tyrant you are.”

He grinned, wide and unrepentant, and it made him look like a mischievous boy rather than a crown prince. “I don’t remember you putting up much of a fight.”

“Only because I was too tired to argue,” you retorted, though the corners of your lips twitched despite yourself.

Gojo took that as his invitation, sinking down beside you with an exaggerated sigh, sprawling like he owned the entire earth. His shoulder brushed yours, warm and solid, and for a moment, you were hyper-aware of how close he was. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating from him in the cool spring air.

“So,” he said, tilting his head to look at you, his white hair catching the fading sunlight, “are you going to keep pretending you don’t enjoy my company?”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m not pretending. Your company is… tolerable, at best.”

“Ouch.” He clutched his chest dramatically, as if wounded. “You wound me, my love.”

You snorted. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why not?” His voice softened, losing its playful edge. “You are.”

The words settled between you, gentle but firm, and for a moment, the sarcasm on your tongue faltered. Damn him. Damn him and that stupid sincerity.

You cleared your throat, trying to regain your footing. “You’re awfully confident for someone who’s been rejected more times than I can count.”

Gojo grinned, turning toward you with a playful glint in his eyes. “Rejected? You mean the time you said, ‘Leave me alone or I’ll push you into the lake’? That was just foreplay.”

You snorted, biting your lip to keep from smiling too wide. “Foreplay? You were soaking wet and whining like a child.”

“I was laughing,” he corrected, smug. “And you were staring at me the whole time.”

“Because I was making sure you didn’t drown. Didn't wanna be accused of killing the crown prince."

“How noble of you.” He leaned closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Admit it. You like me.”

“I tolerate you,” you said, turning your face away to hide the warmth creeping up your neck.

“Tolerate,” he repeated, as if tasting the word. He let it hang in the air for a moment before leaning back on his hands, looking out over the gardens. “That’s progress. I’ll take it.”

And your lips met- you were kissing your fiancée, as the sun set on the lake of the royal palace. 

Though his hands got a little too handsy, you broke the kiss, 'tsk-ing' at him.

"Nuh uh, Satoru Gojo. The marriage is in a week." 

Gojo groaned dramatically, flopping onto his back and covering his eyes with an arm like a tragic hero. 

“Cruel. So cruel,” he lamented. “You tease me with kisses and then deny me any fun. What’s a man to do?”

You rolled your eyes, leaning over him, your hair falling in soft waves as you smirked. 

“A man should learn patience,” you quipped, flicking his forehead lightly. “Something you’ve clearly never mastered.”

He peeked at you from beneath his arm, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Patience is overrated,” he murmured, voice low and sultry, “especially when you’re this close.”

You leaned back just enough to deprive him of the closeness he was enjoying. “Ah, poor prince,” you mocked, feigning pity. “Reduced to whining like a child because he can’t get his way.”

Gojo sat up, propping himself on his elbows, his face only inches from yours. His expression softened, the teasing fading into something more genuine. “I’m not whining,” he said quietly, the words so different from his usual bravado that they caught you off guard. “I’m just... happy. Here. With you.”

You felt your heart stutter, and you hated that he had this effect on you. “You’re a menace,” you said, though your voice lacked its usual bite.

“And you’re stuck with me,” he replied, grinning again. “For better or worse, remember?”

You raised an eyebrow, trying to regain the upper hand. “We’re not married yet.”

“Details,” he waved dismissively. “You already said yes. No take-backs.”

You huffed, crossing your arms. “I should’ve made you sign something.”

“Oh, you want a contract?” He leaned in, so close you could feel his breath against your skin. “Fine. I, Satoru Gojo, do solemnly swear to be the most annoying husband ever.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped. “You didn’t even need to swear. I already knew that.”

He gave you a lazy, satisfied grin. “And yet, you’re still here.”

“Unfortunately,” you teased, though your tone was soft, affectionate.

He reached for your hand then, threading his fingers through yours, and the warmth of his touch was startlingly comforting. “I love you,” he said, with none of the usual flair, no theatrics. Just simple, honest truth.

You stared at him, the weight of those words settling over you like a blanket. “I know,” you whispered, squeezing his hand. “I hate it.”

He laughed, the sound rich and full of joy, and you knew you couldn’t fight the smile tugging at your lips. “Good,” he said, pulling you closer until your foreheads touched. “Then we’re even.”

“Even?” you asked, amused.

“For all the times you’ve made me fall harder than I ever thought possible,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “Yeah, we’re even.”

You sighed dramatically, letting your head fall against his shoulder. “You’re such a sap.”

“And you love it.”

“Unfortunately,” you echoed, letting the warmth of his presence wrap around you. “Yeah, I do to.”

The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of deep indigo and gold, but neither of you noticed. 

You were too lost in each other.

A/N: i fr hope yall like this, love yall, stay safe and all

kiss kiss

:)

[magicalmyths]

Eurylochus walks into his room and starts getting ready for the night, he can't wait to lay down and relax. “We need to talk Eurylochus.” He jumps at the sudden voice and trunks to see Polites standing there and he finds himself scared for his life. Polites never used his full name preferring to stick to nicknames and the eyes are glowing a faint gold. “Why did you think it was a good idea to open the bag that Odysseus specifically ordered nobody to touch?” Eurylochus gulps. “I don't know…” Polite's gaze feels like it's seeing everything he is hiding. “Do you regret doing it?” Eurylochus nods “Yes I really do. I should have just trusted him…. If you had not stepped in so many would have died because of me…” Polites nods “You are lucky had anybody else opened that bag i would have killed them. I will give you another chance.” Polites starts to fade away. “Don't make the same mistake again or I can't guarantee your safety.” 

—---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Odysseus starts to climb up to the crows nest to watch for any possible danger but as he starts to pull himself up into the crows nest a particularly big wave has him slipping and he starts to fall. He closes his eyes and waits for him to hit the deck below only to feel someone's arms hold him up and gently place him onto the deck. Odysseus sighs in relief “Thanks Polites that was a close one.” Polites pulls Odysseus into a headlock and ruffles his hair “You're always so clumsy! You really need to be more careful.” Odysseus pulls away from the hold with a huff working on fixing his hair. “Yeah yeah I know but that's what you are here for right? You always help me when I need it.” Polites hums and he stares up at the clear sky “Hey Ody the sky is so beautiful how would you feel about flying with me?” Odysseus brightens at the prospect of flying “Of course I would love to! How would it work exactly?” Polites laughs and simply picks him up from his armpits and flies straight upwards. Odysseus yelps at the sudden change, his eyes closed tight. “Come on, open your eyes, the view is amazing!” Odysseus slowly opens his eyes and then gasps at the view. The ocean stretches out endlessly glittering like jewels. Polites flies over and to Odysseus’s surprise lays back on a cloud. “You can lay on clouds now?!” Polites laughs and they watch the view for a bit.”Hey want to try something cool?” Odysseus nods and suddenly Polites grabs him tight as he grins mischievously. “Hold on tight then!” Before he can ask what he was going to do, Polites hops off the cloud and they start to plummet. Odysseus shrieks while polites laughs. Right as they were about to hit the water, Polite's wings unfurl and they stop in the air. Polites chuckles some more at Odysseus wide eyes and his messed up hair from the wind. “What..what was that for?” Odysseus wines. “I'm sorry i just couldn't resist” Polites smirks “Your shriek was pretty hilarious.” Polites lets his friend catch his breath as he flies back to the ship. They finally arrive and Polites once again places Odysseus gently onto the deck. “That was fun, I should take you flying more often!” Odysseus looks terrified “NO no more flying!” Polites laughter fades away along with him. “We will see about that”

So yeah I'm currently working on scylla scene and another cute Ody and Polites scene both with angel Polites

AWWW, I love it sm kdkakajdhahahhhhh

[nikolai-alexi]

Fifty Kilos of Glitter and a Way Out

This is a mini fic for the lovely @swag696942069 who came up with the concept of Tillie Finnegan, Seamus Finnegan’s mam, and I fell head over heels in love with the idea of her, so I wrote a lil fic for her. Swag, I hope I did Tillie some kind of justice, I love this little menace to society and I really want to play with her character more in the future

CWs: I actually don’t think there’s any?? (Wow yes I know shocker I never managed to write things without heavy CWs so this is a first). There’s mention of magical surrogacy. There’s an overview of the War, but no graphic details of anything. Lots of mentions of bombs/bomb materials. Oh shit wait, glancing description of arson and murder, too, but not with a bomb.

I absolutely did not proof read this, it’s 0100 and I have to be up for work in 3 hours so forgive me for any mistakes. And the line breaks wouldn’t format right on mobile so I gave up. Also, I know “dwt” is a Welsh word, but I couldn’t find an Irish equivalent, so I said fuck it.

Dwt - of a person, someone small or dinky

WC: 4600 words, average read time 35 minutes

Regulus Black is not someone people accidentally bump into, or stumble into, or any other manner of unintentional irritation. He knows this, because he’s hexed people for far less than an unintentional bump in the corridor. People stay far away from him, unless you were Evan, Pandora, Barty, or Dorcas, you made sure you gave him a wide berth. His lack of patience and temper with others has only gotten worse since the summer hols.

Which is why, he thinks, it’s so surprising when someone, who is definitely not any of the aforementioned people, slumps down at his table in the library unceremoniously, and tosses her feet onto the chair beside her. He raises his head from his textbooks and parchments slowly, and blinks owlishly at her. He can’t hide his surprise at the sheer amount of audacity she has. He’s seen her around, knows she’s a Hufflepuff in his year, but she’s not a Prefect so he has no idea what her name is.

“Can I help you?” He sneers. She doesn’t even blink from the venom in his voice. Her head is tilted just a bit to the side and her blue eyes look massive from behind her specs, he can see the thickness of the lens protruding from the wire frames, and, if he’s being honest, it kind of unnerves him.

It’s like she seems to sense that he feels very off-kilter from her sudden appearance and lack of response, and nods strongly once, “Tillie Finnegan, pleasure to meet your acquaintance, Regulus Black. I need your help.” Her words are formal, but her thick, Donegal accent, made the words sound anything but.

Regulus snorts and turns back to his textbooks with a nasty grin, “Bugger off then, you won’t find it here,”

Finnegan laughs, and it sounds like a strange mixture of gulls and bells, “Aye, mightn’t be so hasty when I tell you what I’ve got to offer you,”

He snaps his gaze to her, all but snarling, but stops short when he sees her twirling a very familiar gold chain around her fingers. She smirks as the colour leaves his face entirely.

“Where did you get that,” he tries keeping his voice neutral, but he knows his body language is tense, ready to swipe the necklace out of her hands at the first given opportunity. It betrays him.

She tsks softly, “Not so fast, Baby Black,” she snatches the gold chain out of the air just before he’s able to close his fingers around it. It disappears from her hands not a second later.

Regulus sits stiffly straight in his chair and folds his hands in front of him, “Fine then,” he says, trying to curb the snarl on his face, “Let’s talk,”

Her stoic expression melts away to a sunny exclamation immediately, “Oh wonderful! I’d thought that’d take much longer!” Her mood swings reminded him of Bella, in a way, and a shiver rolls down his spine.

She rights herself in her chair, “Right then, to business, shall we? I need material ordered, but I can’t order it meself or it’ll get reported. Bloody knob has me owls monitored again, as if he could catch me that way,” she snorts wryly as if she’s made a joke he should know, “I’m good for the galleons, don’t worry, I just need someone scary enough or with a big enough name that no one will peep up and question it. Barty said you’d be good for it, if I had the right incentive,”

Regulus is…baffled, to be quite frank, he has no idea what to do with this person in front of him. Her accent makes her words seem like they’re bouncing around his head before they make sense, but they don’t make any sense at all to him.

“Are…” he trails off for just a moment, “Are you trying to blackmail me?”

She looks at him with wide eyes, or at least wider eyes, “What? No! Merlin’s left tit, Black, do you think I’m suicidal? Fuck no, I’m not trying to blackmail you,”

Regulus is struck with the urge to laugh, but bites his tongue, “I suppose that’s good then, you weren’t exactly doing a good job of it,”

Finnegan snorts and slides the necklace across the table, he’d never seen it reappear until now. He’s not sure if she’s terrifyingly good at wandless magic or if it’s slight of hand, but he doesn’t care as he scoops the gold chain with the pendant, a single letter J, and shoves it into his robe pocket.

“I was gonna give that back regardless, I was just hoping it might help get you to listen to me,” she says, “It nearly slipped down the drain in the Prefect’s bath,”

A dark blush rises to his cheeks and she grins lecherously at him, “You two really ought to keep better track of your things,”

Regulus schools his features and tries to will away his blush, “Back to the point, Finnegan, or I shall simply walk away. You’ve given up your bargaining chip,”

She laughs again and tuts, “No, I’ve only lost one bargaining chip. So I’d suggest you remain sitting, dwt,”

He decidedly does not want to know what that means.

He doesn’t get a moment to think before she’s talking again, “You and yours are in a bit of a prank war with the Marauders, aren’t ye?”

He snorts again, as if he’d actually be involved in Evan and Barty’s schemes. He just keeps them, mostly, out of trouble. And maybe he occasionally suggests some ideas. But only occasionally. He wouldn’t lower himself to his brother’s antics.

“Evan and Barty are, yes,”

Finnegan rolls her eyes, “Please, Black, anyone with eyes that can see past their nose can see you all over their pranks. Evan and Barty are two of the dumbest fuckers I’ve ever met. Smart as a whip when it comes to a book, they are, but both of ‘em would be lost without you, so don’t even try that selkie-shite with me,”

He cocks his head curiously at her, “Rather observant,” he murmurs, “for a Hufflepuff,”

She quirks a sarcastic brow, “Rather smart,” she drawls, “for a Slytherin,”

He can’t help but chuckle at that, “Touché,”

She waves her hands and rolls her eyes, “Merlin and all the saints, can’t believe people can be multifaceted outside of their house traits they get sorted into at age eleven. The news will rock the Wizarding World at its core,”

Finnegan reminds him of a very strange combination of Barty and Dorcas. He has to admit, he kind of likes her. She’s absolutely a bag of cats, he can bear smell the crazy coming off her, but Barty was also bat-shite crazy and Dorcas was not far behind him in that regard, so maybe he just attracted crazy in his life. Perhaps the Black Family Madness was just a by-product of accumulating an assortment of completely mental people.

“Can we get back to the point, Finnegan? I’ve Arithmency homework to finish,” he asks.

“Bollocks,” she swears, “Sorry, I really didn’t mean to take up so much of your time. If you order the materials I need, I can get you intel on your brother and his friends’ pranks. And help your lot prank them.”

He weighed his options. It’s not like she was asking a monumental favour. He could indulge her.

“What materials do you need that you can’t order yourself?” He certainly didn’t need to be getting caught with anything illegal. He had enough on his plate without dealing with any of that nonsense.

“I need fifty kilos of ultra-fine glitter, antimony trisulfide, dextrin, strontium, copper, barium, and sodium chloride, sulphur powder, charcoal, and potassium nitrate,”

Regulus blinks.

He blinks again.

And again.

“I’m sorry,” he says, completely bewildered, “you’re building a bomb?!”

She immediately shushes him, looking around to make sure no one heard him, “Keep your bloody voice down, Black!”

She looks at him with an irritated glare, “Merlin’s tits, yes, of course, I’m building a bloody bomb! Are you new here? That’s kind of my thing. And it’s a glitter bomb, you knob. Completely harmless, just very inconvenient and a highly effective form of retribution,” she grinned manically, “Nothing like trying to get glitter out of your knickers to make you think twice about being a proper gobshite, aye?”

This is officially the strangest situation he’s ever found himself in, which is saying something seeing as he’s lived with Barty for six years, and he can’t help but laugh. He supposes digging ultra-fine glitter out of every body crevice and article of clothing one is in possession of is plenty of motivation to not be an arse.

“Okay,” he chuckles, “Sure, I’ll get your materials. Give me everything you have on my brother and his miserable group of miscreants,”

Finnegan waggles her eyebrows with an almost comical leer, “I know for a fact you don’t think one of those “miserable miscreants” is really all that bad,”

Regulus rolls his eyes, knowing there’s no way he can talk his way out of this, not with Finnegan knowing about the necklace and apparently one of their late night dalliances in the Prefect’s bath.

“Actually,” Regulus says, rather primly, “I quite think he’s the worst of them all,”

Finnegan coughs out a laugh, “You would, wouldn’t you?”

Regulus balks at that, “What does that mean?”

Finnegan grins and shrugs, “Don’t worry your pretty little head over it, Black,”

He tries to needle her into explaining, but she stays infuriatingly tight-lipped about it. He curses the fool who ever said Hufflepuffs didn’t have three braincells to rub together. This particular one is maddeningly astute. He wants to hex her.

Tillie lets him try and pry an explanation out of her, but simply regales him with half answers and nonsensical tripe. She’s got to give it to him, he puts up with it longer than most do. She reckons he’s used to runaround answers from being around Pandora, but even Baby Black has his limits and before long he huffs exasperatedly, blowing a stray curl up before it falls right back where it was and he goes crosseyed trying to glare at it.

He levels her with a completely unimpressed look, “You’re a wretched, evil, thing, you know?”

She grins at him, a bit mean and very entertained, “Been called worse, I reckon,” he rolls his eyes, thoroughly done with her antics, but helplessly amused all the same, “Now, do you wanna know what your brother and his lot are planning, or not?”

Regulus leans forward, eyes bright. He may want to pretend he’s above such shenanigans, but she knows he’s every bit as mischief-inclined as his brother and his not-so-secret (to her anyways) boyfriend. Regulus Black is many things, but a stick in the mud is not one of them.

She leans forward in her seat too and whispers, “They’re planning to animate the Slytherin Quidditch lockers to chase after players while they’re trying to change for next weekend’s match,”

Regulus is actually surprised, that’s rather brilliant. The team wouldn’t see it coming at all, it’d throw them out of their rhythm and disrupt their pre-game routines. It has James written all over it.

“That rotten bastard,”

Tillie snorts, “Technically, he’s not a bastard, he has both parents, the lucky sod,”

Regulus rolls his eyes, “He doesn’t have good parent privileges right now. He’s a dirty, cheating bastard and I’m going to knock him straight off his broom on the pitch,”

Tillie widens her eyes, “You mean to tell me,” she gasps dramatically, “you’re capable of doing something straight? I didn’t think it was possible,”

Regulus chokes on air, and splutters indignantly, “Oi! Fuck off, Finnegan!”

It takes him only a few days to get Finnegan’s bomb-making materials. Just as Finnegan had said, no one questioned him about his need for such a collection of materials. Nothing was dangerous or illegal in of itself, and nothing was searched coming into the castle. He’d had Kreacher pick most everything up and bring it directly to his dorm. Once everything had arrived, it was simply a task of sending a school owl to deliver a note to Finnegan and meeting in an unused Potions lab for the transfer.

When Tillie arrived to the lab, she was nearly vibrating with a manic energy. He desperately hoped he would not get caught in the crossfire of this, but he had little hope of being spared. Sirius had once dumped a package of glitter into his hair when they were younger and he hadn’t been able to get it out for months. Did the Impervious Charm work on glitter? He bloody well hoped so. He’d have to ask Flitwick.

“Fucking insane, you are,” Regulus shook his head. Tillie giggled.

“Better than being normal,” she shrugged, “Now shoo. James is about to try and bribe the house elves into pouring a potion into everyone’s drinks at dinner. If you hurry, you might be able to find out what it is,”

He’s almost to the door when she snorts and snickers under her breath, “And maybe get a snog sesh in too,”

He sends a stinging hex at her without looking and his face splits into a grin when she yelps loudly behind him. Serves her right.

Their alliance (friendship) continues through the year. He knows she’s playing both sides of this prank war, but he finds it quite fun to try and feed her false information, or weasel information out of her. They constantly rile each other up, snapping out insults and banter like they’d been doing it for years. She gets along with Evan and Barty far too well for his comfort, and Dorcas and Pandora both enjoy her company. It takes him a while to get used to Bones and Vance when she starts bringing them around, but eventually they all settle into a peaceful agreement. He argues politics with Bones and Vance, and it takes him far too long to figure out why everyone calls the three Hufflepuffs “The Bombsquad”. It’s quite possible that he was the last person in Hogwarts to find out about Tillie Finnegan’s rather concerning obsession with pyrotechnics and explosives. Suddenly, all her exploded potions assignments made a lot more sense.

It’s nearing the end of sixth year, and Regulus has all but withdrawn from everyone and everything. He knows what’s waiting for him at home and his stomach is a constant pit of dread. He can’t eat or sleep. He has to end things with James soon to keep him safe and the thought of losing the one person who brings so much light and warmth to his bleak and cold existence threatens to tear him apart at the very seams. He goes through the motions day-to-day, but everything is hazy and discombobulated around him. He hears the lectures, but doesn’t comprehend the words. He sits in the library and stares at his textbooks, trying to read the same passages over and over and over again, but all he can think about is the imaginary noose around his neck feels like it gets tighter by the hour. It’s only a matter of time before the floor falls out beneath his feet and his life is over. He had so much he wanted to do, but this is the way his life works. He knows he has no choice. Not if he wants to keep Sirius safe from Walburga and Orion and the Dark Lord. War is coming, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t keep Sirius alive through it.

His thoughts are interrupted, in a way that’s strangely reminiscent of their very first meeting at this exact library table. But this time, when Tillie Finnegan throws herself in the chair across from him, she’s not alone. Amelia Bones hovers rather awkwardly at the remaining chair, before she sits down stiffly.

“I’m not getting you more glitter,” Regulus says in lieu of a greeting. His voice is raspy from disuse. He doesn’t actually know when the last time he spoke was.

“Good, cause that’s not what I’m here for. But feel free to spoil me with gunpowder any time you want,” Tillie quips. His lips twitch, as though they want to smile, but can’t.

“What do you need, Tils?” He asks.

She grins at him, but there’s something hesitant in it, it puts him on edge, “I need you to promise not to hex the hair off of us and to hear me out,”

Regulus blinks. Once. Twice.

“I..” he looks between Bones and Tillie, Bones won’t meet his eyes, “I do not like where this is going,”

Bones clears her throat, “It’s not a bad thing. Tillie is just convinced you’re going to hate our meddling,”

He shoots Tillie a dark look and sighs, his curiosity getting the best of him, “Fine,” he grumbles, “I promise not to hex the hair off of you and to hear out whatever inane, meddlesome plot you’ve devised now,”

Tillie and Bones slide a rolled bundle of parchment over the table to him. He pulls the leather thong binding it and his breath gets punched out of his throat by the words he reads.

Wizarding Persons Protection Incentive: For Children of Dark Families Who May Not Have A Choice

There are countless pages documenting the program and what it could provide, and a bulleted list for, what he assumed, names. He could feel the magic in the parchment as he held it, looking through everything. It detailed how the persons protection worked, what protections were laid in place, how the DMLE would uphold those protections, and the measures the department were taking to thoroughly vet each person wanting to come into the program.

“It’s officially been approved as of this morning. The Minister, Head Auror, and the Head of the DMLE signed it into effect to start before the summer hols.” Bones said quietly.

Tillie brushed his hand, and he jerked away, she smiled sadly, “You aren’t obligated in any way, Reg, but you’re a good person. You aren’t built for war, and Sirius isn’t the only one who deserves a happy ending,”

Tears spill over his eyes and he desperately, desperately, wants to believe her, “They’ll hunt him down if they don’t have an heir. I have to. I don’t have a choice,”

He tries to contain his sob, but the ugly thing rips out of his chest. It’s silent, of course, but it doesn’t hurt any less.

“Reg, Sirius is already taken care of. So is James. And Remus, and Pete. They’re all acting as, quote unquote, officers for the program. They aren’t going to be 100% out of the line of fire, but they’ll be working on muggleborn intel, and evacuating families before Moldyshorts can get to them. They’ll be under heavy protections at all times, and in charge of safe house rotations. Your parents would need to be the spawn of Merlin to get to Sirius, love.”

His breath was caught in his throat. Could he really escape this? Was it possible? Would he actually be able to live through the War and not have to sacrifice everything he is to a narcissistic, half-blood, megalomaniac?

Tillie breaks him out of his thoughts, “Reg, love,” she says gently, he looks into her eyes and sees nothing but kindness. She doesn’t pity him. He knows his desperation is plain as day on his face, but he can’t push it away. He is desperate. He doesn’t want to be turned into a monster.

Tillie gently takes the parchment back and rolls it up, securing the leather thong around it and stuffing it back into her bag. Her expression is kind and open when she speaks again, “It’s time for you to think about what you want, Regulus. Not what’s best for Sirius, or what your parents want, or what you’ve been taught is expected of you. Take tonight. Think about what you want. We’ll come find you tomorrow, and you can give us your answer,”

Bones and Tillie don’t linger, they leave him to his racing thoughts. He barely manages another half hour of trying to study before he shoves his books roughly in his bag and books it to his dorm. Evan and Barty are already there, in deep discussion.

Barty looks up at him and waves him over to his bed, “Fins talk to you about it?”

“Yeah,” Regulus says, arranging himself against Evan’s side at the headboard. His skin crawls a bit from the contact, but he doesn’t pay it any mind, “What are we doing about it?”

Evan drops an arm around Regulus, holding tight for a minute, “We’re a team, Reg, wherever we go, we go together, always.”

Barty nods sharply at Evan’s words. They all share a moment of silence, looking from one to another as an unspoken wave of understanding rolls across them.

“So we’re decided?” Regulus asks. Barty and Evan don’t hesitate to respond in the affirmative.

The next morning, each of them sign their names on that enchanted parchment with a flourish the first second they could.

No one could have known that a few elegant, swooping signatures would change the entire course of the War. Children from Dark families signed into the program from every house, desperately trying to escape the fate their parents lay for them. Voldemort’s forces didn’t grow exponentially in the lead up to the War, as his sacrificed child soldiers suddenly started disappearing. Dumbledore barely had a force to work with, the children he approached, certain of their answers, turned him away and refused to join the Order, no matter what he tried to leverage against them.

Without a supply of expendable foot soldiers each leader had anticipated, they’d been forced to fight their own war. Dumbledore had been forced to find the Horcruxes on his own. Tom had been forced to pick his battles, instead of raining chaos at any given opportunity. There were still battles, still bloodshed and deaths, but the war had been changed.

James, Sirius, and Remus had several close calls with Death Eaters while evacuating muggles and muggleborns, but most everything was easily healed. They had an almost impossible success rate for getting families evacuated and keeping them safe from Death Eaters. The three of them duelled fiercely together, and became a force that even seasoned Death Eaters were wary to reckon with.

Peter thrived in making plans, his love of strategy and sharp eye created easy executed plans of escape, evasion, attack, and defence. He could think from both sides of the chessboard, taught the officers how to anticipate their opponent, forced them to learn how to use stealth and speed together for the quickest and cleanest missions possible, but also taught them how to sacrifice the premise of a mission and still come out successful.

Lily Evans blossomed in her role as Healer alongside Mary MacDonald. The two of them devised emergency kits for every single member of the Initiative, something that had saved several of their lives over the course of the War.

Barty and Evan were stationed as the WPPI’s hit wizards and they revelled in being able to use the darker magics against Death Eaters. They wrought chaos and distrust among Voldemort’s ranks, using Polyjuice to infiltrate the ranks and sow seeds of doubt. They cut more than a fourth of Voldemort’s forces down alone.

They’d found out Dorcas and Marlene McKinnon had an uncanny knack for breaking into places and stealing things without anyone being the wiser. As Voldemort got more desperate to regain the upper hand, his plans became clearer and clearer. Dorcas and Marlene took a special kind of satisfaction at staying one step ahead of him at all times, getting to whatever book, artefact, or target he was after just moments before he did.

Pandora stayed well away from the War in any capacity, but frequently helped pass along information she gathered from the streets or from Visions.

Bones took the Ministry by storm when she flawlessly headed the WPPI and stepped seamlessly into the role of DMLE Head, when the former one had been killed by Voldemort.

Vanity fast-tracked into the Auror department and quickly became known for her ruthless duelling skills and on-the-fly thinking.

Tillie and her husband, Sean, stayed far away from the War and the efforts of the WPPI. Their son deserved a world where both his parents were there and available for him. That didn’t stop Tillie from sending a very, very large box of carefully crafted explosives to a safe house off the coast of Italy to a certain curly haired Slytherin who’d done her a favour years ago.

And Regulus? Well, he’d paid a visit to Number 12 Grimmuald Place and he’d buried his parents below tons of ash and flame. He’d torched the place he’d been imprisoned to his whole life and the place where his childhood had been ruthlessly taken from him. He stepped into his role as the Head of The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black with an air of grace that only a Black could have. He used their fortune to buy up properties for safe houses, provide supplies for their Healers, and work the Wizagmont into a sustainable path for the future. He also frequently got nailed in the face with a signature glitter-filled mini bomb when he opened the package that arrived on his doorstep each month. He learned unfortunately quickly that neither the Impervious Charm nor Protego are effective in fighting off the onslaught of craft shrapnel.

The War ends when Albus Dumbledore and Tom Riddle duel for the last time. Their wandfire clashes together with an epic thundering and the contrasting jets of light explode as they meet. The leaders of war stand no chance against the concussive blast and when the dust settles, all that’s left is the bodies of two old men, half of a Phoenix feather and yew wand, and a perfectly split wand made from Elderwood and thestral hair. Their graves are unmarked, except for an inscription that reads: “Here lies the mark of men who believed violence would provide them power, and only succeeded in destroying their humanity in an attempt to seize it.”

Not six months after the end of the War, Lily Evans brings a little boy into the world who looks just like his father, but has Regulus’ icy blue eyes. Magical surrogacy had allowed James and Regulus to have a child of their very own, who was safe from the horrors of the war and could never be used as a tool to further an old man’s delusional agenda.

Harry Potter grew up in a world where he made “science experiments” with his best friend Seamus Finnegan, and helped his other best friend Neville and his mum in the greenhouses, and threw gnomes from the garden with his other best friend Ron, and swam in the lake with his (sometimes) other best friend Draco, and was babysat by his favourite cousin Tonks when his Dad and Papa went on date nights.

Tillie Finnegan wasn’t a war hero to the Wizarding public, but to a set of three Slytherins who had nowhere to go except down the irredeemable path, she was the best hero of them all.

[robininthelabyrinth]

Prompt~ hoping you'll like it ♥️

Things between the Nie brothers are not always nice and happy, they fight, just like any other pair of brothers, and sometimes things are said, sometimes these things are heavy and painful. Sometimes they're said in the wrong moment (maybe at the eve of a battle? Sunshot campaign?) and huaisang doesn't know what to do with the broken look his brother gives him before leaving the unclean realm. Because what if he doesn't return? What if the last thing he said to him was how much he hated the man he became?

Labyrinth - ao3

“But I didn’t mean to wish him away!” Nie Huaisang cried out.

“That’s really too bad,” the goblin king said, looking pleasant and humble and charming the way he always did, even in his cape of glittering gold and high-browed hat. “I wish there was something I could do for you, but the rules are the rules. You wished him away, and I took him.”

“Aren’t you supposed to only take babies?” Nie Huaisang demanded.

“Your brother’s enough of a crybaby to count, it’s close enough.”

“It is not!” Nie Huaisang wrung his hands. “You don’t understand, the last thing I said to him was that I hated him! Meng Yao, please!”

“It’s Jin Guangyao,” the goblin king corrected. His smile looked a bit strained. “Listen, do you think I’m happy about this? He’s my sworn brother! I’m only doing what I have to –”

“Oh, save it for Lan Xichen,” Nie Huaisang growled. “Show me the labyrinth already.”

“You’re going to face the labyrinth,” the goblin king said. His voice was very polite, and yet still expressed significant doubt. “You.”

“Yeah, me!”

“You remember that it goes ‘through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered’, right? Not ‘through a nice teacher and a forgiving grading system’?”

“Yeah, well, your father is a fragging aardvark. Let me at the labyrinth already!”

-

“You know what,” Nie Huaisang said thoughtfully. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

The life-sized animated puppet blinked at him. “You – don’t want my help?”

“Nope. I’m good.”

“You haven’t even gotten into the labyrinth yet!”

“It wouldn’t be fair if I didn’t have a chance to get in,” Nie Huaisang said, patting around his sleeve and pulling out a fan. “So I’m just going to walk over and beat at the wall till something happens.”

The puppet followed him, staring blankly. Quite a change from his original apologetic ‘I’m sorry, I’m busy with my own things, I really can’t help you, also it’s too dangerous and you shouldn’t go’ response.

“You were blackmailing me to help you just a moment ago,” the puppet said after a little. “Don’t you need a guide?”

“Listen, I’m bad at memorizing things and I’m a little useless, but I’m not actually dumb,” Nie Huaisang said, fanning himself. “Jin Guangyao is a demon of the mind above all else, and the labyrinth is supposed to be ‘fair’ – which means, more than likely, that the labyrinth is a reflection of the subconscious, specially tailored to each person’s strengths and weaknesses. And that means that you, who sound exactly like Lan Xichen, are almost certainly a set-up sent by Jin Guangyao to ‘reluctantly’ aid me and then betray me.”

“Uh,” Lan Xichen-the-puppet said. “My name’s Hoggle, actually.”

“Whatever makes you feel better, er-ge…A-ha!” Nie Huaisang beamed at the gates that automatically opened. “Perfect!”

-

“Oh, don’t go that way,” the worm said. “Never go that way. And are you sure you don’t want to come in for a cup of tea?”

“No time,” Nie Huaisang said. “Thanks a lot – wait.”

The worm blinked at him.

“You’re a pretty attractive worm, in a slimy sort of way,” Nie Huaisang said, frowning at him.

The worm blinked again. “Why, thanks!”

“No, that’s not what I meant. Is your name Su She, by chance?”

“Definitely not!”

“Mm. Oddly vehement of you. Never mind. Just, quick, could you tell me exactly why do I not want to go that way?”

-

“I don’t suppose straight ahead is an option?”

The hands-faces stared at him.

“I’m just saying, I feel like most of my problems so far have come from the fact that I decided to accept the whole concept of turns. It seems like a mistake.”

“…it’s a labyrinth,” another set of the hands said. “You have to make turns!”

Nie Huaisang shook his head mournfully. “I should’ve brought Baxia or something and just – ZIP. Gone straight through. You know what I mean?”

“I’m dropping you in the oubliette regardless of your decision,” the first set of the hands said. It sounded a bit like Sect Leader Yao. “Just so you know.”

“My life is so hard,” Nie Huaisang sighed. “So hard! Do you know what it’s like to be overlooked by everyone? Do you know how hard I have to work at being this useless?”

“Drop him,” the set of hands that sounded like Sect Leader Ouyang said, and the set of hands that sounded like Sect Leader Yao said, “Yes. Now!”

Down Nie Huaisang went.

-

“I can take you back to the beginning of the labyrinth,” Lan Xichen offered.

“What, and waste all that time? I have a time limit, er-ge!”

“It’s better than being stuck in an oubliette. That’s where they put people to forget about them, you know.”

Nie Huaisang’s eyes filled with tears. “You want to forget me, er-ge? You think I’m useless, don’t you? A good-for-nothing, who’ll never amount to anything –”

“Please don’t cry.”

“ER-GE! WHY DON’T YOU LOVE ME!”

“Please stop crying!”

-

“So what’s the point of you?” Nie Huaisang asked the Wise Man with the Talking Hat.

“Not everyone exists to contribute to your storyline,” the Talking Hat snapped at him. “Some of us’ve got our own problems. Now hand over the candy!”

“Don’t be mean,” the Wise Man said. He had a white cloth over his eyes, and was smiling like he found the hat funny.

“Awww, but daozhang…!”

“Different plotline entirely, I guess,” Nie Huaisang decided. “Probably just here as a foil. Shall we keep going, er-ge?”

“I can’t believe you scammed me to get out of the oubliette,” Lan Xichen mumbled. “I can’t believe…”

-

“Oh, leave him alone, he’s just sensitive!” Nie Huaisang snapped.

“Am not!” the upside-down creature snarled, curled up on itself and trying to hide from all those that had been hitting him. Its fur was a vivid sort of purple. “Go away!”

“Don’t you have some sort of special power to help you here,” Nie Huaisang asked him as he tried to get him down before the goblins came back with weapons. “Rocks, maybe?”

“…lightning?”

“Well then get to it, will you?” Nie Huaisang frowned. “Wait. Lightning, constantly being tormented, terrible at communication, and purple? You’re Jiang Cheng, aren’t you?”

“…maybe.”

“Well then get down faster! I need to copy someone’s notes here!”

-

“Leave me aloooooooone!” Nie Huaisang howled, running away from the measuring snake.

-

“Wow,” Lan Xichen said, holding his cheek. “You kissed me.”

“You saved me from the snakes,” Nie Huaisang said. “Can we focus on how we’re in this awful stinking bog?”

“It’s not that bad!” a voice piped up. “I don’t smell anything!”

Nie Huaisang turned to stare, then pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course you don’t,” he said. “I bet the total absence of a sense of smell helps when you eat spicy food, Wei-xiong.”

“There’s nothing wrong with spicy food!”

“You’re short,” Nie Huaisang informed the small goblin-like creature with the big grin and the red ribbon in its hair. It looked vaguely fox-like, or possibly like certain large breeds of rabbit.

“Why you..!” Wei Wuxian crossed his furry little paws over his chest. “Just for that, I’m not going to help you.”

“Uh-huh,” Nie Huaisang said. “Really. That’s awful…oh no! A dog!”

Wei Wuxian jumped high into the air. “A dog?! Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan! Save me!”

Much to Nie Huaisang’s surprise, a furry dog immediately darted out of nowhere – only Wei Wuxian didn’t seem afraid of it, but rather hid behind it, teeth chattering.

Truly, Nie Huaisang reflected, the eyes of love are blind.

“I think the ‘dog’ is gone now,” he said. “Your brave and noble Lan Wangji must’ve scared him away.”

Wei Wuxian’s head popped out from behind dog-Wangji. “Well, Lan Zhan is really cool…hey. Are you trying to manipulate me?”

“Is it working?”

“No!”

“So you won’t help me?”

“No!”

“Not even if it means you get to figure out a really tricky puzzle?”

“No – wait. A puzzle?”

“I can’t believe this is going to work,” Lan Xichen muttered from behind Nie Huaisang. “I mean, I can. But also…Wangji…I love you, but you could do so much better than this.”

-

“Ugh,” Nie Huaisang said. “I’m so thirsty.”

“Have some Emperor’s Smile,” Lan Xichen said, offering a jar.

“Amazing,” Nie Huaisang said, accepting it and taking a swing. “I had my doubts, you know, but you’re actually good for something after all, er-ge –”

-

The golden bird was Nie Huaisang’s favorite.

He’d worked so hard to bring it back to his aviary – it couldn’t be forced, he knew; it would play along at first but in the end it would turn on you and bite you. It had to be coaxed with gentleness and kindness, approached indirectly so as not to spook it, convince it that you really did mean well – that you were harmless, that it had no reason to fear you. It was arrogant, too, proud of its shining feathers and ashamed of the brown plumage of its chick days, which still remained visible on its tender underbelly. Ironically, that was Nie Huaisang’s favorite part of it, the soft and gentle part; it might not be as pretty as the gold, but it felt more genuine.

Nie Huaisang smiled as he brushed the beautiful feathers, and the golden bird allowed him. He felt cherished, treasured. So what if he had to hide all the sharp parts of himself to get this close?

It was fine. He didn’t like to be sharp.

He wanted to be soft. Soft and gentle, careless and free, relaxed and without effort, good for nothing –

Wait.

No!

-

“It’s all junk,” Nie Huaisang hissed at the pile of burning fans, tears in his eyes. “I want my da-ge!”

-

“You’re all right!” Wei Wuxian exclaimed, helping pulled Nie Huaisang up.

“Huaisang-xiong,” Jiang Cheng said, looking relieved. “You’re back.”

“We have to go to the temple beyond the Goblin City,” Nie Huaisang said, teeth gritted together. “We have to. I won’t let that bastard…we’re going to go there and throw all his damned tricks right in his face!”

“Just us?” Wei Wuxian asked. “I mean, I’m awesome, Lan Zhan is fantastic, and of course Jiang Cheng is great, too, but…uh…there’s a lot of goblins in the city.”

“We’ll sneak in,” Nie Huaisang said. “He thinks he’s sidelined me entirely – he thinks I’m useless. He won’t be expecting me to get this far.”

“I can get help,” Jiang Cheng said. “I have friends.”

“…not to be rude, Jiang-xiong,” Nie Huaisang said. “But – really?”

-

“You know what,” Nie Huaisang said, eyeing the pile of rocks following Jiang Cheng around, each one painted with a name. One of the names was yellow. Two were in white, with forehead ribbons. “This is fine. I feel like it says something really rude about my empathy for and interest in our junior generation, or lack thereof, but you know what? I don’t care. It’s fine.”

-

“You saved me,” Nie Huaisang said blankly, looking at Lan Xichen, who shrugged, abashed. The remains of the mechanical temple guard were scattered all over. “Over – him?”

“Huaisang –”

“No,” Nie Huaisang said, holding up his hands. “Don’t. Don’t…I don’t want to hear you talk.”

Lan Xichen’s head dropped down and he looked at the ground. “You knew from the beginning what I was like,” he murmured. “I never tried to hide it –”

“I forgive you for being what you are,” Nie Huaisang told him, and Lan Xichen looked up at him, startled and pleased. “I forgive you for not having the backbone to stand up against Jin Guangyao for me – or for da-ge. For being willfully blind for so long, for needing someone else’s proof of his ill-intentions, for always picking him first, for never trusting me…I forgive you, even if you’d never forgive me for the same.”

He dashed away the angry tears in his eyes.

“I just wish this wasn’t a fucking metaphor.”

-

Nie Huaisang left the fighting to the people who knew what to do – Wei Wuxian, Lan Wangji, Jiang Cheng, even the rock-juniors – and went to the temple at the center of the city alone.

Some things, he knew, needed to be done alone, even if it was the type of alone when you were surrounded by other people. Even when those other people stood by his side and made him promise that if he needed them, he would only need to call. Some things…

“I want my da-ge back,” he said to the maze of stairs.

“Then go and find him,” Jin Guangyao replied, looking smug, and Nie Huaisang had to go up and down all those fucking stairs, because Jin Guangyao was nothing if not predictable with his trauma, looking all over, looking for –

Looking for pieces.

“It’s just a metaphor,” he whispered to himself, ignoring how tears were streaming down his face. “It’s just – I need to put him back together, it’s fine. I’m not too late – I’m not too late –”

-

Jin Guangyao held Nie Mingjue’s head in his hands, blinded and gagged and bound with talismans, pulled out of whatever oubliette he'd shoved it into to forget about what he'd done. “Beware, Huaisang,” he said, still smiling. Always smiling. “I’ve been generous up until now, but I can be cruel.”

Nie Huaisang laughed, scoffing. “Generous? What have you done for me that’s generous?”

“Everything! Everything you’ve wanted, I’ve done – I cared for you, I gave you attention, I got you out of work, doing your schoolwork for you and coming up with excuses to get you out of saber training. I gave you presents, fans and pretty clothing, and when that brute of a brother of yours tried to take them from you, I rescued you. And then I even managed your sect for you, answered all of your questions, any time you had – Huaisang, I’m exhausted trying to live up to your expectations of me. Isn’t that generous?”

Nie Huaisang bared his teeth. “Half of those are burdens that only fell on me because of you. Why should it matter to me that cleaning up your own mess and satisfying your own guilt is hard? Why should I pay such a price when all I wanted was to be your friend? When all da-ge wanted was to be your friend? How dare you, Meng Yao!”

“Huaisang…” Jin Guangyao shook his head mournfully. “Huaisang, the last step here is to say the words to break the spell. But you were never good at memorization, were you?”

Nie Huaisang bit his lip until he drew blood.

“Through dangers untold, and hardships unnumbered,” he said. “I have fought my way here to the temple beyond the goblin city –”

“Huaisang, stop! Look at what you’re risking here. You know how everyone loves me – do you think anyone will forgive you for taking me down, for tricking them all? You’ll be all alone!”

I already am, Nie Huaisang thought.

“My will is as strong as yours,” he said. “And my kingdom is as great…”

His voice trailed off.

“I ask for so little,” Jin Guangyao said beseechingly, convincingly, looking just like he always did, like the man who'd been their friend. “Just let me fool you, and you can have anything you want. No responsibilities, no stress, a life of your own. You can even have Lan Xichen, if that’s what you want…”

What’s the last line, Nie Huaisang thought, hating himself for being such a poor student, for cramming things into his mind without any order, for never being able to retain a single drop of it no matter how hard he tried. What is it? Why can’t I ever remember?

“It’d be so easy,” Jin Guangyao crooned. “Much easier than this. Just fear me, love me, believe me, and I’ll be your slave.”

Sharp teeth in a false smile.

Nie Huaisang shook in terror. He couldn’t – his da-ge needed him – he couldn’t be afraid, couldn’t be a coward, couldn’t be good-for-nothing – couldn’t let Jin Guangyao win – couldn’t let him –

That was it.

Nie Huaisang raised his head until his eyes met his enemy’s.

Sensing something wrong, Jin Guangyao’s eternal smile dimmed, and he began to step forward, reaching out, but it was too late.

“You have no power over me,” Nie Huaisang declared, and the world within a world collapsed.

-

Nie Huaisang opened his eyes.

-

Nie Huaisang sat in his desk in the Unclean Realm, trying to amuse himself by trying to figure out what exactly he’d eaten the night before that had given him such bizarre dreams. It was not successful, on account of him being alone.

Alone, just as he had been every night, and every day as well, since the success of his scheme at the Guanyin Temple.

Just as the dream-Jin Guangyao had threatened.

It wasn’t that Nie Huaisang regretted what he had done – the dream was clear enough about that; he’d do it all again in a heartbeat if he had to. But in the dream he’d been working alongside his former friends, with Lan Xichen betraying but then returning to him, with Wei Wuxian dragging Lan Wangji around, with stone-faced Jiang Cheng and the rather interchangeable junior squad behind him…and in his dream, in the end, they’d let him go to take his revenge, telling him that if he needed them for any reason, he could just call.

Just call, and they’d come back to him. Instead of turning from him in disgust, they’d stand by his side…

“Stupid subconscious,” Nie Huaisang mumbled to himself. “What do you expect? That I'd write to them and say ‘for no real reason at all, I find that I rather need you’?”

Silence answered him.

“Well, I do,” he said with a sigh, putting his chin on his hands. “Does that make you happy? I do need you.”

“You do?” Wei Wuxian’s voice rang out, and Nie Huaisang jumped nearly out of his skin. “Well, why didn’t you say so?”

Nie Huaisang turned, staring: it was Wei Wuxian at the door, the human version of him, and of course there was Lan Wangji right before him, and Jiang Cheng, and the (still mostly interchangeable) juniors, and – and even Lan Xichen, who Nie Huaisang was sure had gone into seclusion with no intent to leave.

“What are you doing here?” Nie Huaisang squeaked. And why hadn’t any of his sect disciples warned him?

“We just bullied our way though the door before anyone could stop us,” Wei Wuxian said cheerfully, answering the unspoken question first. “As for the rest – it turns out that I had the strangest dream the other night, really, truly bizarre, and obviously I had to tell Lan Zhan all about it, except it turned out he had a strange dream too.”

Nie Huaisang’s jaw dropped. “But –”

“I felt da-ge’s qi woven into the labyrinth,” Lan Xichen said quietly. “I thought it’d have long ago dissipated or been locked away, but – it was there, in every stone, in every turn. Every obstacle that didn’t really hurt you, every goblin that was more silly than scary…he was there. It was unmistakable.”

Nie Huaisang swallowed. The story of the labyrinth, baby-stealing wish-granting goblin king and all, had been one that Nie Mingjue had told him as a bedtime story, when he'd been a child in need of comfort; he hadn’t thought of it in years before last night. “But…why…?”

“Because Chifeng-zun has a demented sense of humor?” Jiang Cheng suggested, looking irritated.

“Jiujiu means that he hasn’t had that much fun in years, and also that you should throw a party,” Jin Ling said. “You are hosting all three of the sect leaders of all the other Great Sects. Also, why were we rocks?”

“Uh, no idea,” Nie Huaisang said. “Da-ge’s weird sense of humor, no doubt! Anyway, did you say party? I can do a party!”

He rushed out of the room, calling for his servants, calling for them to bring food and wine and tea, and as he did, he looked out of the window – a golden bird was flying away, looking hunted as if something was chasing it, and even as he watched, it crossed the borders of the Unclean Realm and suddenly dissolved into a fizzle of golden dust.

Nie Huaisang put his hand on the stone wall, and felt a familiar echo.

A very familiar echo.

“Oh,” he said, to his servants, feeling somehow simultaneously sheepish and filled with joy. “And while you’re at it, can you bring me my saber? I seem to have – misplaced it…”

[mandoalorian]

Aphrodite’s Stone [Maxwell Lord x Reader] SMUT *sex pollen*

Summary: Your boss, Maxwell Lord, tasks you to acquire an important gemstone from the Smithsonian museum's annual gala, not realising the powers that it possesses and how it can possibly affect you when an accident occurs.

Rating: 18+ ONLY.

Word Count: 6k

Warnings: SMUT (sex pollen, automatic dub-con due to the nature of it being a sex pollen), female recieving oral, thigh riding, fingering, creampie, boss x employee relationship, mutual pining. No spoilers for WW84 but some slight references and mentions of canon type mythology/lore. Oh, and there's actually plot!!

Author's note: Feels like all I ever do is write for Max Lord hehe. This is my first ever sex pollen so I hope it’s okay! I tried to make it as canon-typical as I could and I’m actually really happy with the outcome. Also I haven’t written mutual pining in so long so this has been really fun!

Masterlist

"Did you get the stone?" you whispered, waltzing over to Maxwell who had been schmoozing with a few of the gala guests. He stiffened up when he heard the sweetness of your voice. Your presence always took his breath away. He cleared his throat and placed his half empty champagne glass on one of the silver trays that were getting passed around.

"No, not yet," Maxwell admitted and you sighed. "I've tried swindling the geology department but they won't budge."

"Can't imagine why," you rolled your eyes sarcastically, referencing the time earlier in the year when Max had stolen a very specific citrine stone from the Smithsonian Museum. Of course their trust in him would've been altered. Maxwell quirked an eyebrow at your brief comment and you raised your hands defensively. "Sorry sir." you looked down nervously and he nodded his head, choosing to dismiss what you'd said.

"This is where you come in," Maxwell said, clicking his tongue. Your eyes met his again with curiosity. He took your hand, carefully dragging you to a quiet corner of the party. "You can get the stone."

"Me?" you asked almost rhetorically, your eyes turning comically wide. You were his assistant. He trusted you with menial tasks such as making coffee, handing over paperwork and grabbing his mail— not acquiring some ancient artifact from a different continent.

"You can do it!" he grinned enthusiastically. You were beginning to think he was putting on his charming and persuasive television voice and you furrowed your eyebrows together unimpressed. "Carol Thomas over there, she's the director of the museum. You must make sure she doesn't see a thing. But that tall guy with the dark hair? That’s Ken, and he’s been watching you all night."

You blinked in bewilderment. "He has?" you tilted your head, looking at the man Max had pointed at.

Maxwell's gaze burned into your body as you watched the geology department interact with one another. Of course he has— Maxwell felt like saying. Every man at the damn gala had their eye on you. You looked remarkable, and you were too humble to have even noticed. He brushed off your question.

"Go over there and butter him up a little," Maxwell smirked as you turned back around to face your boss. "But not too much." he quickly added on to the end, feeling a little too defensive over you. "Find out where the stone is. Can you do that?"

"What does it look like?" you mumbled, not really liking the idea of having to flirt with a slimy looking man just to get some random rock thing.

"Ruby." Max snapped back like there was no question about it.

You looked back at Maxwell, a small gasp escaping your lips as you took in his appearance. He looked drunk with desire, and you realised how much he must've wanted that stone. Maxwell's eyes were a beautiful shade of honeyed brown that sparkled under the amber lights; they were beautiful. You felt your lips curve into a small smile of agreement and you felt Maxwell's large, ring clad hand rest on your shoulder, his touch sending a shiver down your spine. You made the decision to get the stone, knowing how much it meant to him. You hadn't even realised that the primal, hungry look that crossed his face was actually nothing but pure lust for you.

The second you walked away, Maxwell picked up his champagne glass and finished it off with one quick swing, the bitter taste of alcohol rolling down his throat. He tried to shake off these feelings he had for you, deeming it as unprofessional. He knew from the very start that it was a mistake hiring you. The moment he saw you waiting outside his office to be interviewed, was the moment he had to have you. But of course, his own insecurity meant that he felt as though he couldn't act on these feelings. He may have been a charismatic TV personality but deep down, he had his own, personal reasons that made him feel smaller and weaker than everyone else. For who could ever love a man like him?

"Hey, Ken, is it?" you smiled, extending your arm and grabbing the man's hand. You immediately cringed, feeling the sticky nervous sweat that coated his skin. The dark haired archeologist pushed his glasses up the curve of his nose and shook your hand a little too aggressively.

"Wow," he muttered, looking you up and down before clearing his throat. "Uh, yes. Ken."

You fake smiled, hiding your disgust, tearing your hand away from his and rubbing your palm against the material of your dress in disgust. You wanted to kill Maxwell for making you do this. From the dark, shadowed corner in the ballroom, Maxwell watched you intently, a flame of envy burning in the pit of his stomach.

"I hear you have an exhibition happening?" you took a glass of your favourite alcoholic beverage that was being passed around by a waiter.

"Yes, but it's not ready yet." Ken revealed and you nodded your head understandingly.

"That's a shame," you sighed, a fake sadness dripping from your tongue. "I'm a sucker for gemstones."

"Yeah?" Ken asked as you peaked his curiosity. "What's your favourite kind?"

"Oh, I like the red ones," you joked, and to your surprise, Ken actually laughed.

"We have a whole sub-section on garnet," Ken admitted and your lips parted slightly, omitting a small ‘oh’ as he continued on. "It's beautiful."

"I'm actually more of a ruby type girl myself." you explained, wondering if you were evening making the slightest bit of sense. Even if you weren't, Max knew that you'd be able to wrap Ken around your finger from your good looks alone. And he was right.

"We have one ruby," Ken whispered, leaning into you. Maxwell scowled as he watched Ken push his body into yours. He was seconds away from intervening. Max wanted the stone, but not if some slimy gemologist was making you uncomfortable in the process. Maxwell paused dead in his tracks when he saw you gently push Ken away from you, laughing politely. Max decided he couldn't watch anymore and decided to walk away, finding a group of women to distract himself with.

"Can I see?" you shot Ken your best pleading eyes.

"I'm afraid not. I could pull a few strings with the garnet collection but the ruby is 3000 years old. It's from ancient Greece, and it's the last of its kind."

You pouted, turning your heel, about to walk away, when Ken grabbed your arm and stopped you. "I mean!" he called and you raised your eyebrow, trying to hide your winning smirk. "I suppose I could pull a few strings. It's in the gallery, you must go alone though. And don't tell anyone. And remember to look— not touch."

You grinned, leaning in and gently pecking Ken on the cheek. "Thank you." you said, feeling his cheeks heat up under your lips. You pulled away from him and spun around. You watched out for Carol Thomas, making sure she wasn't looking before you slipped out of the gala and made your way to the gallery.

You were truly in awe as you looked over all the different rocks, each different sizes and different colours but all equally as beautiful as each other. Your eye finally caught the attention of the ruby Max had sought after for so long. You were no expert on geology but this didn't seem like any normal ruby, it sparkled and glittered and stood out from all the others. It was caged in an acrylic box, but it took no effort for you to lift the box off the crystal and swipe it, pushing it into your purse. It barely fit, but you managed to make it work. Double checking that no one was around, you swiftly exited the gallery and made your way back to the main party.

Maxwell wasn't in the corner you had left him, but instead, he was talking to a group of women; flirting no doubt. You rolled your eyes as they tossed their hair and giggled as he leaned into them. You couldn't help but wonder what exactly he was saying to woo them. Grimacing, you stormed past the group of girls and grabbed Max's arm, tugging and pulling him away from them.

"I got the stone," you informed your boss, briefly glancing back at the girls who were scowling at you for whisking away Max. You frowned, feeling unamused.

"Are you okay?" Max asked, sounding genuienly concerned. This was so dumb— of course you were okay. You had to be okay. It was completely fine that Max was flirting with other women, it's not like he had any interest in you anyway. It's not like you owned him. He was a grown man and he could do whatever he wanted.

"Yeah." you shot back, offering him a gritted smile. Maxwell nodded his head slowly and leaned into you.

"My driver is outside waiting. Head back to my office with the stone, I'll only be right behind you." you didn't know what it was, but suddenly, your boss' voice sounded dark and... seductive. The way his breath fanned over the shell of your ear made you shiver. Without saying another word, you left the party and travelled back to your workplace.

It was no surprise that Black Gold Cooperative was deserted when you let yourself in, sliding your employee card through the terminal and squeezing through the revolving doors. It must've been almost midnight, and you were the only one in the building. You slipped behind the main desk and booted up the computer where you had access to turn on all the lights in the building so it didn't feel so sinister. As you waited for the computer to turn on (and it felt like forever), you took out the gemstone and placed it on the top of the desk. Even in the darkness, there was something so attractive about it. No wonder Maxwell was so desperate to get his hands on it. He had an affinity for geology, although it was almost secretive. You remembered the one time he invited you over to his house, he had a whole shelf that was proudly displayed with rocks and minerals. It was a hobby of his that he didn't share with anyone else. But he trusted you.

He definitely shouldn't have trusted you.

You left your purse on the main desk as the lights finally illuminated the building. Holding the ruby in both of your hands, you carried it up the stairs, through the call centre and into Maxwell Lord's extensive sized office. You admired the way it sparkled and shone under the bright lights, so much so, you weren't watching your step. You let out a yelp as you tripped over a chair which had been carelessly pulled out, falling to your knees as the stone went flying across the office, landing near his desk.

You felt your heart sink into the depths of your chest when you heard it smash. No— there was no way. Gemstones don't just smash like that. Terrified, you crawled over to where the stone had landed and saw that it had quite literally smashed into smithereens; almost like glass. At least, that's how it sounded. The crystalized rock had turned into some kind of sparkling red fairy dust that looked almost magical. It was like a shimmering illusion. You scurried around the floor wondering how the hell this had happened. How the rock had smashed and turned into a pile of glitter. You knew you wouldn't have long until Max came back.

Your legs began to feel weak, but you decided it was just from your anxiety. Shit, the rock meant so much to Max. He gave you one job. One easy fucking job and you couldn't even do that right. You were so fired.

You began to collect the sparkling red dust in your hands, desperately scooping it up but sighing when it fell through your fingers. Your actions became more erratic, knowing your boss would be back any second. No matter what, you couldn't pick up the dust. You looked around his office, wondering if he had a brush or something to shovel it up with, but of course he didn't.

There was something weird… the dust from the gemstone wasn't just glittering, it was quite literally sparkling— gleaming, even. When you touched it, it made your skin tingle. It sent aches of heat flooding down your body. It was enough to make you suspicious but once again, you shrugged it off as nerves. You cared about Max so much, and he was going to be so pissed with you.

When you heard the double doors to his office swing open, your whole body stiffened up, your eyes squeezing shut. You were on your knees still, your back faced away from Maxwell as he merrily came waltzing into his office.

"I called Roman Antiquities from the carphone," he announced, his voice as vibrant as ever. "They're so happy we managed to get the stone," You felt your eyes grow comically wide. Wait— the stone wasn't even for him. It was for somebody else. Things just went from bad to worse. "So," Maxwell slid his hands into the pockets of his tailored pants. "Where is it?"

You slowly rose to your feet, scrunching your nose up in displeasure as you prepared to tell your boss what had happened. How you had been so clumsy. "I- I didn't realise you were sending the stone to Roman Antiquities." you mumbled, slowly turning around and nervously biting your lip.

"I didn't mention it?" Max shrugged casually. "Yeah, apparently it's in high demand."

"Ken said it comes from ancient Greece, and there's only one made," hearing the words leave your lips didn't make the situation any better, you realised. "Do you know what's so special about it?"

"Yeah," Max replied, walking towards his desk. "There's a lot of things special about it. Can I see it?" His dismissive tone made you feel small and uneasy.

"Max…" you drew his name out like it was the longest melody in the world. He looked up at you, waiting for you to continue. "Something happened. I uhm…" you let your eyes wander around his spacious office, refusing to land anywhere but him. He, however, was staring directly at you. "I had it with me. And I carried it carefully to your office but— I wasn't really paying attention to my surroundings and I-" you halted suddenly, feeling your whole body heat up, and a fire shooting through your core. You squeezed your legs together and pursed your lips into a fine line, stopping a moan from escaping. What was going on?

"And?" Maxwell urged, his voice growing increasingly more concerned.

"And-" you gulped. It was a weird, strange feeling. Like suddenly, all your scents had been heightened. The smell of Maxwell's rich cologne filled the room, intoxicating you and sending you into a frenzy. "Wow." you mumbled out.

Maxwell said your name sternly, breaking you out of your strange yet blissful haze. You were used to him saying your name, usually in a condescending way. But this time it was different. It was deep, gravelly and outright delicious.

"I broke the stone," you announced with a shaky exhale. You began to feel slick between your thighs and your eyes widened. Were you… aroused? You just about managed to look back at Max and suddenly everything felt different. You saw him in a completely different light.

Sure, you'd had fantasies about your boss before. He was an attractive, single bachelor and he always made you feel special. He always made you feel important. You would sometimes daydream about him at work, watching him from the back of the conference room as he led team meetings. You'd go home after a long day only to think about him whilst you showered, and even before you went to sleep. Suddenly, your feelings made sense.

"You. Broke. The. Stone?" Maxwell gritted out. Your eyes dropped down to fixate on his Adams Apple. Had his voice always been so sensual?

"Max," you whined, squeezing your eyes shut as you grabbed onto the edge of his desk, your fingers curling around the corner so hard your knuckles turned white. "I don't feel so good."

Max slowly walked over to you, looking you up and down. "Where are the remnants of the rock?" Max quizzed. You let out a moan as the feeling of arousal became excruciating. He called your name again and you just about managed to point in the general direction of the pile of glittering red dust. Maxwell's eyes widened. "Oh no no." he said, hurrying over and examining it, but being extra careful not to get too close.

"I know," you cried. "I'm sorry."

"Did you-" Maxwell swallowed the lump in his throat before turning back around to face you. "Did you touch it?"

"Y-yes," you drew out, rubbing your thighs together trying to create some feeling of friction, but doing so discreetly so your boss wouldn't notice. "I tried to clean it up."

"Shit," Maxwell muttered, hurrying over to his desk and spreading out a pile of papers. The papers were filled with information about the very specific ruby stone, and Max read it closely and as quickly as possible.

"What is it?" you asked worriedly. Maxwell's eyes widened and he wrapped an arm around you, carefully navigating you behind his desk and sitting you in his chair. You curled up into the softness of the leather seat, humming in delight your dress rode up slightly and the material stuck to the back of your legs.

"There's something you should know," Maxwell frowned. "The rock… they call it Aphrodite’s Stone."

"Aphrodite?" you breathed out. "Like, the goddess of love?"

Maxwell nodded, flicking through a few more of the pages. "Yes," he confirmed. "But uh- not just love. I mean, it was love, yeah but. She was also the goddess of beauty, uh- procreation, passion and…" Maxwell took a deep breath. "Pleasure."

You made a fist so tight your fingernails pressed into your skin as you shuffled around in the chair. Maxwell was so close to you, you just wanted to pull him on top of you and take him now— exactly how he was. But no, he was going on about some Greek goddess.

"Max please," you begged and his head snapped in your direction. You didn't even realise the way your chest was rising and falling, the way you were heaving and panting. Just the sight of you alone was enough to stir something up inside of Max. Beads of sweat laced your collarbones and hairline as you whimpered and moaned. "Can you just- please- tell me- what’s going on? What's happening to me?"

"The stone contains a kind of sex pollen," Max blurted out and your eyes snapped open.

"Are you kidding me?" you asked and Max shook his head quickly. "Like- a drug?"

"Yeah… and you touched it. Shit okay, let me go grab a bowl of water and we’ll try and clean the remnants from your hands…" Max said quickly, biting his lip and bolting over to leave his office when you shouted for him to come back.

"N-no, it won't work," you whispered, holding your arms out and ushering for him to come back over to you. "Please, please Max…" Your hands travelled to the hem of your dress as you started to peel it up. Max watched with intent, his once honeyed brown eyes turning so dark— almost black. His eyes raked your body as he watched you squirm in his office chair. The same chair he sat in every single day. "Please help me take this dress off. I feel so constricted."

"I-" Maxwell began but stopped when you sighed dramatically, tossing your head back.

"Don't fucking argue," you groaned and Maxwell felt taken aback by your attitude. You had never spoken to him like that before. He'd hate to admit it, but the desperation that dripped from your tongue caused Max's cock to throb in his pants. "Please."

Maxwell took your hand and pulled you up from his chair, briefly noting the wet patch from where you had been sitting. He had to sit back in that chair tomorrow morning, and you had made such a beautiful mess of it. His large hands manouvered around your body as he turned you around, finding the zip to your dress and pulling it all the way down to the small of your back. He took a step back as you shuffled out of it and he politely looked away, not wanting to invade your privacy or make you feel uncomfortable. He took off his tuxedo jacket and offered it to you, in case you felt the need to cover up, but instead you just glared at him.

Maxwell found himself subconsciously licking his lips as his heart rate climbed at the mere sight of you. There you were, standing before him in nothing but lacy black lingerie. He felt his cock grow thick and stand at full attention as he took in the sight of your alluring body. It was perfect in every way, even better than he had ever imagined in his dreams.

"What do you need?" Maxwell asked, his voice low. "What can I do for you?" The pollen in the stone made everything sound so seductive but you could swear that even amongst all the heat, you heard genuine care in his voice.

"I don't… I don't…" you weren't about to tell him that you didn't know, because that would be a lie. You knew exactly what you wanted, and he knew enough about the stone to know exactly what you wanted as well. You needed him, craved his body and ached for him to fill you up and pleasure you. You felt your cheeks heat up, unable to find the pride to actually ask your boss for this. Maxwell took a step closer to you, breaking any distance. He smelt so good.

"Anything you want," he whispered, wanting you to know that he'd be more than willing to help ease you. "Anything you want you can have it."

"Anything?" you asked, pressing your hands to his chest and letting your fingers trace the soft material of his dress shirt.

"Anything." he affirmed.

With that, you grabbed the straps of his suspenders and pulled his body into yours. A low groan emitted from the back of his throat as you pressed your lips against his. You wrapped your arms around his body, your palms laying flat against his back as he kissed you. His tongue licked your lower lip and you moaned wantonly, opening your mouth slightly and granting him access to explore you further.

Max's hands settled on your hips, his fingers playing with the waistband of your panties. You moaned, dragging your own hands to his hair and running his fingers through it.

You loved his hair, you always thought about touching it and playing with it. He always styled it so perfectly but, to your surprise, it wasn't hard with hair-product. Instead, it was soft and glossy and it was like you could feel every wave. He eventually pulled off you, gasping for breath.

"I don't want to take advantage of you when you're like this," Maxwell frowned, as you pushed him into his office chair. "I mean, shit. I want this. I've wanted this for so long…" he rambled on as you slid out of your panties and unclipped your bra. His eyes widened when he saw you stand on his office, completely nude and shameless. He thought you looked breathtaking. You were quick to discard the garments, unable to hide the triumphant smirk that played across your lips as you straddled him. You perched yourself on top of his leg and instantly began to ride his thigh, rubbing your soaking wet pussy over his expensive pants.

"Let me," you moaned, leaning into him and kissing his neck. "Let me use you then."

"Yeah?" Maxwell asked shakily and he felt you nod into his shoulder as you gasped out another moan. "Okay. Take what you need." he said before wrapping his arms around you and dipping his fingers into the small of your back. You could feel the coolness of his gold rings tingle against your warm skin and it only turned you on even more. You couldn't count the amount of times you had imagined the ridged feeling of his rings press up against your walls as he slid his fingers inside of you. Max flexed the muscles in his thigh and you yelped slightly at the friction. "Oh, you like that?" Maxwell asked, and done it again before you could even respond. You tugged on his tie, fumbling as you slid up and down over his leg. You just about managed to loosen it, pull it off, and discarding it on the floor amongst your other pieces of clothing.

"I like these," you giggled, tugging on his suspenders. "But I want them off."

"Cum for me first," Maxwell growled, feeling his hard member press against the confines of his pants. They'd grown extremely tight around his now throbbing erection. You looked down and gasped just at the sight of him. You lowered one hand, while keeping the other hand draped around his body, keeping you steady. With your free hand, you traced the imprint of his cock and smiled when you watched his eyes flutter shut from only your gentlest of touches.

"You weren't even affected by the stone," you giggled, humming in delight as you reached for his zipper. You didn't stop sliding your slick pussy over his thigh, your movements building up your oncoming high. "And look at you." you wiggled your fingers into his pants and your eyes widened as you felt his cock. "Fuck… Max Lord going commando?" your laugh came to an abrupt end when Max's grip around you tightened. He took your hand away from his manhood and set it on his bicep as he held you by your hips and muttered dirty words into your ear.

"Cum for me." He gritted out again, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck and gently nibbling at your skin. He pulls his hands down to your breasts and squeezes at them, his thumbs grazing over your nipples.

"So close," you warned him as your walls began to contract against nothing. You ached for his cock, now more than ever. Still massaging your breasts, he reattached his lips to your neck and trailed sloppy kisses all the way down your collarbone. "Shit Max, fuck I cant," you gasped.

"Can't what? What is it baby?" Max asked, pulling away slightly and cupping your cheek with his hand.

"I can't cum without… without…" tears pricked your eyes as the gushing sense of sexual desire coarsed through your body.

"What do you need?" Max whispered.

"You. Inside me," you managed to stammer out with absolutely no shame. Max looked absolutely wrecked, his dark blonde hair that was once perfectly styled had completely fallen out of place and his chocolate brown eyes were glazed with lust. But he was gorgeous and you couldn't help but smile knowing what exactly you had done to the esteemed Maxwell Lord. You shuffled back slightly, and Max glanced down at the wet patch you had left on his pants. He couldn't contain his grin.

"I don't have a condom," Max admitted. The revelation surprised you as you pegged Max for the kinda guy who endured a lot of sex in his office. It seemed like the perfect place, but come to think of it, he never really had girls around. Only you. You didn't care that he didn't have a condom. In fact, you kinda liked it. You wanted to feel every ridge and vein of his thick cock as it filled your pussy.

"Good," you smiled, standing up with a wobble. Max stood up after you and cleared his desk before patting the expensive oak wood, ushering you to lay down.

But first, you pulled down his suspenders, unclipping them from his pants and throwing them to one side. You worked at his shirt buttons one by one until eventually, you pulled it off and dropped it to the ground. You wasted no time, unzipping his pants and pulling them down to his ankles. You licked your lips in delight as his cock sprung free and he stepped out of the pants that had pooled around his feet.

Max gently pushed you backwards into his desk and you hopped up, sitting down and laying back. "You're so beautiful," Max sighed as he drank in your appearance, wanting to savour this moment and remember it forever. "Open your legs." he commanded as he stroked his cock. He gathered his precum which had been leaking from the tip for God knows how long, letting it slick between his fingers as he jerked himself off at the mere sight of you spread out on his office desk. You obeyed his instruction, closing your eyes as you prepared to feel his cock push inside of you.

But instead, you felt his hot, wet tongue lick a stripe up your clit. Your whole body stiffened up as you released a groan you didn't even know you were holding back. "Fuck- what the fuck," you curled your fingers into a fist as he continued to cat lick you. You just about managed to open your eyes and see the vision of his head in between your legs as he devoured your dripping pussy. "You're really dragging this out, huh?"

He was good. He was so good. He knew his way around your body perfectly and you swore, in that moment, that perhaps you were made for each other. Maybe it was just the effects of the stone but you had never had such a satisfying sexual encounter.

"When I saw the mess you made on my leg, and how wet you were, I knew I had to taste you," Max admitted, his voice was gruff and sent vibrations through your core. He continued lapping you up, humming and moaning in delight on the occasion he'd suck at the bud of your clit and draw out a moan from your lips. "And fuck, you taste so good."

"But I want your cock inside of meeee," you whined.

Max didn't attach his mouth from you once, but he did bring up his hand and push a finger in between your folds and began to massage the entrance to your hole.

"Gotta prep you first," Max told you, before pushing his index finger deep inside you. He moaned at the feeling of your walls around him and felt his cock twitch against his stomach. Obscene wet noises echoed through his office, as well as your moans and pleas for more. "So greedy," Maxwell chuckled. "Always wanting more," he pushed in his middle finger, stretching you open. He looked up at you, his eyes hungry as he pumped his fingers into your pussy. It wasn't long until your legs began to quiver and shake profusely. You screamed when Maxwell pulled out his fingers and shoved them in your mouth. "Taste," he told you as you sucked on his fingers. "Good girl. See? You taste so fucking good. I could get used to this."

When you had cleaned your juices from his fingers, you felt him line himself up against your entrance. You reached out, holding onto his strong biceps for support as he thrusted inside of you. He grunted, squeezing his eyes tight shut as your walls tightened around you. He was big— bigger than you'd ever taken before. If you weren't so aroused from the stone, you wouldn't know if you'd be able to take him. He filled you perfectly. He pushed himself balls deep into you and then came to a halt.

"M-move," you whimpered, pressing your nails into his skin.

"Beg." he shot back, smoothing the hair out of your face and running his thumb over your puckered and sore lower lip.

"Please Max, please. Fuck me." you felt tears prick your eyes and Maxwell took the hint, finally thrusting in and out of you. Your cunt was so tight around Maxwell he couldn't believe how perfect of a fit you were. He dragged his thumb to your clit and started rubbing intricate circles as he increased his speed. His movements became sloppy and rapid as his fingers pushed you over the edge. "Cum inside of me," you gasped out the second you felt his cock twitch inside of you, indicating that he was close.

"Are you sure?" Max asked and you nodded your head.

"Never been so sure about anything in my life." you screamed, your back arching as you finally came undone. You absolutely drench him, and if it was any other situation, you might've felt a little embarrassed. But Max was in ecstasy when your cunt tightened around his cock like a vice and milked him of all that he had. He spilt his seed inside of you, the warmth coating your walls and shooting jolts of pleasure down your body.

You found yourself completely engulfed in a post coital haze, and Max kept himself inside of you until he softened and could slip out of you without causing you any discomfort. "You might be sore tomorrow," he mumbled, pressing a kiss into your neck. You hummed, whispering something incoherent but your smile was very telling. You had never been so happy. "But the effects of Aphrodite's Stone should wear off now."

"You took care of me," you whispered, your eyes slowly opening. You sat up and wrapped your arms around Max, pulling him into you. You felt completely and utterly spent, and Maxwell couldn't disagree either. He walked you over to his chair and sat you in his lap.

"Of course I took care of you," his voice was gentle and sweet like honey. "This was all my fault. And I should've warned you about the stupid fucking rock in the first place."

"Stupid?" you raised an eyebrow. "That was the most fun I've ever had," you laughed and Maxwell couldn't contain how happy your revelation made him. "But… are we going to be in trouble?"

"You don't have to worry about a thing," Maxwell hushed you, smoothing out your hair and pressing a kiss into your hair. Something in his voice made you trust him and believe in him. You just knew he wouldn't let you get into trouble. "I'm glad this happened."

"Me too." you whispered before closing your eyes and burying your head into his chest. Curled up into his lap, your naked bodies tangled together, you both fell asleep in his office chair. Maxwell Lord created a frightening and intimidating aura, but, the truth is, you had never felt more safe and more comfortable in your whole entire life. You knew that this happy accident was going to be the start of something great.

Taglists (let me know if you wish to be added!)

Permanent: @supernaturalgirl @phoenixhalliwell @ah-callie @luvzoria @stardust-galaxies @wickedfrsgrl @goth-topic @nerdypinupcrystal @wonderfulfluffer @kiwi-the-first @pedroepascal @castiel-barnes @honeymandos @rocketqueen @ladycumberbatchofcamelot @dybalalover10 @girl-obsessed-with-things @elena-myth @moth-guillotine @pedro-pascal-love

This fic: @lostcherryinwonderland @thewayofthemandalorian

[senjuside]

“Uchiha Izuna,” it—he rasps dryly, face cold as marble. “Good morning. Would you tell me why your brother keeps throwing gifts in my face everytime we meet?”

Looking at the sides of his futon with the sudden realization that Tobira isn’t letting him goes anywhere, with the heavy body almost smashing him in the mattress, Izuna thinks about how he should tell a fucking siren that his absolute insane brother is trying to propose in a very, very archaic way.

Giving a trembling, wry smile at the thing, Izuna shivers heavily when the siren smiles back, with too many sharp teeths to be peaceful or friendly in any way.

And they’ve the audacity to tell Izuna was the one who hadn’t any survival instinct remaining.

Pairing: Senju Tobirama/Uchiha Madara

Rating: T

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Chapters: 1/1

Words: 2734

Written for @madatobiweek, Week 1: Folklore and mythology // The moment I knew. Read on AO3 or under the cut :)

(my bad for any mistake or something guys. english, as you'll see, isn't my first language :p good reading, anyway <3)

Madara had never been a usual lover—always all sharp barbs and rough language used as a comfortable shield to hide the soft gazes he’d give Tobirama—even if, Tobirama supposes, they’ve never been a usual couple either.

Madara is a peculiar creature, Tobirama knows. He’s harsh to deal with, hurdle, and for onces paranoid. But, Tobirama thinks with a nearly fond, in love smile, he would’ve his moments as well.

Like his apparently newly gained obsession with gifts.

It was quite cute from the very first time. A weighty book written in the old language of the dwarfs, that lived in the south. An anklet of silver, and a ring of amestice. Even a couple of heavy fur collars, soft that hurted at the touch, smelling distinguly like Madara.

All the gifts are carefully bestowed inside of his cave, in a safe bubble of air to not screw up with nothing. Was a really sweet action of such a rough man like Madara, rude like Tobirama is pretty aware he usually is, so Tobirama wouldn’t like to waste those kinda rare openly ways to show affection.

Unlike the dragons, sirens like Tobirama in general don't really give a matter to the thing’s price, gold or diamond—even if Tobirama is pretty sure that sirens do not usually get gifts from pleasure. They’re usually too busy with the ‘charming pretty sallys underwater and so devour’-thing to make good first impressions or build relationships.

But, Tobirama supposes, everything certainly has a limit.

And now Madara is nearly to overtake it. Hard.

“FOR YOU,” Madara yells, even if he's one step away from Tobirama, sitting poorly in the river’s muddy margens.

Tobirama blinks at him, wordlessly for a second, but Madara doesn’t offer anything more but turns into his back and runs away, giving Tobirama no chance to thank or say a word.

For the fifty time, just this week.

It’s starting to turn… cansative, Tobirama ponders, looking carefully at the golden mirror in his hands.

Pursing his lips down, Tobirama honestly thinks that this shit is elongating itself for a way more than it would be necessary.

If Madara isn’t going to get his head out of his ass, Tobirama may have some questions to ask the Uchiha.

———————

A drop of water falls down to rest on Izuna’s cheek, followed by another, and another. Izuna struggles himself over asleep, frowning.

Another drop falls through his jaw, to dive inside his open sleep-yakuta, cold as hell, making Izuna quivers hard and wake up suddenly, shaking, just to blink open his eyes, his vision cloudy by the sleepness, and get himself face to face with—all Izuna’s words — a sharp feature elevated above him, pale as a paper with devilish red eyes, imobile, gazing at him deeply.

The only thing that hinders Izuna to scream for help is the creature’s hand put against his mouth. The room still was shadowish by the close fusumas, and a thick trail of water left spots on the tatames. Not daring to look away, Izuna inbreate sharply, wide-eyed looking at the impassive face of the thing above him.

A vision that, for Izuna’s total and absolute terror, slowly starts to remind him disturbingly of some of Madara's descriptions.

And, although Izuna knew Madara has a lover outside the clan—and probably any person that could hear or read lips in the Uchiha did notice Madara being insupportable and repugnantly sweet when he was singing praises at his dearest Tobira— he could never expect a fucking siren just out of Izuna’s wrostes nightmares.

“Uchiha Izuna,” it—he rasps dryly, face cold as marble. “Good morning. Would you tell me why your brother keeps throwing gifts in my face everytime we meet?”

Izuna shallows hardly, repentinaly regretting deeply having fought with Madara to sleep for one more hour instead of attending the clan’s reunion this morning. Looking at the sides of his futon with the sudden realization that Tobira isn’t letting him goes anywhere, with the heavy body almost smashing him in the mattress, Izuna thinks about how he should tell a fucking siren that his absolute insane brother is trying to propose in a very, very archaic way.

Giving a trembling, wry smile at the thing, Izuna shivers heavily when the siren smiles back, with too many sharp teeths to be peaceful or friendly in any way.

And they’ve the audacity to tell Izuna was the one who hadn’t any survival instinct remaining.

———————

Dragons are such beautiful, sweet and possessive creatures, Tobirama learned with the time. Differently from his specie, for onces cold and kinda cruel, hovering in deep, cold waters, so deep that even the light couldn’t come in there sometimes, the dragons aren’t any different from the fire they could spit out.

Their love would burn, deep and beautiful, as blaze fierling all along the night.

Tobirama is a child from the sea; his love isn’t scorching as the dragon’s love is but silent and peaceful like a quiet summer night browsing in calm sea, at the same it is furious and instotable like the worst of the storms. It is measureless as is the ocean, for sure hurdle, for times, but never flawed.

Dragons are explosive as the fire that growls into their veins. They’re imediatalist, and they trust deeply or simply do not. There’s no middle term in love, in family. You’re theirs, or isn’t.

They’re explosions of emotions, stars collapsing in supernovas—all the opposite of Tobirama, cold and racionable when the situation needs, treacherous in confidence, never trusting in no one but himself, despite using it to climb at his objectives, and there’s no shame in admit that: he’s what he’s and wouldn’t change for nobody.

Tobirama knows he’s hard to deal with, but, if there’s a single resemblance between sirens and dragons, when you’re into his heart, you’re there forever—because the tide may change, but the trail will be always there for thoses who venture to travel and conquist. And when Madara stole that kiss from him, Tobirama allowed him to stay, for forever, if he wanted to. He was from Madara from body and soul since that time when Madara’s fingers nuzzled down his scales.

Tobirama chuckles softly to himself, nestling the pearl necklace Madara had given him this week against his chest. He’s just Madara's, but it seems like his koibito doesn’t notice this yet.

Little fool.

———————

“You were building a treasure for me.”

It is the first thing Tobirama says, his voice dry as usual while he points out, when Madara comes into his field of vision.

Naturally, Tobirama knew of the dragon’s tendencies to accumulate, of course. He may have spent half a life peeking around deep waters, but he’s not oblivious. Even Madara already had prided himself for Tobirama after he stole—”found around the battlefield, I ain’t a thief, siren of hell”— a sword or a helmet he considered good enough to be on his particular treasure.

He never thought, however, that this would extend to their partners.

Madara seems to freeze in half a way, a few steps from where he meets Tobirama almost every night. His heavy cloak rock softly with the wind, the stiff scale next to the horns in the temples fading out with the creamy skin the moonlight's light—light that doesn't do anything to hide Madara's soft flush when he stops throughout the trail to the river’s margers, looking anything but absolutely cute.

Who’d say that this ugly mug may be so adorable, Tobirama scoffs mentally, playful, as he perceives Madara starts to look more and more ashamed. So different from the pride warrior he had seen Madara transformed himself amidst the battlefield more than one time, tearing apart flesh with his claws as he'd cutting raw silk.

Tobirama smiles softly, although he’s been pretty aware that his sharp, long teeths probably doesn't seem like an amorous expression at all. "Stop get stood here like a idiot and come here, stupid," Tobirama scoffs gentily.

Madara's eyes narrow thighly, the narrow slits brighting in the night with a soft red glow, but does, taking a step in to sit in the river's margers

Tobirama pushes his body up to rest his head next to Madara's lap.

“You made quite a mess, you know that?” Tobirama said softly. “Your brother seemed to be absolutely terrified when he saw me.”

Madara frowns, widening his eyes a bit.  “Did you go see Izuna?”

“Any problem?” Tobirama asks dryly, arching a cheeky eyebrow. “I was getting tired of having my partner throwing things at me and so turning away to run off, you know.”

Madara grimaces, poking Tobirama’s forehead softly. “Peace, siren of mine. I was just asking.”

Tobirama huffs, as the pride creature Madara knows he’s, narrowing his eyes before getting started again, “he didn’t help, though. I suppose he was too afraid of me eating him alive or something to mutter more than a couple of words without passing out.”

Madara cannot help but laugh. “Sounds like him. And explains why he was looking like a crazy man to the koi pond when I went off.”

“Of the couple of things he could make minimally undestable, I discovered some interesting things,” Tobirama continues dryly, but there’s a background of palpable diversion in his voice. “He said something about ‘absolutely insane relatives’—” Madara turns his eyes there, “—‘stupid courtship’ and I’m pretty sure he did yell a think alike ‘engagement.’”

Madara suddenly curses mentaly his pale skin when his cheeks sembles to catch on fire again, as well the always trained eyes of Tobirama, shining like two rubies in the damp, his gaze burning in his face, watchful at all his little reactions. Huffing to get away his sudden embarrassment, Madara grumbles grumply, “and you connect the dots. Of course you did, fuckin’ genius son of a bitch.”

Tobirama smiles, a simple contraction on the edge of his lips. “Naturally,” he brags himself, the insupportable. “I’d appreciate a contribution of yours, throught.”

Madara grimaces, but doesn’t take a word against him. Cleaning his throat with a soft disgust contraction on his lips, he gets started, “... yes, it’s kind of an engagement, but more like… a proposal. You know that every dragon has a collection of something, right? I collect bright, mortal things. Such as weapons,” Madara explains calmy, but he’s feeling anxious, Tobirama can say by the way he keeps his gaze trained in his hands, an adorable soft flush covering his pale cheeks. “Therefore, when we’ve got interest in someone, it was usual for the dragon to give his interest with gifts to add to their treasure. That’s why I wanted to give you something that would… fit with you. Not just. Trinket."

“I supposed it would be something like that,” Tobirama sings, smiling. “So, I should return your gifts, shouldn’t I?”

Madara whips up himself, stumbling around the words, “I-I mean, if you’d accept the courtship—”

Tobirama laughed. “Oh, you’re such a fool sometimes, my love.” Madara opens his mouth to hash out wrathful, but Tobirama keeps speaking before Madara can have the chance for saying anything, “of course I’d, Madara. If a siren matches, they’d match for a life. There’s no dating. You’re mine and I've been yours since the day I accepted you inside my home.”

Madara blinks. He breathes, “oh.”

Tobirama scoffs before he could hold himself, “oh, fuckin’ jerk.”

Madara squawks aloud, opening his mouth to fuss, but Tobirama just chunkles, getting on his elbows to stand up and press their lips softly.

“I hate you,” Madara murmurs against Tobirama’s mouth a second later, just to make his point.

One of Tobirama’s teeth nips on Madara’s lip lightly, not enough to hurt or to take off blood, but teasing. Feeling playful, Tobirama gently pushes down a handful of Madara’s hair to make him curve next to him, easing the angle for Tobirama to lick inside Madara’s mouth. “I hate you too, sweetheart,” he scoffs, “no worries.”

Madara turns his eyes, sighing when he presses their foreheads together. “Shitty idiot. I was trying to be romantic, y’know.”

Tobirama arches an eyebrow. “I highly doubt you were romantic for a second of your entire life.”

Madara seems to be offended, bristiling like an urchin. “I’m very romantic, thank you! And thinking I did an entire courtship plan to you bawl me out like that…”

Smiling easily, Tobirama nudges softly, “did you, so?”

Madara flusters himself with a petty whiff, getting started grumply, “I mean, it’s a little anquite, but… I wanted to show you that, mm-I mean, like the tradition says. That you aren’t something I’m taking ownership of, but that I am sharing my treasure with you, and what’s mine is yours.”

“That’s,” Tobirama says a couple of moments later, blinking a bit of surprise, but with his voice repugnantly soft and gentle, “especially sweet of you. Thank you, Madara.”

Madara huffs. “Don’t mention it.”

Tobirama rolls his eyes, playfully poking Madara’s tight with sharp teeth. “Don’t be so smug about it.”

Madara arches an eyebrow. “Hope you haven’t forgotten I am an Uchiha. It’s in my blood.”

“Stupidness?” Tobirama asks dryly.

“No. We do like to exhibe our things. Especially those mortal and beautiful. Or just the ones that bite.”

Tobirama’s face covers quickly with red. He grumbles, pouting sulky, “shut the fucking up, Uchiha. That’s the only thing your pea-sized brain can think about?”

“When I’ve a willing, beautiful siren only for me?” Madara smirks. “Absolutely.”

Preening a hand across the soft, sleek scales where it united together with the almost phantasmagoric white skin from Tobirama’s belly, by where it is out of the water, resting in the mud next to one of Madara’s legs, Madara hums happily. “Sirens don't have some type of honeymoon?” he asks serenely.

Tobirama chuckles. “I think they’d.”

“I suppose I’ve to celebrate with my pretty fiancé.” Madara shudders. “Haven’t I?”

“I’m sure you’ve,” Tobirama replies easily, spreading out his arms to deliberately offer Madara a better vision of his chest, letting the way down his belly free, easy for Madara to slip with his hand. Arching an eyebrow, Tobirama asks, “shy now, Madara?”

Madara scoffs aloud. “Nothing I haven’t seen yet, bastard.”

“Tired already of, so?”

“Never.” Madara’s quick to ensure. “You’re always a show aside. And I’d suppose we'll have to consummate. Again. Dragon style.”

Tobirama cannot help but laugh. “Why are you always a shitty mood killer? Better—why do I accept getting engaged with you, from all the people?”

Giggling, Madara noses Tobirama’s jaw absently. “Because you love me, clearly.”

Tobirama does, of course—but it wasn't like he’s going to say it and inflame Madara’s ego more than it already is.

Instead, Tobirama just moans softly when Madara scrapes his blunt teeth in his neck, huffing a blow of heated air against the bruise he certainly left.

Greedy, his lover is, and Tobirama doesn’t do anything to appease that when Madara growls softly some verbal affirmation of that but smiles, his teeth scraping dangerously Madara’s pants, sucking a bruise next to his hips.

Tobirama’s smile is all teeth. “Cute of you to think dragon’s are the only ones with possessive tendencies here.”

———————

“There’s a motherfucker demon living on your koi pond, Madara! Are you fucking crazy?!”

“The demon surely has a name,” Tobirama rumbles, thicc and sharp, a dark playfulness trickling on his tone, from where he’s upholding his head on his hands, above the engawa, arching an eyebrow to Izuna as he smiles, all teeth.

“Madara!” Izuna cries out. “He’ll pull my feet when you’re asleep and so drown me! Look at him!”

Tobirama hums, without any shame, and, perhaps propositaly, arches his upper lip a bit to show his teeth better, as he’d growling.

“He’s learning how to smile,” Madara grumbles at him, blind by passion. Or charmed, Izuna thinks, narrowing his eyes to the thing, floating in the koi pond, looking absolutely suspiciously serene. “And Tobirama will be perfectly fine. He’ll not drown you or anyone. Stop being rude with my bride, Izuna! Where’s your manners?”

While Madara keeps talking around and complaining about Izuna, Tobirama arches a sharp eyebrow at him. “Easy now, Izuna. I’m living here, and I’d hate to eat my brother-in-law accidentally.”

Whimpering, Izuna would like to know where he could sign up to change from his family, thank you so much.

[romantichopelessly]

Roman’s List

Synopsis: This is 100% romangst, based on a single line from this latest video. That’s it. I do not apologize. I did not edit this. Goodbye.

Word Count: 1543

----

When Roman wrote, prose flowed from his mind like water from a tap. Steady most of the time and of questionable quality depending on the day, but flow it did. Verses came to Roman as easily as breathing. If one had occasional asthma, that was. Roman could pull out rhymes like so many dimes from his silver-lined pockets, even though his go-to metallic was gold.

Roman was a writer. Roman was a creative.

As such, Roman’s room was filled to the brim with notebooks. Notebooks filled with scribbles and ideas, sketches and poetry that never saw the light of day and love letter after love letter after diary entry. Notebooks that were as empty and clean as the day that he acquired them. Primed and ready to use in whatever way the prince saw fit, if he ever found the perfect use for a cherry red journal with a golden leaf pattern winding the cover.

However, there was one notebook that was not like the others. This notebook--plain and black, with a bound leather spine and a white satin built in bookmark--spent most of its time in the small crevice on the back of the prince’s mirror.

It was a difficult place to keep a journal, especially when Roman found something to put in said journal at least once a day, meaning that his poor innocent mirror was being moved far too often to excuse the elaborate hiding spot.

The journal contained a list. Roman, as a creative, was not one for making itemized lists. Really, that was more of Logan’s thing. However, this specific list had been ongoing for years now. If the notebook that the list filled was not imaginary, Roman would probably be on his third or fourth notebook.

Roman had started this list when Thomas was in his late highschool years. About the time that he was deciding what to do with his future, to be exact. The first entry was simple. A bullet point and a mistake. The first documented of many.

I lost us the lead in the school play. Thomas has decided to major in chemistry.

It wasn’t much, at the time. Roman didn’t even truly remember what it was that made him write down what was then seen as a colossal failure on his part. One minute he had been disappointed by Thomas’s decision to give up on his acting dreams, and the next he was huddled on the floor of his room, his reflection staring back at him from an awkward angle in his mirror, his breath coming in short gasps and chastisements running through his mind on a loop. Failure, failure, failure, failure, failure, failure--

When Roman came back from his spiral, his bright red glitter gel pen was already in his hands, and the words were already scripting themselves across the page of the notebook he hadn’t remembered reaching for. It was only when the mistake was written down that Roman felt the weight--or at least a very small part of it--release from his chest.

And there was the first on the list of Roman’s mistakes. Written neatly for future reference, to be looked back upon so that he would never ever fail Thomas in such a way again.

Of course, everyone knew that that was not the last time that Roman would let Thomas down.

The list grew slowly at first. Roman was still confident in his ability to be the perfect creativity for Thomas. He brought ideas whenever Thomas needed them. He encouraged Thomas’s passions, even though they were no longer a part of his career path. He pushed for Thomas to pursue his dreams in between engineering classes and organic chemistry papers, and for Thomas to pursue cute boys.

The only times the notebook was pulled out and Roman’s list grew longer was when the pursuit of dreams interfered a bit too much with Thomas’s work.

He never wanted to hurt Logan. Honest.

The notebook and the list was almost forgotten when Thomas finally gave up on chemical engineering and decided to become an actor. By the time Vine came around, Roman felt practically unbeatable. Sure, every once in a while he would do something that garnered the need of the notebook and its list, but more often than not, Roman was unstoppable.

He considered getting rid of the list.

On July 15, 2017, Roman’s list of mistakes nearly doubled in size.

After Virgil had revealed his name and Roman had apologized for making the anxious nelly feel so unwelcome as a part of Thomas, everything suddenly became a lot more clear.

He had been making mistakes for so long without even knowing it.

Every harsh name that Roman had ever aimed at Virgil was added to the list. All the times that Roman mocked his very real worries and sent Thomas out unprepared into the world were added to the list. Each time that he shot Virgil a look that made the anxious side flinch away--as if Roman were the villain, and goodness gracious Zeus above, if Virgil wasn’t the villain in those situations, perhaps he was--were added to the list. All the times that Roman doubted Patton’s judgement about his “shadowling” were added to the list. Entire years of Roman’s life were added to the list, because hurting Virgil was hurting Thomas, because like it or not Virgil did not, in fact, set out to hurt Thomas, and how could Roman have been so stupid to not realize that--

After that, Roman decided that he needed to be more cautious.

He needed to check himself. The list was kept for a reason. So that he could stop failing Thomas. He decided that he would be more open minded. He couldn’t chance hurting Thomas like he had with Virgil ever again.

So when Deceit revealed himself to Thomas, that was how Roman approached the situation.

Even with the list in mind, Roman still made mistakes. He got defensive around Deceit, modeling after Patton, and every night afterwards, Roman would add those names to the list. It was like Virgil all over again. Sure, it wasn’t obvious now that Deceit was another knight in shining armor for Thomas, but Roman had been wrong before. He had been wrong too many times to count now. He couldn’t take that chance again.

When the callback came up, even Roman’s list couldn’t advise him.

Deceit wanted to go to the callback. Patton was saying that that was wrong. Roman had never before made a mistake when agreeing with Patton. Patton was almost always right. He knew what was good for Thomas. On the other hand, shutting out Deceit was almost exactly like the previous mistakes that Roman had made in regards to Virgil.

And on the third pretend-it-doesn’t-exist hand, Roman desperately wanted to go to the callback.

He wanted it more than he had wanted anything in quite a long time. And Roman was a selfish creature. Selfishness had appeared in his list on more than one occasion.

So Roman did what he thought was best--not what he wanted, no, never what he wanted, the stakes were too large to risk yet another failure against Thomas--and Roman listened to Patton. He sentenced Thomas to the wedding.

A mistake was not added to the list that night. He had finally done something right.

Then along came the day of the wedding, and Thomas was hurting. Roman didn’t quite know how--of course he didn’t, he was too stupid to figure it out--but he knew that this was his fault.

Patton tried to make light of it. Good, caring Patton tried to fix Roman’s mess, and ungrateful Roman just kept messing it up.

Everything tumbled downhill after that. Roman’s progress was Humpty-Dumpty, and his fall came in the form of aggressive overcorrection of his actions and a nervous laugh at an admittedly funny name.

And a nail in the coffin.

A confirmation that this failure was the final nail in the coffin.

“I thought I was your hero?”

A shake of a head.

Roman sunk out to his room and shoved his mirror off of his wall without a thought to the fragile glass it was made of. He pulled out the notebook with shaking fingers and grabbed a pen off his desk with a complete lack of care.

CHOOSING THE WEDDING.

Listening to Dec Janus.

Not listening to Janus.

Skipping Logan.

Not watching out for Thomas

Laughing at his name.

Item after item was added to the list. The pages of the notebook crumpled under his careless hand as he gripped the pages with an intensity that he didn’t even know how to feel. The pages were wet, his tears hitting the pages and drying in rough patches on the paper.

He didn’t even know himself what the real mistakes were. He wrote them all down for good measure.

By the time that Roman ran out of energy, the list was almost incomprehensible. Words scratched out and doubled over, not following the lines of the notebook and in atrocious handwriting.

But it would have to do. Because Roman couldn’t afford any more mistakes. This list could not afford to get any longer than it already was. He couldn’t fail Thomas this catastrophically ever again.

[lemonsandstrawberries]

Hashtag: RelationshipGoals

fandom: Stony (Steve x Tony)

summary: Steve is being forced into getting a Twitter accounts and logs into Tony’s for inspiration - one mistake later, he finds more than he asked for. Meaning, his boyfriend has a tickle kink and Steve has a lot of thinking to do. 

length: 5 468

a/n: Happy Friday 13th! *throws confetti* To celebrate I am posting a fic that contains one of the biggest fears for people with tickle kink - someone finding out when you are not ready to tell them. It has a happy ending, promise! Hope you all will enjoy this fic, feedback, reblogs and likes are appreciated and needed! fic inspired by this prompt. 

—————

Hashtag: RelationshipGoals

Long story short - Steve was getting a Twitter account.

Long story long...

It all started with a certain PR meeting held for the Avengers team, just this time, it was Steve vs the whole PR team. The problem was simple - Steve didn't like social media and didn't have an account on any of the numerous websites and apps. Fighting with aliens, planning new missions, schooling SHIELD agents - those were the zones he felt comfortable in. Some thought that the hidden reason behind the hostility towards social media was, that Steve, born in the 1920s, had a problem with using modern technology. Some called it endearing, some pathetic, the truth was, that Steve fairly quickly mastered each piece of technology he was given, skillfully using any given device. After all, he wasn't dense. Many apps were quite useful, some just plain entertaining, and it required a lot of navigating, but he managed to find some favorites. Just when it came to social media… Steve didn't feel like sharing his private life with unknown faces. Call him old-fashioned, but he liked having direct contact with people and as much as he liked to take a stop during his random walks in the city to talk with people who called themselves his fans, it quickly became too overwhelming. He wasn't good at such things and always thought he was too awkward and not what people expected. Steve didn't like that kind of pressure and didn't like the almost weekly notices from the PR team that he needed to make himself more 'accessible'. By no means, he was expected to stop and talk to everyone who ever called him or share mission details with strangers, but he needed to create a more public persona for Captain America and Steve Rogers.

Hence, Steve was encouraged to take a plunge into the world of social media. 

And he really, really, really didn't want to do that.

One - it was pretty tedious to keep up with everything. Tony eagerly showed him all social accounts he had - Twitter, Instagram, Facebook profile, Youtube, and it all just gave him a headache as Tony chattered which media was good for what and gladly showed him his own Instagram page (mostly workshop photos and meals Steve had prepared for him, which was kinda sweet) and if Steve became slightly interested in that, his interest dropped after hearing about filters and tags. Too much work. 

Second - he didn't have time to keep his theoretical accounts active and post new content regularly. Or more, he didn't want to make time, preferring to spend it on reading or training or hanging out with Tony or anything else, really. He had been gently suggested, that some celebrities (Steve's eyes widened a little after hearing that - was he a celebrity?) hire someone else to run their social media accounts. Steve shook his head at the proposition, knowing that none of his teammates did that and so he shouldn't either, not mentioning that everything posted wouldn't be sincere.

Third - Steve considered himself not an interesting person. He didn't have Tony's charisma, who, of course, had the biggest social media following ever, Thor's flair, which made his Youtube channel where he tasted food sent to him from all over the world by his viewers a huge success or Clint's humor, whose Internet activity limited to commenting on funny animal photos and home videos and people loved him. Even Bruce, seemingly even more awkward and distant when it came to dealing with a privacy-invading crowd, was doing great, kindling the interest of young kids in science with a series of easy to repeat experiments at home and railing about the importance of protecting and preserving the environment. Even Natasha didn't have a problem, her social media accounts full of useful self-defense tips for everyone who needed to feel safer. Steve just couldn't find anything in himself he would like to share with the world. He liked to keep his art private, his relationship private, and his whole life private. 

It should be the ending statement.

It wasn't.

And so Steve, feeling scolded, got back to his and Tony's shared floor, planning to hide, except that he was assigned a very simple task for the week.

Get a Twitter account.

Steve sat heavily on the couch, putting elbows on his knees and palms around his cheeks, definitely not pouting. Why on Earth did he need a Twitter account? Wasn't it enough that from time to time he appeared on Tony's account, being the supportive boyfriend, and allowing Tony share the photos of their date nights or even the short movies from Steve's training when Tony was proudly showing off Steve's impressive physique and using those damn filters and making small stars and glitter swirl around him. 

Speaking of Tony, he could use his boyfriend's advice... Steve checked his phone and knew that Tony was still stuck in a business meeting, and won't be back for an hour or so and as much as he wanted to not think about the Twitter issue it kept coming back to him. What was he supposed to write on Twitter? Something that wouldn't give too much about him, but would be safe and entertaining. He needed inspiration. Maybe a walk would clear his mind but as Steve was getting up, he noticed Tony's tablet laying at the edge of the coffee table. 

Well... Tony wouldn't mind if he took a peak, right? Granted, he never used Tony's tablet before without his boyfriend’s permission. It felt too personal and barging on privacy and it was almost a silent agreement between them that Steve won't touch Tony's electronic devices and Tony won't look through Steve's sketchbooks without prior agreement. But it was different, right? Tony's Twitter account was out there, for everyone, so it didn't matter if Steve would install the app on his phone and check the account, or go to the source and look through Tony's account. It might even help him to understand better how the app was working. 

Steve took the tablet and unlocked it, searching for the Twitter app. Letter T on a blue background. Steve pressed it and skimmed over the screen, looking at the design of the app. Huh, it looked very different from the account owner's point of view. He scrolled down the screen, seeing a lot of text, too much text because wasn't there a limit of signs per tweet? Further, into the app, Steve saw more of things he didn't recognize, didn't see any posts from other Avengers, instead of images and gifs and -

"Woah," Steve gaped, taking in what he was seeing. He quickly scrolled up, his face becoming heated, unsure what he just saw. For a minute, he turned the tablet in his hands, trying to decide if it really belonged to Tony and not someone else, but who else would have a hot red and gold cover, resembling the design of the Iron Man suit. It had to be Tony's tablet, which meant...

Those posts were Tony's. That account was Tony's. Tony had two Twitter accounts? Steve looked back, just now noticing that it wasn't Twitter after all. At the top of the screen on a background of dark blue in white letters was written Tumblr. Steve didn't hear of the app, it wasn't listed as one of the most popular ones for celebrities and that's probably why Tony used it for -

Steve wasn't exactly sure for what. For something secretive. Something he wanted to hide. Things he didn't admit even to Steve. 

Cautiously, Steve scrolled down again, trying to keep an open mind and be more cautious. He wasn't a prude, he knew that people had different kinks and it was completely normal. Heck, he and Tony had a very healthy sex and intimate life and the sight of Tony tied down for their playtime always made Steve's blood boil with lust and desire and they did indulge in some kinks, Steve current favorite one included spanking Tony's bouncy ass and watch it jiggle and the skin turn red. Tony had no problems with sharing his kinky fantasies and Steve was always willing to give it a go, sometimes proposing things on his own, like wax play, which wasn't only sexy but also artistic - Tony's body colored with drips of different colored wax was a beautiful sight. This... This was something different, Steve didn't think to consider. 

There were pictures, that without context seemed innocent, like an array of feathers on a pillow. Some were less subtle and showed a part of sucked in stomach, escaping from a coming closer feather duster. The gifs were the most intriguing - a tied up, blindfolded man, laughing and squirming, while a different man was...

Tickling him?

Steve's brow furrowed as he watched the gif, frame by frame. There was no doubt that it was tickling, fingers gliding over tied man's armpits and sides. Steve expected this to be a prelude, something more to follow, but it was all. Tickling was the main point. Steve blushed when he realized that if there were gifs, there had to be a video and who knew how long it was. How many minutes would it take to bring someone to the brink of hysterics, to make them crumble, but at the same time make it pleasurable? People were not forced into filming porn and following that principle, there were not forced into filming tickle kink videos.

And that being said... 

"Huh..." Steve mused out, bits of information falling into one picture. They never discussed it, but in the back of his head, Steve had this thought that Tony enjoyed being tickled, or at least didn't mind terribly. The way he squirmed between Steve's tickling hands but didn't try to run away. How he laughed and screamed for mercy whenever Steve targeted a sensitive spot and always seemed a bit disappointed when the tickling ended but masked it with a smile and complaints of being assaulted. Sometimes, Steve just felt provoked into tickling his boyfriend, like that one time, Tony had taken his sketchbook and hid away, refusing to say where he hid it and Steve had to tickle the information out of him until Tony was absolutely incoherent from laughter and breathless. 

That was cute. All those shared tickle moments were cute, but Steve never thought that they could be... hot. And intimate. He looked back at the gif, at the way the tickled man arched and bucked, but was not able to escape the ticklish strokes delivered over his skin. What if Tony was the one tied and spread in the chair and Steve was the one standing behind, dotting his fingertips over the bare torso, having that sense of power and control, enjoying the ticklish tremble of the bothered skin. It became a tempting image in his head. 

'Guuuuys, I don't know what to do.'

Steve's eyes caught on some text among the images and gifs. A separate post.

'I still can't tell my bf that I like being tickled. I just can't! There is this block in my head -'

Steve read the text, feeling that he might know the author. 

'I even did that thing you recommended with hiding his stuff away -'

Definitely knew the author. At the top of the post, he saw a name, probably the username and clicked on it. Blue background color, and image of feathers and the username in white bold font. The Spare Parts Man.

That was one major hint...

Steve scrolled down this page, seeing more text and images of people being tickled, some like, a gif that was of a zoomed in stomach, the belly button tickled by a tip of the feather, signed with a 'omg, goals', whatever that meant. Steve tried to search for the text he saw on the previous page, but couldn't find it anymore, instead saw more posts, where people seemed to be interacting with the author.

'Hi, SP! I was the one who sent you the asks with hiding your BF's stuff -'

'I am sure your BF will understand, from what you said, you are dating for a long time -'

'You still didn't tell him??? What are you waiting for, GO GO GO!'

Steve pursed his lips together, feeling upset that Tony was so willing to share with strangers, but not with him. This whole site seemed so secretive, and while Steve felt a bit betrayed, he started to think about things from Tony's perspective. Tickling wasn't a mainstream kink. Bondage, spanking, food play - all the things they had tried seemed to be more acceptable in the sex world while tickling... Some people enjoyed it, some hated it. Steve was somewhere in between. It could be a fun thing among loved ones, but could quickly become overwhelming and unbearable. Steve didn't think about it earlier, but he really liked tickling Tony. He loved the way his body twitched, the sound of his laughter, and the feeling of closeness and trust in the action. For Steve it was fun. For Tony, it had to run much deeper, forming stronger connections than it did for Steve. 

'I don't want to lose him. What if he thinks I am a freak?'

No, Steve would never think that. Tony was the great love of his life and Steve accepted him on every level. 

"Oh, babe..." Steve sighed softly, reading more posts, some screaming nervousness as Tony was pouring his heart out, feeling miserable with his inability to tell Steve the truth, some so heartwarming and oozing happiness when Tony was describing Steve's last tickle attacks and how incredibly good and completed it made Tony feel. 

That. Steve wanted to make Tony feel like that every day. Satiated and fulfilled and safe. 

No more secrets. 

Carried on the moment, Steve pressed on an icon with a pencil and began to write. 

***

Tony was bored. So, so bored. He caught a glimpse of Pepper sending him a scolding look and straightened up in his seat, pretending to pay attention. He just wanted to go back home and curl up next to Steve, feeling Steve's fingers stroking his hair and maybe, if he got lucky, Steve would rub his belly, using just enough pressure to make him smile and feel like melting. He started to smile at the thought and Pepper sent him a confused look. Uh oh. He better control himself. Tony grinned sheepishly at Pepper and set his face in a schooled, thoughtful look, trying to focus his attention on the meeting. Just half an hour more... It was all ending statements, so it was nothing bad if he decided to check his social media, right? Cautiously, Tony took out his phone and unlocked the screen, keeping the phone under the table. A new tasting video from Thor, with a package of sweets sent from the Netherlands. Tony made a mental note to drop later to Thor's floor and ask if he had any stroopwafels left to share because they were amazing with black coffee. Clint commenting on funny cats videos, Tony added it to his watch later list. As usual, his own social media were bursting with notifications, people raving over Iron Man and asking for more videos of Steve training routine, which, Tony couldn't blame them, the sight of his boyfriend working out was heaven. He even decided to check his Tumblr, curious if anyone sent him some more tips or maybe just left him a nice message -

Oh, that was weird. Usually, he had maybe two or three messages, some reblogs, and a few comments. This time, his app was bursting with notifications and Tony didn't post anything that could cause such a commotion in the last days.

'WHAT. WHAT????"

'Nooooooo... Please don't break up with him! He loves you so much!'

"The hell, dude! You invaded your bf's privacy like that?? You're the worst!"

Tony didn't understand anything. Maybe he clicked and shared something by accident. There was a slight possibility that his account was hacked. Maybe -

Maybe it was way, way worse. 

There was a new text post on his main, one he didn't write.

'Hi, this is Spare Part Man's boyfriend. I found this account by accident and me and my boyfriend have a lot to talk about once I see him.'

No. No, no, no.

"Tony? Tony, are you okay?!"

Tony didn't realize he started to hyperventilate until Pepper's voice brought him back. Everyone was staring at him and Tony felt like vomiting.

"I am fine," Tony said, not meaning it, his voice coming out squeaky. "Can we - excuse me, I have to go," Tony rambled out, sending a sorry look in Pepper's direction and trying to walk out of the conference room as calmly as possible. It felt like the whole world was spinning around him, making him feel nauseous. Tony stumbled to the window and pressed his face against the cool glass, trying to soothe his heated skin and get his thoughts back in order.

It wasn't supposed to happen. Not like this. Maybe it was never supposed to happen, staying as his hidden fantasy and dark secret. What if he deleted the account, right here, right now, would he be able to convince Steve that it never existed? 

No. Steve wouldn't fall for it. And Tony felt so stupid for creating that account in the first place, but he needed a place to vent. He didn't plan on socializing, sharing his life, just get the urges out and move on. He just... Wanted to feel accepted. Find people who thought the same as he did. Not feel so alone.

And he would end alone because Steve definitely was going to dump him.

***

"I am back!"

Tony was a genius. He had numerous diplomas to prove it. Yet, he decided that the best thing to do would be to march into his and Steve's shared floor, acting like nothing ever happened. Maybe if he managed to keep his cool he could put this whole Tumblr thing as a social study. Just a research on kinks. No biggie. He could do this.

"Tony, come to the bedroom for a second!"

Somehow hearing Steve's voice made this situation very real and not like Tony imagined it. He couldn't say anything from the tone of Steve's voice, it was neutral, not angry, but also wasn't the cheerful, loving one Steve had towards him. On usual days, Steve would come to him, resembling an excited puppy and lick his face - kiss, Tony meant kiss, and then they would sit on the couch and share their day. Their bedroom was a private, closed space and once Tony set his foot there, there was no way back. 

Feeling a nervous twist in his stomach, Tony peeked into the bedroom, just to feel if the situation was as bad as he feared. Steve was on the bed, forehead creased in thought, and was looking at the space in front of him until he spotted Tony from the corner of his eyes.

"Tony - " Steve started, sitting up straight, pulling shoulders back.

"No, Steve, I - " Tony walked into the bedroom, trying to make his voice strong. Just remember what he had planned and it would be fine. "I want to talk first, okay?" 

Steve blinked and frowned lightly, but kept his lips tight. Alright, if Tony insisted.

"Okay," Tony nodded, trying to give himself some courage and began to pace around the room. "I know you found my Tumblr account," he said the obvious, struggling to keep his voice firm. "And - and it was not true, you know that, right? I just - research - an experiment to - ahh," Tony quickly got lost in his words, noticing Steve's look changing to a confused one. "I - ah, fuck, fuck, fuck - " Tony couldn't get any coherent words out and stopped and hid his face in hands. He continued to quietly curse, not knowing how to get out of this mess and not lose everything. 

"Babe..."

Tony almost jumped away, when Steve came closer and wrapped arms around him. After a moment of hesitation, Tony buried himself into his soldier's arms, his face pressed against Steve's neck. Probably the last hug he would receive from Steve. This whole thing won't make Avengers stuff awkward at all. What if Steve would quit the team? Tony couldn't imagine not being able to see Steve anymore. He needed him. He would change, he would do better. Steve couldn't break up with him. 

"Of course that I am not breaking up with you," Steve said suddenly, and Tony winced, not realizing he said it out loud. "Is that what you thought?" Steve asked, sounding shocked. Reluctantly, Tony nodded. Somehow he was used to being rejected and walking away from problems was one of the things he did and expected the same happen to him. 

"God, Tony," Steve said in an exasperated huff, not believing how quickly this whole thing could escalate in Tony's mind. Then again, he should know, because Tony did think too much and sometimes didn't stop his thoughts on time, letting them drag him deeper and deeper. "Tony, I am not breaking up with you," Steve said again, just to make sure the words sunk in his boyfriend's head. "And I am sorry," Steve gently put his thumb and forefinger under Tony's chin, encouraging him to eye contact. 'Sorry you turned out to be messed up in the head,' Tony finished in his mind, looking into Steve's blue eyes. 

"I am sorry for barging into your space when you didn't feel ready to share yet," Steve said, closing the distance between them and leaning his forehead against Tony's.

What?

Tony didn't reply, just stared, his brown eyes widening. Steve was... apologizing to him? Not the other way around?

"I read some of your blog," Steve said and Tony panicked again, Steve holding him closer when he felt brunet's body tense, "and I understand how hard it is for you to talk about it and how important it is for you. I really do. If anything, I am... a bit disappointed you didn't tell me. Why didn't you?"

Tony's mouth twisted into a scowl. He was disappointed with himself too, but it was hard. Harder than admitting that he liked being pinned down by Steve, or spanked, as it all seemed... simpler. It was obvious why people who enjoyed it were turned on by it. Tickling wasn't easy to explain. 

"I wanted to," Tony finally spoke, his voice coming out quiet, "I didn't know how," this wasn't a good answer. Tony closed his eyes, not able to look at Steve. "I was embarrassed, I guess."

"Hmmm," Steve hummed in understanding, waiting for Tony to continue, but he didn't say anything more. Tony had no problems with voicing out his needs on his site, but face to face with Steve, he was fumbling and struggling for words. Anonymity gave him a sense of control which was being stripped away from him, layer by layer. Maybe with time, Tony would open more, and it was on Steve's side to nurture that vulnerable mindset until Tony would feel strong enough and confident to voice out his true needs. 

"Then... can you tell me why you like it?" Steve tried, sounding gentle and not judgmental. Keeping an open mind was the key here.

"I don't know," Tony said quickly, sounding defensive. He didn't mean to, but it was stranger than him. He didn't want Steve to judge him, to think less of him, but... It was Steve. Steve who was always so understanding and didn't laugh at him and did his best to keep Tony feel accepted. It won't work if Steve would be the only one willing to share. "I guess," Tony corrected himself, trying to be more open, "I like the trust in it. And closeness," he said, tugging on Steve's clothes and hiding more into his boyfriend, "and, uh, it feels good."

"Feels good?"

"Yeah," Tony admitted, burying his heated face deeper into Steve's neck. "Feels really good. Especially when you are the one ti - doing it."

"Oh," Steve said, carding his fingers through the short hair on the back of Tony's head. Tony shivered, just slightly, from the light touch, smiling against Steve's skin and Steve felt an urge to touch him all over. This time differently, more aware and more intimate, paying closer attention to the reactions. "So... you wanna do it?"

"Do what?"

"You know what."

Tony moved away from Steve, showing a confused face. That kinda felt like mocking him, but Steve's face was honest. And it would certainly change the mood and make Tony feel better about this whole day. "I don't know," Tony said, just to be safe, "do you want to do it?"

"Heck yeah."

"What? You do?" Tony asked, his mouth falling agape at the enthusiasm. 

"Sure. You like it and I like tickling you too. It's a win-win, right?"

Tony started to smile in relief. It was really happening. Steve accepted one of Tony's darkest secrets and even wanted to take part in it. Tony could barely wrap his mind around it, already feeling excited and giddy.

"So?" Steve asked again, eyes sparkling, waiting for permission from his boyfriend.

"If you keep asking, it takes the surprise factor AWAAHHAHA!" Tony's newly found boost of confidence was efficiently cut off when Steve latched hands to his sides and squeezed repeatedly. Tony doubled over in laughter and squirmed away, watching with a pounding heart as Steve followed him, smiling beautifully mischievous. "No, no, no, wait, Steve! STEHEVE!" Tony screeched in laughter when Steve ran forward, pushing Tony on the bed, and falling with him. "ACK! STE - hahaha! Waaait!" Tony wailed when fingers were going up and down his body tickling intensely. When Tony became pink in the face and a little breathless, Steve stopped, leaning in and kissing Tony's smiling lips.

"I love you, babe," Steve whispered, looking at his lover.

"I love you too," Tony answered, his heart hammering from the ticklish rush and all love he had for Steve. 

"Are we good?"

"We are good," Tony assured, still not believing that everything turned out so great. 

"Good," Steve smiled, and just now Tony realized that somehow both of his wrists were in soldier's hold and Steve easily pinned his hands above his head, leaving his torso exposed. "Because now," Steve said, sitting on Tony's thighs and slowly sliding his free hand under Tony's shirt. "I want to test every ticklish spot on you."

"Oh fuhahahck - " Tony wriggled uselessly, his stomach sinking in when Steve gently ran fingertips over the soft skin. "Steve, Steve, pleaheehehehese!"

"This is just your tummy and you already are so ticklish. It is a very promising start."

"Ahhahaha!"

"Oh, is this rib ticklish? How about this one? And this one?"

"GAAA HAHAHA!"

"Oh look, the higher I go, the more you laugh. Sooo, this means that when I do this -"

"PFF HAHAHAHA!"

"That's one ticklish armpit you have, babe! Let's find out if the other one is as ticklish -"

Steve was grinning, watching Tony crumbling and laughing, coming apart under his fingers. Steve was right, it was a win-win for both of them.

***

"You should write on your Tumblr."

"Huh?"

"You should," Steve repeated, rolling on completely naked Tony and kissing his lips, "write on your," a kiss on the chin, "Tumblr," Steve finished, blowing a raspberry into Tony's neck.

"HAAHAHA! Stoooop," Tony tried to swat Steve away, feeling too blissful to move. Of course that a long, intimate tickle session changed into an amazing make out. It was incredible how the tickle foreplay increased their appetite and how wonderfully responsive Tony became. 

Steve laughed and rolled on his side, looking at Tony with adoration. Laughing made Tony ten times more attractive in Steve's eyes, and Tony was off the scale to start with. 

"I am serious, babe," Steve tried again, gently poking his finger all over Tony's bare belly, making him squeak funnily and curl up, "write on your Tumblr. Everyone has to be worried."

"Ah hahaha... Ohkahay!" Tony agreed, shielding his stomach with one hand and using the other one to reach for his phone. "Uhh... Should I update and delete it?" Tony asked. With everything working out so great, there was no reason for him to keep that account. No more secret lusting, when he had it all in real life.

"If you want to," Steve said truthfully, "or maybe you can keep it for a bit longer because I might need some inspiration on how to take you apart."

"Ahhh, not sure if I want to give you access to that sort of power," Tony teased, opening the app. "Huh, people kinda hate you."

Steve shrugged, understanding that what he wrote, did sound menacing, even if it wasn't his intention. "Just write that we are fine and your boyfriend plans on fulfilling your each and every one tickle fantasy."

"You do?" Tony asked, voice trembling with excitement.

"All of them, babe," Steve assured, smiling broadly. He had remembered some of the things he read and gifs he saw, and could easily imagine Tony on the receiving end. 

Looking enthusiastic, Tony got to writing. Soon, Steve got up and leaned over Tony's shoulder, looking at the screen.

'Hi, guys. Sorry for the sudden silence but as you saw we had a situation here. It is all good now, me and BF talked, and he turned to be all sweet about it, not bragging, I just had my first tickle session and it was amazing! So, I just wanted to give you an update, that I am fine. More than fine. My BF said that I can keep this Tumblr if I want to and he will even use it as an inspiration, so aaaah, can't wait. Just don't give him any ideas! I am gonna talk to you all soon, but for now, I and my BF have plans. See you later!'

After the post got published, Tony and Steve didn't have to wait for a reaction.

'AAAAH! I AM SO GLAD EVERYTHING IS FINE! YOU BOYS HAVE FUN NOW!'

'Awesome, couple goals.'

'That's great, dude, but I hope your BF apologized.'

"That's the one that doesn't like me, right?" Steve squinted his eyes, pointing at the last comment. Tony laughed and nosed Steve's cheek playfully.

"It is okay, I like you," he smiled. "Do you want to have a nickname? That will make it much easier for me to write when you are involved."

"Um, sure," Steve said, not entirely sold on the idea, but not wanting to shot Tony's idea down. "You call yourself Spare Parts Man, right?" Steve asked and Tony nodded. "Soooo... How about you call me Iron Man?"

Tony's smile dropped in surprise, and he laughed mockingly. "Seriously, dude?"

"Hey, the darkest place is under the candle," Steve said, sounding defensive.

"Fine," Tony agreed, rolling his eyes dramatically. He reblogged the post and added an update.

'BF wants you to call him Iron Man. I know, lame.'

"Ack!" Tony almost dropped his phone when Steve scoldingly pinched his side. Soon the first comments came.

'Ah you sound like a superhero couple, how cute!'

'I am shipping you both. #relationshipgoals'

'Wow, your BF is not very creative, isn't he? But fine, let it be IRON MAN.'

"Write to this one that I don't like them either," Steve hissed, looking at the last comment. 

Tony laughed and turned to Steve, pressing their lips together in a kiss. Long and sweet. The kind of kiss that was the perfect happy ending to a tickle kink coming out story.

"Oh, interesting!" Steve suddenly said, ending the kiss too soon and looking at one of the comments, smiling wickedly. 

"What is int - noooooo!" Tony wailed, understanding the reason behind the smile. It was stronger than him and Tony started to panic. "It is a lie, Steve! Don't believe the lieeee no no aaah HELP!"

Steve laughed, wrestling Tony down and pinning his hands once again. If Tony was already getting this worked up, there was no way Steve would back up.

"No, please!" Tony giggled, kicking his legs, trying to wriggle away, as Steve's menacingly moving fingers were getting closer and closer. "I cahahahan't!"

Somehow, Steve didn't believe him. Instead, he believed the comment.

'Hey, this is for Iron Man - I am sure you know already, that SP's stomach is really ticklish, but did you try tickling his belly button specifically? From what SP writes it is a very ticklish outie. Have fun!'

When Steve pressed his finger over Tony's outie delicately and Tony burst into giggling, almost maniacal laughter, Steve was in heaven. It was settled, Tony was keeping his blog for further tips for Steve. 

[jeongyunhoed]

A year after the events of Past-Present-Future, Lee Mirae, Choi San, and Jeong Yunho receive a mysterious envelope containing photos and notes about the deaths of several individuals. The deeper they go into the case, they find that the entertainment industry hides a very dark secret.

Group: ATEEZ Pairing: Yunho/OC Genres: It’s a little bit of: adventure, romance, mystery, crime, fantasy, action. Things to note: It also features mentions of other idols/artists: Junhong (Zelo), Dean, Chanyeol, Enhypen etc.

Superpowers AU if it wasn’t obvious as well.

T/W: Themes of death, violence, demons, cults, blood, use of weapons and/or firearms, use of drugs (both recreational and medical), implied/referenced assault, implied/referenced suicide, cussing

A/N: So, because of the flow of the story so far, things might end in less than 10 chapters. Sorry it took me a while to finish this. I was in a bit of a rut but as of a few weeks ago, I’ve come back from it but I’m still just swamped with work so yeah.

Masterlist

Chapter 6

Mirae opened her eyes, immediately feeling the cold concrete on her cheek as she sat up. Everything had been a blur, and as she looked around, she had no idea where she was. A cold gust of air hit her face, making her realize where she really was. There were small shelves upon shelves full of bags of the same gold powder she stole from the entertainment agency. But in front of her was a door she knew was thick, similar to the doors of vaults in banks. 

She was in the store room. The store room that was full of the drugs Madame Seo supplied to the men who were involved in the deaths of people in the entertainment industry including a police officer. Madame Seo, who commanded an idol group and fashion boutique staff that turned out to be anything but human. Mirae cleared her throat, suddenly feeling a tightness around her neck.

There was a device attached to her neck and she immediately knew it was those collars. The collars developed by the Kang family, the collars that were designed specifically for mutants. A collar she knew very well that produced electric shocks whenever she used her powers. Mirae sighed and reached into her jacket pockets. Her staff was nowhere in sight, likely thrown away by the idol group that took her. The belt Junhong gave her with the truth serum and the disks were also gone. All she had with her was a deck of cards. 

Feeling the exposed parts of her neck, where the boy in blue struck her, the cut had healed. She wondered where Yunho was, where San was, where everyone was and if they could find her. Mirae got up on her feet and approached the door for a sign of where she really was. She shuddered when she felt another cold gust of wind, only realizing that she was in a refrigerated store room. 

She looked up at the corners of the room for a sign of security cameras. There seemed to be none, but she knew she couldn’t be too sure there wasn’t any. She rubbed the fog off the small window and saw two large men playing cards on a nearby table. Mirae looked around the shelves and corners of the room for the cameras, eventually spotting a tiny camera wired into the wall disguised as one of the screws on the reinforced steel. 

Mirae saw the door on the other side open, and she saw a woman wearing a black shawl over her head, but was dressed elegantly. She immediately noticed the faint black leopard print on her skirt and it reminded her of the leopard-themed fashion boutique and what Wooyoung had seen. Behind her was the idol group. They were coming towards the room. 

“Is she awake?” Mirae heard the woman ask. 

“Haven’t heard a peep from the room, she probably isn’t,” A man replied. 

“I haven’t fed in hours,” She heard one of the boys say. “Why don’t we just feed from her?” 

“Hush, my darling Niki, I told you, her blood is not for the taking. She is valuable to us, to what we’re about to accomplish tonight,” The woman replied in a honeyed voice. 

The door of the room suddenly opened, making Mirae back away, the woman and the boys all looking at her with amused expressions. “The soul-taker is awake and kicking,” Mirae could tell the woman was smiling. “I wouldn’t use your powers if I were you.” 

“I’ve worn these before, if you didn’t know, Madame Seo,” She said. 

“Oh I know you have. Yeosang keeps the plans and inventions of his grandchildren, especially the anti-mutant ones,” The woman said. “I’m not here to kill you, but I am here to remind you how painful it would be if you tried to escape.” 

“I won’t be alone, you know, there will be people coming for me,” Mirae replied. 

The woman laughed, and the boys behind her were chuckling. “That’s what you think, and that is what I am expecting. Lee Mirae, the assassin, the martyr, the heroine, which one is it? I can sense how desperate you must be to act like one, but which one it is, remains to be seen,” she said. 

“Neither, I’m not those things,” Mirae replied. 

“No wonder Yeosang has such a fondness for you,” Madame Seo commented, and Mirae could sense a tinge of annoyance in her tone. “He knows what he’s dealing with, you’re exactly his type.” 

“How would you know?” 

Madame Seo smirked as she lifted the shawl over her head and Mirae could see that her eyes were different. It was like a cat’s, a bright yellow, almost glowing. “I know because I know Yeosang, surely you probably knew how...fond he is for you? I can read his mind like an open book.” 

“Yeah? Can you read his mind now?” Mirae glanced at the boys. She hoped Yunho would know where she was. 

The woman turned to the idol group. “Boys, prepare for your television special, zero mistakes from all of you,” She said. 

“Yes, mother,” They turned to leave, noticing a man who was waiting for them. He looked especially uncomfortable. 

Madame Seo turned back to Mirae. “Make yourself comfortable here, you’ll most certainly have to be,” She put the shawl back over her face and walked off, the door closing behind her. 

Mirae watched the woman walk off, trying to look at every detail of what everything outside the room looked like. She could only hope Yunho could hear her. Smoke was suddenly filling the room, making her look up. It was coming from tiny holes where she remembered some cameras were hooked up to. She covered her nose with her jacket, pounding her fists on the door to get out. The closer she looked, Mirae noticed that the smoke appeared to be...glittering. She took out a card and her eyes and fingertips glowed red. 

Mirae felt the surges of electricity course through her body the more she charged the card she was holding, making her stagger and fall over. “Come on, come on,” She muttered, trying to withstand the pain and holding her breath to keep herself from inhaling the fumes. She covered her nose in time for her to throw the card, causing it to explode when it hit the door. It only caused a dark patch. She felt something drop on her hand. It was blood. Her nose began to bleed. 

She took out another card, her eyes glowing again as she charged the card with all the energy she could give. The shocks seem to get even more painful the more she held on until she threw the card again. The card hit the same spot on the door, causing a dent. More blood dripped down to her top. Mirae could feel her energy wane as she took out another card, the fumes getting thicker. 

Mirae groaned in pain as she charged the card again and throwing it as far as she could, aiming for any part of the door. The door had broken down, making the two men stand up. She got back on her feet, feeling her energy return as she charged towards the two men, knocking them down with a few maneuvers. There was blood on the corners of her mouth and dried blood from her nose. She needed to get out, wherever she was. She also had a bone to pick with Yeosang from what she found out. 

She was already several feet away from the bodies of the two men when she felt ropes latch onto her ankles and making her fall forward. More ropes suddenly latched onto her wrists, keeping her down and making her squirm. Mirae squirmed, trying to break free from the ropes that kept her tied down. One of the boys from the idol group, whose name she remembered was Sunghoon, had materialized out of nowhere. “Tsk, tsk, tsk, if mother hadn’t said you were not to be fed from, I would’ve had you all to myself,” He bent down, stroking her hair. 

“Looks like you’re not so lucky,” Mirae spat. 

Sunghoon smiled. “Look who’s talking,” His pointer finger turned into a talon and he struck the exposed skin of her neck with it. Mirae had gone unconscious again. 

~ 

Yunho froze as they were about to look at the van that Junhong was working on. He could hear Mirae until he couldn’t again. He heard her thoughts for some time, figuring out where she was from what she was mentally describing. “They have Mirae, Madame Seo,” He muttered, making all of them turn to him, including Junhong and Ino. 

“Madame Seo has Mirae hostage?” San asked. 

“Kind of, Ino hyung is right. They’re planning on using Mirae, and those boys, that idol group, are with her. But now I can’t hear her anymore, it’s like she went unconscious again,” Yunho explained. 

“That means she’s definitely being held at that building Wooyoung was talking about,” Hongjoong said, Seonghwa opening all the van doors with a wave of his hand, a look of amazement on his face when it worked. “We have to go in.” 

Yunho sprinted towards the driver’s seat while San got in the passenger seat, the rest of them climbing into the back. “There’s no more time, we have to find them,” He said, starting the vehicle when Junhong tossed the keys to him. 

Thunder began to rumble in the skies and clouds were swirling from a distance. Ino’s expression fell. “Go, all of you,” He said. 

“We will,” Yunho nodded at them before driving away, the rest of them hurriedly fastening their seatbelts. “Let’s hope we’re not too late, if we’re late for something,” He stomped on the gas to drive away from the safehouse. 

He drove in the direction of the city proper again, almost frantically turning corners and swerving lanes. “Calm down, will you?” Hongjoong said from the back. “We can’t die before we get to them.” 

“Sorry, I just keep thinking about Mirae, and what they’re planning to do, and what Ino hyung was saying earlier,” Yunho replied, trying to keep himself together. He was trying his hardest not to be so worried. All sorts of scenarios were coming into his head. What if Mirae was being tortured? What if Mirae was being experimented on? What if Yeosang did something to her? What if Madame Seo had her fed to that idol group that took her? 

“So, it looks like the gang’s back together,” Mingi spoke, breaking the momentary silence that set in. He was opening and closing his lighter, while thinking of the exercises that Junhong put him through. His training was similar to that of Chanyeol’s when he started. 

“Looks like it, yeah,” Jongho glanced at him, staring at the nunchaku in his hand. “Didn’t think we’d be aware enough to go through this too.” 

“But we know better now, it’s a chance for us to do better, do something good instead of all the bad things we’ve done over the years,” Seonghwa chimed in, running his fingers along the string of his bow. “It’s a good thing Mirae knocked us out last year, huh.” 

They nodded, looking down at the weapons they were wielding. Yunho kept driving to the direction Junhong told them before they left and the building Wooyoung had described. A building, in the middle of the city. “Mind if we stop by Kang Tower?” He had an idea. 

San stared at him. “You think that’s where Mirae’s being kept?” 

“No, but I do have a bone to pick with Yeosang, and I know he’s up there somewhere,” Yunho grumbled, making a sharp turn that made everyone at the back fall over. “Not sorry about that at all,” He said, sensing what Hongjoong was going to say. 

San gripped the armrest as Yunho made more turns in the direction of the building. “You think he’s going to talk this time?” 

“Mirae is in danger, of course he’ll talk,” Yunho pointed out, remembering what he heard from her thoughts. He pulled the van up across the street from the building. 

“That’s-we’re at Kang Tower?! Is this the place?!” They heard Wooyoung exclaim from the backseat. 

“No, but I’ve got some business with Yeosang, maybe he’ll talk when there are more of us in the room. If we’re lucky, Mirae might be somewhere in this building too,” Yunho called out, turning off the engine. 

The seven of them got down, the people passing by giving them strange looks, especially at Wooyoung and Hongjoong, whose swords were exposed from under and behind their jackets and at Seonghwa, whose bow and quiver full of arrows were also exposed. “You’ll probably have to teleport us inside,” San muttered as they crossed the street. 

“We don’t have to, remember the elevator?” Yunho raised a brow as they went ahead past the front desk. He still remembered the elevator they rode in when they confronted the Kang family a year ago. “It’s not even dark out here either.” 

They squeezed inside the lift, pressing the few buttons that he knew led to his home. The elevator later opened into one part of Yeosang’s apartment and all of them stepped out, Hongjoong already poised to activate the blades from his sleeves. San was already poised to pull the trigger of his harpoon gun as they crept further into the apartment. 

“Yeosang?” San called out the further they crept into the apartment. 

“I realized it’s almost morning,” Jongho muttered as he saw the clock nearby, making them glance at him. 

“Come out, come out, wherever you are, I don’t have all morning,” Yunho called out some more. 

Wooyoung looked at the surroundings. “Maybe this is my time to shine,” He said. “Wait for me, I’ll do the checking-” 

“No, I’ve got a problem with him, I’ll do it,” Yunho stopped him and stepped into the dark corner of the hall and vanished. 

“That’s not going to stop me, we need to find Mirae now,” Wooyoung had transformed into a shadow. He slinked along the walls and on the floor, almost leading the way for the rest of them to check. 

“Tsk, tsk, tsk” 

From the living room was the boy in red that San recognized and immediately pulled the trigger of the harpoon on him. The boy was quick to dodge the arrow coming for him. A boy in pink also appeared in the study. “This is a trap,” He stared, pulling the arrow back to fire at the boy in red again. 

“Kind of late to realize that, isn’t it?” The boy in pink giggled, grabbing Wooyoung’s shadow form by the feet but was kicked away. 

Jongho growled as the spikes from his body began to protrude. “I don’t think our powers can do this,” He groaned from the pain. 

“We have to try,” Seonghwa’s eyes had glowed green, as did his fingertips. He tried to concentrate to knock the two boys in colored tracksuits off of Wooyoung and off of Mingi, who was having trouble taking his lighter out. “I-I don’t think I’m strong enough-” 

“I’ll do it!” Hongjoong sped past the boy in pink, only to be stopped and grabbed at the throat by a boy in orange. 

“Not so fast,” The boy in orange smirked, his eyes turning red. Hongjoong could feel sharp nails digging into his neck as the boy’s hand had transformed into a claw. 

A boy in a purple tracksuit had tackled Seonghwa to the ground, while Jongho tried to charge at the boy in green. “Mutants, more mutants, mother will love this,” The boy in purple hissed. 

“Freaks,” Jongho stabbed the boy in green with the spike from his arm, making him growl. Remembering what Junhong had taught them, Jongho used the spike on his leg to stab the boy some more. “Demon freaks,” With a strike of his nunchaku, the boy in green fell to the floor but quickly grabbed onto Jongho’s ankle, growling as he struck the spike. 

“If this is a trap, where the hell did Yunho end up?!” Mingi groaned as he tried flicking the lighter in his hand while struggling under the grip of the boy in pink.

~ 

Yunho had reappeared in Yeosang’s office. No one was around. He had reappeared earlier in his bedroom, but no sign of him. “Shit,” He grumbled, knocking over the glass nameplate in frustration. 

The door opened and in came the male that he was looking for. “Kind of rude to enter without knocking, isn’t it?” Yeosang asked, only to be pinned against the wall, Yunho’s hand on his throat. 

“Where did they take Mirae? Better tell me now or I get rid of you for good,” Yunho said coldly, rage boiling and bubbling inside him.

Yeosang stared at him. “So you know.” 

“Of course I fucking knew, I was there when those guys took her,” Yunho glared at him. “What does Madame Seo want with her?” 

Yunho’s grip tightened, making him cough. “She wants what Mirae has, she wants her power, she’s an omega-level mutant Yunho, you should’ve known that,” Yeosang spluttered. “But if you must truly know, I didn’t know they would take her, but now they have, I figured it out-” 

“No shit Sherlock, what’s she planning to do with Mirae’s powers? It would be too easy to take them onto herself, wouldn’t it?” Yunho asked, tightening his grip on Yeosang’s throat again. “If Mirae dies for good, her blood is on your hands.” 

“You know something?” Yeosang said, in almost a hiss. “You’re not lying,” His eyes began to turn red and he pushed Yunho away, sending him flying to the other side of the room. “It’s a good thing I was given a hit before coming back in here, I did a few lines of the dust she has given me. And now I see the light that she has been telling me about.” 

Yunho got back up on his feet, taking out one of his sai. “You’re still not telling me what I need to know,” He said, as Yeosang took his walking stick that stood near the door and pulling out a concealed blade from the handle. 

“Fancy a little duel?” Yeosang tried to strike first, only for Yunho to block him off. 

“When it all comes down to it, Mirae would be very disappointed in you,” Yunho matched his strikes, quickly blocking him with every move he made until Yeosang took a chance to get through, the blade scratching his cheek. “She respects you, dare I say even grateful for helping her, and you leave her to die just like that?” He taunted, even as he was unsure of what he was saying. 

“Like that’s going to change anything,” Yeosang said with a sly smile. “Everyone else has to die sometime.” 

Yunho glared at him again, tackling Yeosang to the floor. “Oh really? I know how you feel about her, why else would she be fucking kidnapped when you have something to do with it? Don’t fucking tell me this is just a coincidence.” 

The tip of his sai’s prongs were aimed at Yeosang’s heart as Yunho tried to make him talk. Yeosang only laughed. “Just like her name, Mirae is the future of this planet, she is powerful enough to cause destruction, and cleanse the world in fire.” 

“So that’s what they want, huh,” Yunho grumbled, still glaring at him. ��You will lead me to where Mirae is right now.” 

“Like I’d tell you where she is, I don’t even know where she put Mirae, my dear, dear, Mirae,” Yeosang’s eyes were glazed over. “Even if I knew, it’s too late, Yunho, it’s too late for you to make any moves, Mirae is with them, and there’s nothing you can do about it.” 

“You don’t know me,” Yunho hit Yeosang with the handle of his sai knocking him unconscious. He stood up, placing his sai back into his pocket. He closed his eyes, trying to concentrate to hear Mirae’s thoughts. He couldn’t. Nothing came to him. 

Yunho was about to return to the dark part of the office when he saw shimmering smoke come from Yeosang. He was exhaling the dust given to him and Yunho stepped back, covering his nose. His eyes widened as Yeosang began to transform, turning into the boy he remembered was wearing a yellow tracksuit. It was the idol that took Mirae when they left Yang Tan’s place, yet his hands looked different. His hands had become claws, with long talons. 

“I could’ve told you it was a trap.” 

Yunho turned around, hearing the voice come from the shelf that was behind Yeosang’s desk. “...Excuse me?” He said. 

“Do you see that bust of Galatea on my desk? Push back the head,” the voice said, although muffled from behind the shelf. 

Yunho noticed the ceramic bust of the woman on the corner and pushed the head back. The bookcase slid open and Yeosang fell over, looking frazzled. “Those boys are insufferable, this was Tom Ford,” He groaned, getting up on his feet and dusting off his suit. Yeosang looked over at the taller male. “You might find it hard to believe-” He was pinned to the bookcase. “I know-” 

“Shut up. You’re going to tell me where Mirae is. Unless I’m talking to one of those guys,” Yunho said, unable to contain his frustration. 

Yeosang stared at him. “You of all people should know I would never do anything to Mirae, contrary to what that fool on the floor has been saying for the past five minutes. And your friends are being ambushed by his group mates in my apartment as we speak.” 

“Where is Mirae, then? We’re all here to look for her, with or without your help, as if you’ve been of any help anyway,” Yunho let go of him. 

Yeosang smoothed the creases on his suit. “As I have said last year, whether or not you trust me is beyond my control, you seem to forget I stand for our kind. They took Mirae somewhere else by now. Possibly at N Tower. It’s easy for them to channel her power from there.” 

“What’s Madame Seo’s plan?” Yunho questioned. 

“She plans to summon Ose from below, and something else, something that isn’t of this world, even from the world below,” Yeosang warned. “If you recall the Seoul attack, how big that was, this would be ten times, a hundred times bigger than that. And she will use Mirae to do it.” 

Yunho stared at him, studying his expression for a tell that would suggest that he was lying. “What are those boys going to do?” He tilted his head to the boy on the floor. “I don’t think it’s something as predictable as hypnotizing everyone else.” 

“No,” Yeosang shook his head. “The tv special they’re about to film tonight is their...ritual. Disguised as a performance. They would be summoning creatures in plain sight, and because they have so many fans. The producers thought the signal from the tv station would boost their summoning even more.” 

Yunho’s hands curled into fists. “You had better be right about this.” 

“I respect Mirae, I would never betray her. You, however, are another story,” Yeosang gave him a look. 

“And yet I decided to help you get out from that bookcase of yours,” Yunho shot back. Without another word, he stepped into the dark part of the office and just as he was about to teleport, Yeosang’s hand was on his shoulder, teleporting them both. 

They had reappeared back in Yeosang’s apartment, where they saw the six other males standing over the unconscious bodies of the boys in the colored tracksuits. “Asshole-” San was about to point his harpoon at Yeosang when Yunho stopped him. “He’s got a lot of explaining to do,” San grumbled. 

“I do. But I should tell you, they probably have Mirae at N Tower. Those boys need to film for their tv special, it’s part of their ritual,” Yeosang explained. 

“How much time do we have?” Hongjoong asked. 

“Given how long Mirae’s been with them, I would say they have until tonight to perform the ritual,” Yeosang replied. 

“How would you know what they do?” Seonghwa spoke. 

“It’s complicated, and quite a long story-” 

“We have the time, if you didn’t notice,” Jongho was glaring at him. 

It was only then that Yeosang noticed the spikes coming from him, immediately sensing an unusual quality about the males standing in front of him. “Ah, I see it now. You’re all one of us.” 

“We figured that out a little late too,” Wooyoung pointed out, while Mingi kept playing with the lighter in his hand. 

Yeosang looked fascinated yet tried to maintain his sternness. “Well then, I do have some explaining.”

[insanities-incarnate]

The Lady Of The League

Chapter 1- A Wedding

Link to AO3

England, 1792

The wedding of Sir Percival Blakeney, Baronet and Mademoiselle Marguerite St Just was a large affair. There were no expenses spared, and everything had been planned to perfection. If one looked around at the crowded venue, it would seem as though the whole English court had attended. This was, of course, entirely possible, as Sir Percy had become somewhat of a loved pet of that same court, and his company was highly enjoyed. The ceremony had been rather beautiful, and tears had been shed by some. Now, the guests had gathered in the ballroom of the Blakeney Manor and were now awaiting the arrival of the newlyweds.

As the great oak doors to that ballroom opened, an almost reverent hush swept the room. In walked the groom, a tall man of not quite thirty, built like a giant, but with a face so kindly you could not help but smile with him, the gold of his hair almost matching that of his wedding clothes, and his deep blue eyes shining with happiness. On his arm was his new wife, Marguerite, who was around five-and-twenty, with long, lustrous curls that cascaded down her back, and eyes that glittered in the bright light of the room. Her wedding dress was quite exquisite, and suited her figure perfectly, drawing jealous stares towards Blakeney, for he had stolen such a beauty all for himself. A little behind them walked Blakeney's own sister, accompanied by her new brother-in-law, looking a wonderfully complementary pair; the lady golden like a goddess, the young man with his dark hair and eyes. Both smiled amiably at the happiness of their now-joined family, and they seemed to enjoy each other's company rather well.

Lady Isabelle Blakeney was a lovely young woman, not long past twenty, and held herself as a perfect picture of English grace. She shared her brother's golden hair and blue eyes, and other resemblances between the two were clear. However, though he held the stature of a giant among the courts, she was petite and delicate. Nonetheless, she stood proudly at the side of Armand St Just, with eyes full of joy, and a smile on her youthful face. It had become quite apparent to most who knew the siblings that, while Percival Blakeney's inheritance did not include brains, his sister's certainly did. She was, of course, as well educated as any polite young woman in high society could hope to be, but there was a certain cleverness to her, an understanding of the world that some never seem to find.

The chatter picked up once again. Drinks were poured, smiles filled the room, and soon, the groom himself stood to speak.

"I welcome you to England, m'dear. I am quite sure everyone will be just as charmed by you as I was."

His speech was short, but full of nothing but love and admiration for his bride.

With a wave of his hand, the music began. Gentlemen offered their arms and ladies accepted, and the many couples danced. While Sir Percy found himself surrounded by his closest friends, a small number of gentlemen with whom he was very close, his wife was with her brother, smiling and laughing with an easy air about her.

"If you will excuse me, boys," Sir Percy said with a smile, "I do believe I owe my sister at least a dance to thank her for her work in today's preparations."

"You are happy, then, brother?"

"I thought it was my job to care for you?" Isabelle simply raised an eyebrow, and her brother laughed good-naturedly. "Of course I am happy. And quite fortunate to have met such a woman as Marguerite."

"I'm glad to hear it." The smile on her face had been ever-present since the early morning, and only grew wider as she danced with her brother. "And now that my match is made, perhaps your own wedding party shall soon grace our halls."

"Perhaps, Percival." She circled him, just as the dance commanded. "When most of the lords and gentlemen of England cease to be idiots and fools, of course."

"Ah. Not so soon after all, then, I see," said Percy, failing to suppress a laugh.

"I wonder, should your attention not be on your new wife?"

"So eager to be rid of me, dear Isabelle?"

"Oh, if you only knew," she teased. "Now, go. Attend to your bride. It is your wedding day, after all!" With a smile, he placed a gentle kiss on her hand, and obeyed.

Soon after, Isabelle found herself on the arm of Lord Elton. The auburn-haired man was the youngest of Percy's gentleman friends, and she made it no secret that he was, in fact, her favourite of the group. The two shared a bond, and enjoyed each other's company, sharing the country's gossips and discussing almost any topic one could imagine.

"Can you believe it, Belle? Percy married, and to a Frenchwoman. I must say, it's not quite what I would have expected of him."

"I cannot say I am surprised, Elton. If you had seen the way he looked at her when they first met, you would understand. He adores Marguerite, and it is quite clear to see why." As she spoke, she found herself drawn to the sight of her sister-in-law, laughing freely with the guests in a way that not many dared to.

"A wild one, to be sure. She was an actress, was she not?"

"Oh, Elton, you should have seen her perform. She was quite wonderful. Percy and I returned to the theatre almost every night of our stay in Paris, mostly at his insistence. Though I cannot claim I was at all opposed to the idea." She took a sip from her glass as the gentleman laughed.

"And what of you, dear? Do you not plan to marry soon?" Isabelle laughed incredulously.

"What is it with you men, concerning yourselves in the matter of my marriage? Percy asked me the same thing not long ago. I should think you are all rather desperate to be rid of my company. Am I so much of a bore, my friend, that you wish to leave me upon the arm of a husband?"

"I could not bear to dream of it. I would miss our talks far too much. Where would I find my fun, if not from discussing the fine young gentlemen of the court with you?"

It was a shriek of laughter that drew Isabelle's attention away from her conversation, and towards a corner of the room, where she saw her brother-in-law, who was being pestered by the Ladies Digby and Llewellyn, and looked rather uncomfortable in their company.

"If you will excuse me, Elton, I fear I must rescue Armand. He has been left quite to the mercy of the vultures," she excused and made her way across the room. "Armand!" she called. "I fear have rather neglected you far too much. How are you finding our England so far?" Isabelle held out her hand, and, were it not for his good manners, Armand would have raced to take it. She could see the relief in his eyes at having been spared of another moment in the company of the ladies.

"Thank you. I was beginning to think I would not escape them," he said gratefully.

"Forgive me for not coming to you sooner, Armand. I could swear, those two are the only people I know who can gossip more than Elton can." She took another glass from a tray and offered it to him, and he accepted it, before practically finishing it in seconds. "I fear you may have to brave many more like them in your time here."

"If I can survive the two of them, I believe I can survive almost anything. I do not think it possible to fear anything more than I fear being left alone in their company again." Isabelle laughed, and offered a heartfelt agreement.

"Your sister looks beautiful, Armand. She certainly suits the attention."

"Yes. Although I cannot help but worry." She turned to Armand, placing a gentle hand on his arm.

"Why do you worry?" she asked, her voice full of concern. He glanced around the room, to the groups of women gathered at almost every part of the room.

"They haven't stopped staring at her."

"Well, yes, it is her wedding-"

"No, it is more than that."

"They love her, Armand. That I can promise you. I learned to read these people long ago."

"Then why do they watch her, like they are waiting every moment for her to make a mistake?"

"Because they wish to be like her." It was a simple statement, more of a fact than an opinion.

"Isabelle..."

"Look at her. Marguerite is wild, and bold, and unafraid. She is everything that we English ladies are told we cannot be." She smiled gently, seeming almost lost in her thought. "They do not dislike her, Armand. They envy her freedom." The young woman's words were quiet, and thoughtful, and there was even some hint of wistfulness hiding behind her smile.

"And do you?"

"Hmm?" It had been a simple enough question that St Just had asked, but

"You say it is her freedom that they are jealous of, but what of you? Do you feel the same?"

"I suppose..." Her voice trailed away from a moment, and her eyes fell to her hand, on which sat a ring, one that she was rarely seen without, which had belonged to her mother, Victoria. The ring had been a gift from Isabelle's late father to Victoria on their wedding day, made to match his own, which had been passed down, and now resided upon the hand of Percy, and carved into both was the Blakeney family crest; a small red flower. "I suppose that I have been far more fortunate than most. After our parents died, it was Percy who looked after me." As she spoke, she fondly recalled memories; Percy pretending to be angry with her, Percy comforting her when she was upset, Percy attempting to teach her to dance. "He refused to shape my life for me the way so many fathers do. He allowed me to make my own choices, to grow into the person I wanted to be. And..." She bit her lip. "And I am absolutely ruining your sister's wedding day, aren't I?" Armand laughed and shook his head, before offering his arm.

"I wonder then, Lady Blakeney, if you would care to dance with me?"

~~~

The guests had been celebrating for at least an hour when Lord Anthony Dewhurst finally arrived, and Percy took it upon himself to be the first to greet his friend.

"Lord, man, you look a mess! Whatever took you so long to arrive?" Before Dewhurst could begin to answer, Percy was speaking once again. "A drink, then, my good man?"

"I am afraid I have not come to drink, Percy," he said simply.

"Nonsense, man! Don't be ridiculous. It is my wedding, and I am telling you that you must have at least one drink-"

"I'm serious, Percy," he hissed, and all trace of joviality fled the groom's face, and he pulled his friend aside, away from the celebration of the party.

"What is it, Tony?"

"The Marquis de St Cyr. He is dead."

"What? How?"

"Sent to the guillotine. And his whole family with him."

"This cannot be true. We arranged safe passage from Paris for all of them. They should have been half way across the Channel by now!"

"We were betrayed, Percy."

"Betrayed? And by whom, I ask you? Nobody knew of the details except for you and I, and Isabelle, but I know you would not dare suggest that my sister had a hand in this. And... And I suppose Marguerite knew..."

"Percy-"

"But she wouldn't. Marguerite feels nothing but the deepest contempt for this new regime of terror that the French have the audacity to call freedom! You cannot mean to tell me that Marguerite, that my wife, would betray me like this?"

"Percy, you have only known her for all of six weeks. I'm not sure that you truly know her as you believe you do. I am sure you can believe that do not wish to be the bearer of this news. But you have to know the truth." From his pocket, Dewhurst drew a small piece of paper, a letter, and gave it to Percy.

"What is this?"

"A letter from your wife to the Citizen Chauvelin. It seems his growing power has managed to creep its hold upon even the most unlikely of people." As Percy examined the letter, his heart fell.

"Yes. This is Marguerite's hand. And her seal. But surely..." He paused for a moment to think. "Dewhurst. I want you to do something for me."

"Anything."

"I want you to write on the bottom of this letter, in French, thanking Marguerite for her help." His voice wavered a little, and he took a moment to re-compose himself. "Sign it with the Citizen's name, and give it to Jessup to deliver to her." As Lord Anthony turned to go, Percy looked him right in the eyes. "She will disavow the letter. And you will see that you are wrong about her."

As Percy waited, he was filled with anxieties. Surely Marguerite would not do this to him? When they had first met, everything had seemed so perfect. It was their third night watching her perform, and from almost nowhere, Isabelle had informed him that she had met Mademoiselle St Just's brother, Armand, earlier, and he had invited them to come and meet her after the performance. It had been a blissful evening, and he had found that the star of the Comedie Francaise was just as charming off the stage as on it, and somehow, she found him equally as pleasing. By the end of that week, they had shared their first kiss, and now, just more than six weeks later, here they were, celebrating their marriage. But still, he stood apart from these festivities, waiting to find out if his wife was as true as she claimed to be. He almost sighed in relief as he watched Jessup, the butler, approach Marguerite and offer the letter. And Percy waited for her to confirm his defence of her, to denounce the letter as nothing but lies and scandal. But instead, he watched as she read the letter.

"A note from the groom, no doubt, telling us all to hurry up and let him enjoy his wedding night!" one of his friends, Ozzy joked.

"No, no, it is a letter from an old friend."

"From Suzanne?" Armand asked, and Marguerite nodded, unfaltering in her smile and poise.

"Yes. She simply wishes me well on my marriage, that is all."

From across the room, Percy could feel his own heart breaking into two. The feeling of Dewhurst's hand on his shoulder did little to comfort him.

"Percy, I am so sorry..."

"No. There is no need for an apology from you. It is I who has been played for quite the fool, have I not?" He gestured to his butler, who came to him immediately. "Jess up. I believe it is getting rather late. I'm sure our guests are rather tired. See to it that they all leave safely, won't you?"

As Jessup began ushering the wedding's attendants out, Isabelle and Armand made their way over, to say their goodnights to the new couple. Percy shook Armand's hand, while Marguerite embraced him. Isabelle offered another warm congratulations to her new sister-in-law, and then came to speak with her brother.

"Percy."

"Isabelle." Despite his pain, he offered the most sincere smile he could to her and held out his arms. With the guests gone and no reputation to uphold with only her family present, she raced to embrace him.

"I am truly happy for you both, Perce," she said to him as she broke away. "And I will offer you my good mornings now, since I do not expect to see the two of you until at least tomorrow afternoon." And then she was gone.

One thing had always been certain that day; that it would be a long night for Sir Percival Blakeney, Baronet. But now, however, it was to be a night that he could no longer spend with his wife.

***

@outlawsassemblerh @chaoticbitheatrekid

AAAAH IT'S HERE!!!

I'm so excited to be sharing this with you all, it has been a work in progress for a while now, and it's all paid off into this, the first chapter!

I hope you enjoyed this, please keep looking out for the next chapter!

[iamthehousethatfloats]

This is absolute crack, but apparently it’s Scrooge’s birthday today (in some random canon - I don’t even know) so I bashed this out because why not?

It’s likely riddled with errors but ah well. It’s only his birthday for 10 more minutes in England so here, have it!

🎉🎉🎉

Scrooge McDuck had finally reached the end of a long old 8th of July. His board meetings were done, business deals concluded, and best of all, he’d made it through a whole working day without any one wishing him a ridiculous -

‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY UNCLE SCROOGE!’

Ah, so close.

His family burst into his office, the boys and Webby clutching balloons and streamers, Della and Donald grinning as they swapped his top hat for a party hat to match their own.

‘Ahhh you thought we forgot!’ Dewey cheered, mistaking the disgruntled expression on his uncle’s face for stunned.

‘We were gonna wait until you came home to surprise you but then we figured you’d be expecting that so it wouldn’t be a surprise at all,’ Huey explained.

‘So we brought the surprise to you instead!’ Webby cheered, twirling around in a mess of colourful streamers and glitter.

‘Yes, yes,’ Scrooge rolled his eyes. ‘Colour me surprised.’

‘You haven’t even seen the best part yet,’ Della grinned. ‘LP! Bring in the cake!’

On cue, Launchpad kicked open the door of Scrooge’s office and wheeled in an absolutely enormous cake, taller even than him. The tiers wobbled precariously in rhythm with LP’s warbling delivery. The kids, Donald and Della all joined in, building to the final line with relish.

‘Happy biiiiirthdaaaaay, Uncle Scroo-ooge, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TOOOO YOOOOOUU!’

Scrooge stuck a finger in his ear to check his ear drum was still in tact - he was seated next to Donald after all. When he extracted the digit, satisfied everything was in working order, he noticed the ominous silence and frowned.

Something odd was going on. Della and Launchpad were staring between each other and the cake, wide eyed and grinning slightly manically. Donald was starting to sweat. The kids were all glancing at each other, shifting awkwardly.

‘Alright, what joke am I missing?’

‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY MR MCDEEEEE,’ Launchpad began to sing again, even louder than the first time. ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU!’

‘Yes, thank you Launchpad,’ Scrooge said tersely. ‘I heard you the first time.’

‘TO YOUUUUUU!’ Launchpad sang again, slightly desperately. Donald edged closes and gave the cake an experimental prod. Nothing happened. He looked back at Della nervously.

‘Oh, this is not good.’ Della said.

‘Oh no, it’s every worst nightmare come at once!’ Launchpad cried. ‘We baked Mrs McDee alive!’

‘Mrs?’ Scrooge spluttered.

‘Calm down LP, the cake was already baked when Goldie got in, at the very least we suffocated her in frosting.’ Della reasoned.

‘Not a bad way to go,’ Donald remarked, while Launchpad looked set to dive in head first.

‘Let me make sure I have this right,’ Scrooge interjected, and all eyes turned to him. ‘You brought that hellacious hooligan into the Money Bin, and left her unattended in close proximity to my entire fortune - with a diversion, no less?’

‘We didn’t leave her unattended, she was with LP... oh, yeah. Okay.’ Della realised their error as she spoke. The man in question was currently half way through escalating a hollow birthday cake in an attempt to rescue a woman who definitely was not there. ‘She said she wanted to surprise you!’ Della objected.

Scrooge rolled his eyes. ‘Aye. Well, that she did.’

‘Uh, guys?’ Louie, who had been quiet so far, had trundled to the far side of the cake for a closer look. He pointed to a Goldie O’Gilt shaped hole in the side of the cake, directly opposite the Launchpad shaped hole in the other side. ‘Looks like we’ve been conned.’ Louie said helpfully, with a slight grin. He had to admire a master at work.

Scrooge immediately slammed his hand down on the security button at the side of his desk, sending sirens wailing and red lights flashing. ‘This is a security breach, the Bin has been compromised,’ he said into the intercom. ‘All operations will shut down until further notice. NO ONE is to come in or out until the culprit has been apprehended.’

As security personnel rallied, shutting down the bin floor by floor and searching fruitlessly for the thief, the Duck family inflicted their merriment upon their miserly uncle anyway, whether he wanted it or not. Almost an hour later, there was still nothing to report, and so Scrooge begrudgingly agreed to open up the Bin and let everyone go home for the day.

Well, almost everyone.

‘Right you lot,’ he said, fixing his family with a stern glare. ‘It’s Binventory for the lot of ye.’

‘Binventory!’ Della and Donald chorused in dismay, as the kids and Launchpad all groaned.

‘Aye, and a detailed one at that. You brought that diabolical deviant in here, and you’ll be the ones to find out what she’s stolen. I want every piece of gold in that Bin catalogued - and make sure what you count is genuine too. That mendacious minx is not above the old switcheroo or two.’

‘Yes Uncle Scrooge,’ the resigned sighs and grumbles didn’t bother him one bit as he marched his family out of his office and down to the Money Bin, ready for a long night of his very favourite thing; counting up his fortune. Perhaps he would be considering this as a good birthday after all.

After an hour or so, he left them to it, set on returning to his office to watch another sweep of the security cameras to catch a glimpse of Goldie’s retreating figure in the corner of a frame. He told himself it was because it would help him figure out what it was that she had taken, it was nothing to do with him wanting to see her or anything. Nope, nothing like that at all.

He trudged wearily up the steps to his office, and he knew something was wrong when he saw the lights were off. He was certain he’d left them on - he knew he was coming back after all. He gripped his cane slightly tighter, before stepping through the door and reaching for the switch, flooding the room with warm golden light.

A large piece of cake sat untouched on his desk, two small forks beside it on the plate. In his chair, lounging about like she owned the place, was Goldie O’Gilt. His heart skipped a little in his chest.

‘Oh no, you caught me,’ her eyes sparkled mischievously as she licked frosting off her fingers. ‘I was trying so hard to hide.’

Scrooge swallowed heavily, taking a measured breath before closing the door behind him.

‘I thought you’d be long gone by now,’ he commented casually.

Goldie grinned. ‘And miss blowing out your candles? Please, Scrooge. It’s like you don’t know me at all.’

Scrooge rolled his eyes, glancing at the security screens beside his desk. Judging by their progress in the Bin, he had at least another hour until his family would come looking for him.

‘What did you steal?’ He quizzed her sharply.

‘Your heart,’ she shot back, with a wink. She licked another finger clean of frosting.

‘You’ve got that all over your face, you know.’ Scrooge told her, unable to ignore the fire kindling in his belly as her grin turned even more wolffish.

‘Why don’t you come over here and have a taste? It’s your cake after all.’

Scrooge paused... for about half a second. Just long enough to click the lock of his office door closed behind him. He crossed the room in three paces, and he had her in his arms before she could even open her mouth to make another retort. It wasn’t long before they were both covered in cake.

‘Happy birthday, Moneybags.’

As it turned out, it was a very happy birthday indeed.

[spookyceph]

Rating: Teen and up

Crossposted on Ao3

Day 1 | Prompt: Fantasy

A Small Price to Pay

Appearing unremarkable was an underrated skill. So many people wasted their lives scrambling to be noticed. They traded away their dignity and sense for scraps of fame or fortune as if it would change their fate. Nobles, beggars, warlords, courtesans, criminals, heroes—they all wound up feeding the worms in the end. Tomura would know. He’d sent more than one of each category to their graves with a dagger slipped through the ribs.

The man who’d just strolled through the open tavern door, however, couldn’t have avoided attention even if he’d been making an effort. He wore all black, for one thing. The only variety came from the iron studs glittering across the shoulders and on the half-sleeves of his long leather coat. Even his disheveled hair had been dyed—that shade of coal couldn’t be natural. Like most not in Tomura’s line of work, he probably believed black was the ideal color for stealth. In truth, an entire outfit declared, Look! I’m up to no good and I think I’m being sneaky about it! Clothing in a drab, washed-out brown, like the threadbare cloak Tomura had draped around his shoulders, actually worked best. With wisps of his white hair sticking out from the hood, he’d easily be taken for an old drunk nodding off over his drink. No one of note. Certainly not the heir to the most feared assassins’ guild in the empire.

The stranger approached the bar. His step hesitated for a split second when faced with the rippling construct of shadow—a guild contact by the name of Kurogiri—who was tending it. Tomura channeled his energy into a bouncing leg as the pair conversed. After a minute or two, Kurogiri fetched a wooden cup and filled it with the tavern’s finest for the man in black, who must have given all the correct pass phrases because he turned and looked directly at Tomura’s corner.

His flashy clothing was nothing compared to his skin.

Initially, Tomura thought he was staring at raw, purple muscle stretched over the stranger’s forearms, neck, and lower half of his face. Not flayed, he realized several stunned seconds later. Burned. Some disaster or curse had charred his skin in impossibly symmetrical patches. Even more striking were the neat rows of slim silver rings running along the seams, binding living and ruined flesh. They flaunted what might have been a disfigurement as decoration instead. To anyone with a taste for the macabre, the effect came across as artistic. Even beautiful.

Tomura hated him instantly. Still, he regulated his breathing and didn’t allow his hands to lift from the table to scratch his neck while the ostentatious bastard meandered his way to the table to join him. Master All For One had entrusted him with assembling the team that would eventually topple the empire. If he meant to take over the guild one day—meant to rid the world of hypocrites and bootlickers like Yagi Toshinori, the Emperor’s Champion—he would need to deal with people he didn’t care for. Nothing would get done if he just shut himself in his room and played out ancient battles with maps and models forever.

The man in black stopped at the chair to Tomura’s left, resting long, slender fingers on its back. The blue of his eyes shone as bright as the center of the flame in the tin oil lamp sitting on the table.

“Evening. Mind if I join you?” His voice shared none of the swagger of his appearance. Low and soft, Tomura had to strain to hear it.

“If I did,” he snapped, patience frayed along the edges, “you’d be on the floor already, choking on your own blood.”

This warm welcome only made the man smile, silver rings pulling at scar tissue. He sat and made the mistake of actually drinking the ale.

Now here was something to cheer him up. A nasty grin stretched Tomura’s own scar, slashed straight down the side of his cracked lips. “How is it?”

The stranger tilted his head, peering into his cup as if he’d caught something swimming in it. “I think the only thing more likely to kill me is the water.” Regardless, he took another swig.

Bah. No fun after all. Mouth sagging into a grimace, Tomura pushed his own cup away just a bit more. “So. You’re the flame mage looking to tag along on the job.”

“Afraid so. Call me Dabi. And you’re the dreaded Shigaraki Tomura, protégé of the most feared criminal overlord in the empire.”

“The same. What makes you think you’d be any use to me, Lord Call-Me-Dabi? Looking at you, I’d say your spells blow up in your face more often than they hit your enemies.”

To his credit and Tomura’s further exasperation, the mage didn’t lunge at the bait. “If only it were that simple. My scars,” he lifted his rough, pitted arms, turning them over and back for display, “are the result of my father making a deal with a demon.”

Tomura had to catch himself before he looked Dabi directly in the face and revealed too much of his own. “Your father did what?”

That earned a wagging finger. “I’ll tell you the story…but only in exchange for answering a question about your own past.”

Unease played with the hair along the back of Tomura’s neck. “Let’s hear this question first.”

“Fair enough. I want to know whether it’s true you’re cursed to destroy anything you touch.”

Muscles knotting down his spine, Tomura stiffened. How did this flashy asshole know more about his past than Sensei’s own network of informants had been able to dig up on him? Was he lying about the demon story just to get Tomura to talk? For what purpose? He couldn’t determine an advantage for doing so. But…since he already knew about the curse there didn’t seem to be any use in hiding it. Anyway, maybe his reaction would reveal further clues.

Reaching out with his left hand and keeping his right on one of the daggers sheathed against his ribcage, Tomura touched Dabi’s cup with all five fingers. A series of soft crackles filled the silence as the wood split apart first along the grain, then into individual fibers before disintegrating into a powdery ash that plopped to the table as a pile of mush when combined with the ale. The mage’s eyes became as round and shiny as marbles.

“Fascinating.” He lifted one of his own half-scarred hands. Instead of curiously poking the mound of pulp, though, Dabi went for Tomura’s wrist. His fingers brushed skin, warmer than the sunlight it rarely encountered, before Tomura recoiled.

“Are you insane?”

“Depends who you ask.”

Two fingers carefully folded against his palms, Tomura tucked his hands under his elbows and shoved away suddenly intrusive thoughts of what the mage’s touch might feel like on other parts of him. “How did you hear I’m cursed?”

Dabi chuckled, low and deep and quiet like his voice. The sound sent a little thrill racing out from Tomura’s belly to the crown of his head before plummeting straight down to the tips of his toes, which curled in his boots. Bastard. He had to be using some sort of enchantment to enhance his voice. Had to. “So many questions. Information is too valuable to just give away, though. You of all people should know that.”

Tomura’s jaw clenched hard enough to make his teeth squeak. “What do you want?”

“Nothing much—the answer ties in with your initial question, actually. A kiss should cover it.”

The remaining cup of ale tipped over and splashed its contents across the table as Tomura sprang up, jostling the edge.

“You want what?” He could sense the eyes of the handful of other patrons in the tavern locked on him from the outburst. Kurogiri, surely, must have been staring at him like he’d lost his mind. But Tomura couldn’t stop gawking at Dabi, who, despite an amused quirk of the brows, didn’t appear to be joking.

“A kiss in exchange for information,” the mage said. “To be collected in private, at your earliest convenience, of course. A more than agreeable price, if you ask me.”

For the first time in his life, Tomura was left speechless. “Wha…but…you…”

“’Why a kiss’, you ask?”

“Yes.”

Dabi’s shoulders bobbed in a shrug. “There’s already plenty of gold to be had for accepting this job from the guild. Ten tablets of gold upon completion, wasn’t it? A story about kissing a deadly assassin and living to tell the tale, though? Much harder to come by. Anyway, it seems fitting. I tell you something interesting about my past and you give me a new tidbit to share in the future.”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“I thought we already touched on that subject.” Leathery forearms folded on the table, the mage craned forward. “So? How about it?”

Realizing how far his common sense had flown from him, Tomura yanked his hood closer around his face and plopped back into his seat. He began snagging his thoughts out of the cyclone of emotion that had swept them up. From a purely practical view, Dabi lost in this bargain. Even if everything he said turned out to be a pile of unicorn shit, Tomura could still learn something from the telling itself. There had to be a hidden angle to this farce. A ploy to see his face fully and sell a description to the authorities? Hardly the easiest, most efficient way to go about it. An attempt to get Tomura alone and off guard to exact revenge? Plausible. He’d killed dozens of people, including two mages, in his career. There was no reason one of them couldn’t have been a friend or relative of Dabi’s. Giving the mage what he wanted, keeping him close, was an ironclad way to find out. A bit of pride was a small price to pay to destroy an enemy with their own trap.

And if paranoia had made something out of nothing…he could always kill Dabi anyway rather than live it down.

Tomura sniffed. “Fine. I agree to your insane terms. Now answer my questions.”

A sliver of white, straight teeth glimmered in the mage’s smile. Tomura had to rein in his imagination before it ran away with picturing them leaving bite marks all over his neck. “The reasons this story happened at all are rather prosaic, I’m afraid. My father was a powerful flame mage who wanted to be above all other warriors. Wanted to be the Emperor’s Champion, in fact. He fought in tournaments and dueled noble-funded contenders, beating every opponent, rising quickly through the lists despite being only twenty-five. Then he faced the man who would become his life-long rival. No matter how many times my father challenged him, he could never best him. So, not getting any younger, he changed tactics and decided to have a perfect child capable of beating this better man.”

Turning just enough to peek at Dabi past his hood and messy hair, Tomura snorted. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Told you the motivations were uninspired.”

“Don’t tell me he summoned a demon woman to bear him this perfect child.”

“The circumstances of my birth aren’t half so interesting, sadly.” Lacing his hands behind his head, Dabi leaned back in his chair until it was balancing only on two legs. “No, my father scoured noble families for any daughters with promising magical talent. Eventually, he wound up marrying an unlucky woman from a line of ice mages and she had me not long after. I inherited my father’s power over fire, but apparently not to the god-like levels he’d been hoping for. When ten years of trying to beat greatness into me didn’t produce results, he turned to alternative methods.

“I’ll spare you the gory details, but the old bastard summoned a demon with the authority to make the type of deal he wanted. He offered it my soul in exchange for augmenting my power. And now…”

With a flourish of one hand, flames the same brilliant blue of his eyes rippled up from Dabi’s fingertips. Heat slapped Tomura in the face even from that distance, sucking the breath straight from his lungs. Another flick of the wrist and the mage clenched his hand, snuffing the fiery ribbons.

“My flames burn hot enough to melt steel—hotter than any mortal can cast. Therein laid the problem and the demon’s trick. My new powers were too intense for a fourteen-year-old boy to withstand, let alone control. The attempt broke me, leaving me severely burned over most of my body and on the verge of death. In his infinite wisdom and mercy, my father declared me a failure. He sent me away to a monastery to ‘recover’. Really, he figured my injuries would finish me off and the demon would have its prize early. Fortunately, I’m more resilient than he gave me credit for.”

Despite Dabi’s casual, even flippant tone and posture, something in his eyes told Tomura that maybe this story—the core of it anyway—wasn’t a complete fabrication. Something within the burning-blue irises too cold and hard for even them to melt. “Not only did I pull through, I learned ways to protect myself somewhat from my own magic thanks to the monks and their connections to various rare book sellers and libraries. By the time my father sent someone—perhaps one of yours even—to finish what my injuries hadn’t, I was ready. I spent about another five years after that in hiding, accumulating knowledge and skill. Skills like breaking wards, or getting minor spirits to collect tidbits of information, such as a curse placed on an infamous assassin, say. When I finally had the strength, I summoned the demon who’d traded with my father and renegotiated the terms of the deal.

“See, promising somebody else’s soul, especially a child’s, is tricky when you don’t just outright sacrifice them. Comes with all sorts of cosmic snags. Rather than risk winding up empty-handed, the demon was willing to heal me as much as it was able and accept my father’s soul instead for services rendered. The next week, I delivered.”

Slowly, Dabi let his chair rock forward back onto all four legs. At the same instant, the scales in Tomura’s mind tipped as well.

“Fine. You’re on the job. Ten tablets of gold before, as you already heard. Thirty after. You cooperate with everyone else on the team, no exceptions, no complaints. Agreed?”

Dabi bowed as much as the table would allow. “I’m at your service.”

“Hmph. We’ll see if it’s worth anything soon enough. Are you familiar with the old entertainment district on the west side of the city?”

“I’ve kept an appointment or two over that way.”

“Do you know the fountain?”

The mage tapped his scarred chin. “Dried up, statue of a fox woman, lots of crude writing all over it?”

“That’s the one. Be there at sunset two days from now. Be on time or don’t bother to show up at all. I’ll take you to meet the rest of the rabble helping with this venture.”

“Perfect. And about that remaining payment—”

Tomura stood from his chair abruptly. “You’ll get it when I say so. Don’t push me or you’ll wind up with a blade through your windpipe instead.”

“I look forward to it.” Smiling, Dabi offered his hand across the table. “Working with you, that is. Not the slashed throat so much.”

He didn’t even glance down at the gesture of goodwill. “We’re complete opposites then.”

That parting barb still wasn’t enough to stifle the soft laugh that followed Tomura as he strode away, pretending not to notice the strange fluttering in his middle.

[hedwigstalons]

High Expectations - Ch20

I’ve been a little quiet for a bit because illness hit me hard (although thankfully not for too long).  I’m back though and I bring another chapter of the beast that keeps on growing.

Extra thanks to @willow-salix who had to deal with my post-fog writing going back a few stages and who helped beat this into some sort of coherency.

Earlier parts: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen, Sixteen, Seventeen, Eighteen, Nineteen

AO3 chapter link

Chapter Twenty

The mood in the plane was buoyant and the air was charged with testosterone and bravado.  The transport flight was filled with Air Force personnel and their destination was Fort Hood, Texas.  Scott hummed absently, his fingers drumming out a little beat on his knee, feeling relaxed for the first time in weeks, normally being a passenger on a flight made him agitated as he itched to be in the pilot’s seat but today was different.  

The Army was the designated host of this year’s United States inter-service sports tournament and Fort Hood was the location where, for the next few days those selected to represent their respective services would compete in their chosen sports.  

The tournament was supposed to be a friendly coming together of the various United States forces plus the various World Security Patrol branches, and for the most part it was friendly although it would be a lie to suggest there wasn’t a certain amount of posturing and goading underneath the surface.  For those taking part it was a chance to uphold the honour of their chosen service and score some one-upmanship,  for those like Scott who had been selected before it was also a chance to settle old scores.  

For Scott it would be a blessed interlude between missions; after his last assignment he was in desperate need of some R&R but with taking leave off the cards this came a close second for allowing him to decompress and see the good side of military life. It would be a chance to indulge in some physical activity that he didn't have to think too hard about, recently his life had been nothing but one exhaustive mission after another. For once he was happy to be free from the burden of command for a while, his primary mission now was to run fast, fight hard and add as many points as possible to the Air Force tally. 

His thoughts turned to last year’s competition; he’d done well and never placed lower than fifth in any of his events despite one Seaman Jeffries of the World Navy tripping him in 1500m, an action that by rights should have seen the man disqualified.  Unfortunately the rankings were upheld with Jeffries placing second while he had struggled to regain ground and claim fifth.  The injustice still rankled and he wondered if he would have to face the nefarious Jeffries again this year.

“Sir,” Scott called across to the Major who had been designated at team captain and was in charge of the Air Force contingent, “do you have a copy of the events list I can take a look at?” 

“Sure Tracy, I brought some spares just in case” Major Ellis replied, passing a sheaf of papers across the aisle.  “You’re up on the Wednesday afternoon for your track events and then Thursday afternoon for the martial arts.  See any familiar names?”

“One or two” Scott replied as he checked out the list of competitors.  “The US Army have put Moran in the hurdles again.  I’d love to beat him this time and wipe that smug smile off his face.  I’ve never met anyone so gloating.”

Having scrutinized the running order and competitors for his own events, no Jeffries, thank God, Scott began idly flicking through the rest of the programme.  As he scanned the lists he spotted a familiar name, wanting confirmation of his suspicions he pulled out his phone and sent a message. 

How far out of Fort Hood are you?

About 40 minutes came the response.  This was quickly followed by How did you find out? Everyone at home promised not to tell you.  I wanted it to be a surprise.  If it was Alan I’ll kill him.

Competitor list.  See you soon.

Scott let out an involuntary chuckle knowing Gordon would be mad at giving himself away and thus depriving himself of the element of surprise in any pranks he had planned. 

“What’s tickled your funny bone?” asked Ellis.

“It looks like you’re going to get to meet my kid brother.”

“Really?” Ellis asked curiously, opening up his own copy of the events list.  “Is he on the other flight?”

“No, Gordon isn’t Air Force, he joined WASP.”

“You’ve got a brother in WASP?  That’s a bit of a polar opposite to the Air Force.  I bet that didn’t go down too well at home.”  Scott had worked hard to build his own reputation but it was still well known who his father was and the Air Force pedigree he was following.  “Is he another sprinter like you?”

“Dad took a little persuading” a frown furrowed his brow at the memory of Gordon’s journey into WASP; ‘a little persuading’ really didn’t do it justice but he wasn’t going to have the family’s dirty laundry aired in public, “but WASP was the natural choice really, Gordon’s a swimmer.”

Major Ellis found the relevant page and looked over the listings.  The name Ensign G. Tracy leapt off the page again and again within the WASP entries.

“He’s all over the pool like a rash!  Talk about putting all your eggs in one basket.  Is he really that good?”

“You evidently don’t follow swimming that much.  I should’ve realised WASP would jump at the chance to put him on the squad.  It’s not often anyone gets to field an Olympic medallist.”  He couldn’t help the smile that split his face at the thought of seeing his brother swim again for the first time since the Games.  Gordon had dedicated so many years to his sport and had achieved glittering success that gave Scott a rush of pride at the memories.   

In the confined space of the plane their conversation was beginning to attract attention.

“What’s that about an Olympic medallist?”

“Dunno, ask Tracy.”

“Hey, Tracy, who’s got a medal?”

“My brother, Gordon.”

“You’re kidding!”

While Scott’s own unit might have been well versed in his sibling’s success story the competitors were pulled from across the Air Force, most of them complete strangers before boarding the flight.  There was a flurry of movement as a couple of people pulled out their phones and plugged the name into a search engine.  By now most of the plane was taking an interest.  It didn’t take long for someone to dig out one of the news reports; Gordon’s Olympic win had taken place less than two years previously and coverage was easy to find.

“Here, listen to this.”

Team USA continue their race to the top of the medals table with a successful day in the pool.  The crowning glory came from Gordon Tracy, a rising star in the swimming world, who not only achieved gold in the 200m butterfly but set a new world record in the process.  This achievement is made more remarkable in that Tracy is just 17 years old.

“That’s your brother!  And now he is on the WASP team?  Heck Tracy, can’t you do something like hide his trunks so the rest of us stand a chance?” one of the Air Force’s own swimmers exclaimed.

“No can do.  There is no way I’m sabotaging my own brother and don’t any of you think of trying anything either.  If you had ever met Gordon you would know that wouldn’t work anyway, he would probably just do the race butt naked.” 

xoxoxox

Gordon gazed listlessly out of the window of his own transport flight, the clouds forming an unbroken blanket below them, the vista bland and uninspiring.  After 4 fours in the air he was feeling bored, cramped and fed up.  He’d started the flight all keyed up at the thought of competing again but the long hours in the company of strangers was starting to wear thin.  For one thing there was too much trash talking for his liking, he’d never gone in for the verbal sparring side of sport but it seemed his companions very much viewed the other services as the enemy at this event.  It wasn’t an attitude he had encountered elsewhere in WASP and he hoped the bad mouthing would be constrained to these few days, it also wasn’t behaviour he could join in with in good conscious and so he had stayed quiet and kept himself to himself, trying to get back into competition mode after so long off the elite circuit.  A vibration in his pocket startled him and he pulled out his phone.

How far out of Fort Hood are you?

Without thinking he typed About 40 minutes and hit the send button.  Only when it was too late did it register who had sent the original message and he realised his mistake.  He had wanted to surprise his oldest brother, the one who was hardest to meet up with due to their differing military commitments.  He’d been able to tell the wider family about his selection during his period of leave over Alan’s birthday but with Scott away on his mission he’d been able to keep the news secret from his eldest sibling.  

How did you find out? Everyone at home promised not to tell you.  I wanted it to be a surprise.  If it was Alan I’ll kill him.

Competitor list.  See you soon.

Well, he supposed Scott would have found out in a few hours anyway and at least this way they would both be looking out for each other.  He wasn’t quite sure of the format of the event or how easy it would be to break away and hunt down a member of one of the other services.

xoxoxox

Gordon wasn’t sure what he had been expecting from competition or from Fort Hood but it looked like finding Scott wasn’t going to be easy.  Outside of their own events the personnel were able to watch the competition but there was very little free time beyond that.  Even if he could get away, finding his brother was going to be like finding a needle in a haystack; the different services were billeted all over the base and by the end of the first day all he knew was that WASP was sharing a dorm block with the Coastguard Service and a mess hall with the US Navy.  

Not that he had much time to brood, the swimming was taking place on the first day of the competition proper and after a hurried breakfast Gordon found himself hustled towards the pool.

He was looking forward to the chance of some competitive swimming again.  The specialist training on the Merlin had been intensive and the extended time beneath the waves had ignited a passion for marine biology but the cramped space of a submarine had hardly been conducive to physical exercise.  This competition would give him the opportunity to indulge in his first passion, he just hoped he was up to the task having been entered into far more events and across a wider range of disciplines that he was used to.

Aside from his trunks lacking the Team USA branding the competition was much like any other Gordon had attended.  A fair crowd had filled the viewing gallery but Gordon couldn’t tell if Scott was amongst those in dark blue.  Events were called, heats were swum (and usually won) and Tracy was once again a name to be reckoned with in the pool.  It felt good to be cleaving through the water again.  Despite not being in peak condition for swimming he was still in fine physical form over all and the muscle memory from all those races past carried him along to victory time and again.  The main difference to his usual style of competition was the lack of medal ceremony at the end and at the conclusion of his last race Gordon was able to wend his weary way back to the changing rooms where he flopped down on a bench. 

Pressing his shoulders against the cold tiles, eyes closed and head tipped back, the last of his energy was spent.  It had been a long time since he’d pushed himself to those lengths in the water and normally his race card was rather more sparse, one elite athlete among many, each responsible for their own specialisms.  The problem was, despite the high physical standards demanded by the military, elite athletes were in short supply and his pool times had placed him as primary candidate across more events than he was really comfortable taking on but he hadn’t felt able to say no to his superiors this early in his WASP career.

He concentrated on his breathing, listening to the hum and chatter of the other competitors around him, a cluster of WASPs gloating about their healthy position in the league table were his nearest companions.  He knew he ought to be getting dry, knew he ought to be digging out the tracksuit he’d been issued for the event, but his limbs felt leaden.  He wanted to be collapsed on his bunk but that involved moving and right now moving felt an impossible task.

“Gordon, eat something.”

He sensed a dimming of the light levels through his eyelids as a figure stepped between him and the harsh lights of the changing room.  The voice was commanding but his eyes stayed firmly shut and his body refused to obey. 

The figure in front of him was causing quite a stir but then that was typical of Scott.  He tended to exude an attitude as though he owned a place and this evidently wasn’t going down well with the WASPs around him who bristled with resentment at the young figure in Air Force blue invading their section of the changing rooms.  There were muttered jibes, reminiscent of those from the flight over, but the intruder wasn’t giving the WASP delegation the rise they so clearly desired.  Having failed in their goading one of his team mates decided to square up to the man they evidently viewed as the opposition.

“And who the hell are you to order us around, flyboy?”  

Scott’s eyes glittered at the challenge, a warning look that Gordon would have recognised from his own childhood had he been fully cognizant of the situation, Scott was not in any mood to be pushed. 

“That’s Captain to you” there was a pause as he took in the insignia worn by the other man, neither were in traditional uniform but the competition sports kit still had a place for rank slides; after all, the military thrived on hierarchy “Chief Petty Officer, although I accept you may not be familiar with the rank structures of the other services”  

Scott turned his attention back to his brother, ignoring the WASP who was now brisling after being firmly put in his place.  He was well aware of the animosity being directed towards him but his focus was his sibling, not some jumped up sardine with a chip on his shoulder.  He’d been concerned at the amount of events Gordon had pulled, and now, seeing his brother in the aftermath, he knew that concern had been justified.  The figure in front of him was breathing a little too shallowly for comfort and hadn’t moved from the moment Scott had spied him from across the changing room.  It had been a long time since he’d seen his brother swim himself to this level of stupor, years of competing had made Gordon pretty well attuned to his bodily needs, but evidently today he had neglected his post-race routine. 

Gordon had gotten as far as taking off his swim cap but no further, water dripped down his torso from the flattened hair that was still slick from the showers.  Even accounting for his time under the waves his skin was far paler than Scott was used to seeing.  He’d come down with the intention of congratulating his brother on his success in the water but now his primary concern had turned to Gordon’s basic wellbeing.  

Scott knew he had to get his blood sugars back up again.  He grabbed his brother’s kit bag and rooted around in the end pocket.  He allowed himself a small smile of triumph as his fingers closed around the packet of glucose tablets it appeared his brother still had the sense to carry.  He extracted two tablets from the tube and, crouching down in front of his brother, placed them in Gordon’s palm before closing the lax fingers over them.

“Gords, you still with me?  You need to get these into you.”

He paused while Gordon’s body processed the order, then let out a little breath of relief as the arm jerked up and Gordon began to suck on the tablets.  

He hadn’t seen his brother crash this bad since he was about twelve.  An early promotion to senior squad had seen the pre-teen eager to please his new coach while trying not to show anything that could be construed as weakness by his new and much older team mates and so the kid had forgone his post-race refuel.  The result then had been Gordon turning a grim shade of grey and falling off the medal podium in a dead faint.  

With the glucose tablets administered Scott turned his attention back to Gordon’s kit bag and pulled out a celery crunch bar, a firm favourite for the swimmer.  He opened it and placed it in Gordon’s now empty hand.  This was evidently an imposition too far for the WASP already disgruntled at being put in his place by the young captain.

“With all due respect Sir” there was a distinct sneer behind the formality “there’s no eating allowed in the changing rooms.”

If Scott’s eyes had glittered before, now they blazed with anger and contempt.  Rising from his crouch in front of Gordon, he drew himself up to his full height and positively loomed over the belligerent WASP.

“With all due respect I would have thought you would rather your team mate got his blood sugars up, or does your first aid training not cover hypoglycaemia?” He took a step towards the WASP, encroaching into the man’s personal space in a clear display of dominance.  “Not that you seem to be acting as a team right now.  Would half of you even be here if it wasn’t for the relay events, or maybe you tried to enter him for all four legs of that at well?”

With the glucose hitting his blood stream Gordon became more aware of the increasing commotion around him.  Voices that had once been jubilant now had a dangerous and angry edge and…yes...most of the anger seemed to be coming from Scott. 

Something tripped blearily in his brain; what on Earth was Scott doing here and why did he suddenly feel so cold?  Amber eyes cracked open and he forced his head open off the wall.  The movement was clocked by Scott who was back in front of him in an instant. 

“Hey Fish, you back with me?”  All traces of anger had gone as he turned his attention back to his Gordon, the Air Force Captain replaced by the brother of old; the caregiver with the ready supply of band aids, ice packs and gentle admonishment as he presented yet another injury for inspection.  

“Yeah, I’m...I’m good.”  He looked down in confusion at the crunch bar in his hand, not entirely sure how it had got there, but took a bite anyway.  “Guess I should have known better than to skip refuel.”

“Yeah, you should” 

Yup, that was the Scott he knew from Kansas.  Gordon felt like he was 9 years old again, being told off for being an idiot in the same ‘I told you so’ tone that had made it quite clear that of course jumping off the shed roof or using the frayed rope swing had been a bad idea. 

“Yeah, thanks for that” A snort, an eye roll, and a re-emergence of the same attitude common to his past nine year old self. 

“You’re okay now though, right?  You’ll finish your bar and get dressed?  Glucose tabs are back in the end pocket if you need more.”

“I’m fine, honest.”  Okay, the slight whine was a little too much like a kid but he was tired and there was something about Scott’s familiar care that had him regressing 10 years.  He forced protesting muscles to obey and hauled his back off the wall, rolling his shoulders to try and loosen the muscles that were rapidly seizing up.  He tried to suppress a groan at the exertion, he wasn’t quite ready to try standing until after the crunch bar was finished but he also knew Scott would not be pacified until he saw some sort of response.  The skeptical look he was given showed that Scott still wasn’t entirely convinced.  Mustering up his remaining energy he returned the look with a grin which seemed to appease the elder Tracy.

“Hmm”, Scott didn't sound like he believed him but couldn't argue it, “well, get dry and get your kit on.  You did good out there.  I’ll be on the track tomorrow afternoon; I’ll see you there.”  Without waiting for an answer Scott turned and exited the changing rooms.

The departure of the Air Force officer was followed with an outburst of grumbling from the WASP delegation.  

“Asshole.  Who the hell does he think he is, ordering us around?”

Gordon still hadn’t found his footing among the other swimmers, or the wider WASP delegation.  He might be the highest ranking of those at the pool but he was also by far the youngest and with the shortest amount of service under his belt by a country mile.  Rank structures overall seemed to be treated differently during the competition and these particular team mates seemed to have little regard for authority.  He was conscious that a wrong move now could make life distinctly unpleasant for him, he might never see these men again after the competition was over but he still had to get through several more days in their company.  He decided to play it for what it was; Scott being an irritating older brother.

“That was Scott.  I think he got the whole older brother thing hard wired in at birth.”

“You’re related to that?” There was a contemptuous sneer aimed at Scott’s retreating form that set Gordon’s hackles raising but he knew sniping back would be an error.

“Yup.  Of course, I got blessed with the good looks while he got the height.”  He flashed a grin, trying to diffuse the tensions.

“Is he always such a jerk?” a Seaman sat to his right piped up, finding his voice now the imposing Captain was no longer practically standing on his toes. 

Gordon shrugged; evidently the tensions were still there.  “Only when he needs to be.  I should’a thought to  grab the glucose tabs myself after that many races.  It’s been a while since I hit the pool competitively.”

There was a slight shuffling from the other swimmers, signs of guilt at not looking out for the young Ensign that had carried the team.  Scott’s words about the rest of them only being there to make up the numbers for the relay, while not wholly accurate, weren’t far off the truth.  They were all back in their dry kit while Gordon was still in his trunks, his skin still pale from the exertion even if his eyes had regained some brightness.

“Anyway,” he scruffed at his hair before drying off the rest of his body ready for dressing, “I need some real food after that and then I need to find out where the track events are being held.”

A snort.  “Well we’ll be watching the shooting tomorrow.  You can join us, or are you really going to do what big brother tells you?”  

There was a challenge in the tone but Gordon was feeling more alive again and less tolerant of their needling.  “I’m not going because he told me to, I’m going because he’s my brother and I want to.  In my family we support each other and Scott, well, he’s done a lot for me.”

Decision made and allegiances stated he swung his kit bag over his shoulder and headed out to find some food.  

[kanene-yaaay]

Just like a dream [Or Cuddles - 15º Tickletober]

Kanene’s note: I am sad so I thought  ‘h e y! What if I translated one of my fluff tickle-fanfic to light my day?’, so here are we!! This is a pure gold cute fluff, and a bit of angst in the beginning, but do not worry! The prince is here to save the day!! *dramatic glitter pose* 

Warnings, fun facts, random things and stuff:

* Lee!Patton and Ler!Roman (It can be seen as Romantic or Platonic Royality). 

* Hmmm… This is a Tickle-Fanfic! If you don’t like this kind of stuff, please look for another blog, there are plenty of amazing art in this site!! ‘u’).

* Something around 1500 words. -w-)b.

* Sorry for any spelling, pontuation and grammar mistakes! Any advice is very very welcome!

* I just realize I’m in love with Lee!Patton. And Roman here is an absolutely adorable ler. Someday will make a teasy tickle fanfic, I promisse xDDD.

* E a versão em português brasileiro!  Thankys for reading, my lollipops! Watch a fun video, take a good rest, talk with the one that you love and drink water! Byeioo!~

                                 [~*~]

He took a deep breath and bolted into the room, closed the door, sighed in relief and gave up in controlling his tears, so they fell.

And fell and feel and fell as he let himself collapse in that cold, strangely relaxing, floor.

It was just that. Just fell. Just washed his so hurted soul, just showed the feeling which he so hard tried to not hide anymore, just poured in a flow that wandered through all his face until finally drop.

He tried to sniffle quietly, he really tried since he kept in mind that the bathroom wasn’t soundproof. However, he was the heart, the core of all the emotions, the guardian of feelings, for a reason. He lived them more intensely, felt them more immensely.

Albeit, he also knew the others sides were busy, so he had nothing to worry about. 

That was why he took all the time he needed, wanted. Half hour, one hour, one quarter of hour… It didn’t mattered. 

Patton didn't leave until the last drop fell.

The representation of morality got up, wobbly legs, took off his glasses and cleaned their lenses in his cardigan. He took deep breaths one, two, three times.

And a couple more.

He headed to the sink and washed his face, yet knowing that it didn’t changed in the slightest the swelling and redness which his features assumpted after cryings like that. He stared his reflection, an analysing glare. A few hours of funny cute videos would do. He would get some snacks in the kitchen when only his eyes still red and were easier to not be seen… Not that he wanted to hide it from the others, he just didn’t wanted to… show it.

And after all of this he would try to summon a night movie and sleep cuddling someone.

Yeah, he nodded to himself. This sounded to be ideal. A shadow of a smile appeared in his lips.

Patton turned around and opened the door, founding a Roman about to knock.

Their glares met in the same exact heartbeat, both equally astonished. Patton felt himself to paralyse before his instincts of flight took over, prompting him to quickly run back to the bathroom and lock himself inside.

Breathed in. Breathed out. In. Out. Repeated this movement three times more, seeking to calm his fast heartbeating and the adrenaline in his blood. He knew the other was still out there, knew that he would have questions and that he would have to explain himself, that he would have to let Roman into this complex mess who he was.

But he also would have comfort, would have company and human warmth and… affection.

He reminded the other’s look: scared, alarmed, worried.

Patton pinched the tip of his nose, adjusted his glasses and cardigan, took a deep breath and a part of him wondered if Roman was still out there.

He opened the door.

He was. 

Patton’s heart stopped, melting and the guardian of dreams and passion didn’t uttered a one single word, which was rare for him, only opened his arms in a gentle glare and a silent plead.

The moral aspect hugged him quick and strong, his hands holding the fabric of his shirt as tightly as possible and the tears he didn't even know were still there coming back.

The aspirant of royalty drowned in silence, his arms involving him entirely, a hand gently  stroking his back and the other lightly combing his hair. His chin rested in the other’s head as he hummed lowly a random song and rocked the parental figure with such tenderness too much pure to be described.

As sudden as it started the teary flow stopped, which didn’t meant the end of the hug or the careness, just the song, a few minutes later, which was switched by the velvety low tune from Roman. Patton was even more surprised.

- What happened, padre?

- Just that sudden sadness, you know, Ro-ro?

- I do.

Princey started to massaged his scalp and Patton felt all his muscles automatically relax; He let himself to be transported to some place and when opened his eyes, he was laid in Roman’s extremely soft and gigantic if compared to any other from the Mind Palace, bed.

- Now we shall watch a movie! - A flourish and a big television appeared in the wall at the same time dozens of sweets and snacks surrounded them. - Disney? Comedy? Action? Romance? Pixar? - The said shone in the device for a second before being replaced for another. The representation of creativity turned, a bright and nurturing glare, a smile which seemed to demonstrate all his love. - Today the choice is yours.

Patton felt more and more astonished every more second. Everything sounded too much strange. Everything seemed to much… unreal. He couldn’t help himself but feel as he was taking advantage of the other’s kindness, like he was forcing him to bear with a problem that wasn’t his. Usually things wasn’t like that, usually it was him who… who… took care of the others.

- Anyone you prefer, kiddo. - And a tiny smile opened in his lips. Something in him starting to becoming calm although the hurricane in his core.

- Oh, no, no. - Roman denied, getting a little closer. - Today the honor will be totally yours, my dear Patton. - Each word was punctuated with a kiss in Patton’s cheeks, who began to  giggle uncontrollably, feeling his face burn. - Consider yourself lucky.

How did all of this could be so strange and… No, more than strange, more than only different…

Good.

Patton giggled a little more, lightly bitted the tip of his tongue and thought a bit more.

- Maybe The princess and the frog?

- Your wish is an order!

In a few pieces of time the movie already played in the background.

The creativity’s representation got closer, inch by inch, until finally manage to involve the partner in his arms, rocking and leaning his lips in the other’s head before whispering.

- Thank you for letting me take care of you, padre. I know it’s not easy.

This made Patton wide his eyes and expand his heart further, if that was still possible. He held out his hands, intertwining his finger with Roman’s when he received his act.

- It’s just… normally I am the one who take care of you. - The royal aspect huffed, and Patton stroked his cheek, shiny gently eyes showing how much he loved his little ‘work’. - I am the dad, should be more stronger.

- You are strong!! - Roman immediately shouted, sounding offended. - Patton, you are the heart! The one who don’t matter the situation always try to give your best, even if that hurts you, even if that brings consequences we’re all afraid to accept… you always try to remain fair and right in your decisions! You manage to see the bright side of everything and everyone and always is there, even if your day also wasn’t the best.

His eyes began to tearing, and Patton felt a hand softly direct his chin up so that he could stare the glare full of determination and energy from the other.

- Patton, you deserve this and much more, okay?

He couldn’t stop himself from smiling, from letting out a few sheepish giggles. Roman’s tune became a bit more velvety.

- Okay, Patton?

- Okay. - And then embraced the aspect of passion and love, filling his face with thankful, lovely butterfly kisses and happy whispers.

It was almost in the part when Tiana went in search to recover her human form when the touch ended. Patton started to really get involved with the film's plot when a sensation almost made him jump through the ceiling.

Discreetly he looked at his tummy, finding Roman’s hands drumming his fingers on it and leading electric  sensations, something that made a involuntary smile be painted in his features, spread across all his body. The one in cardigan squirmed slightly, which didn’t stopped the motion.

The tickling were bearable, Patton decided, and he didn’t wanted to break this awesome bonding moment shared with the prince. He could endure until the end of the movie, for sure! It was almost in the middle, it was just a matter of time!

- Are you alright, Pat? You look a little agitated.

- I-it’s nothing, Ro-ro!

And practically jumped when the index finger found way to his belly button. Roman stared him with a raised eyebrow, but without really questioning something. The tickles stopped. The cat lover allowed himself to relax a bit more.

‘And what if he started to trace his fingers sloooooooowly through all your tummy?’

‘Not you, again.’

‘Imagine that nails scratching your sides!!! Tickling behind your ears while teasing you about your incredible tickliness…. Wouldn’t that be amazing?!’

‘Ah! Ah! Ah! What if he released small raspberries in each one of your ribs? Quick and small at the point you wouldn’t have the slightest idea where he would attack next! Ah!’

Patton controlled, again, his impulse to squirm and hide his, now very blushed, face in his hands. It only took a little stimulus and then it all went in a downhill!!

Now he desperately wanted some tickles.

His glance landed in the hand that remained resting perfectly calm in his stomach, absolutely unaware about the avalanche it had caused. That small voice continued to create the most random tickly scenarios in his mind, his face getting more and more in flames, his smile more uncontrollable and the movie more and more forgotten.

Maybe it was because of all his self inflicted anticipation that the one who wore glasses almost fell from the bed when a light feeling hit his foot, a inhuman squeak escaping from his mouth.

Roman paused the film, startled, quickly getting ready to face any danger that might threaten the welfare of his Pat-

And then he heard the laughter.

- Nahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!! Rohohohoho-rohohohoho!! Stahahaahahahahahahap!!! 

- But I’m not doing anything, dearest Patton. - The blossomed grin at the precious scene in front of him was easily perceptive in his voice. It didn’t took long to found the source of the ‘attack’.

His entire room was programmed to modificate itself as felt the most infinitesimal creative desire of someone, and, as it seems, this someone’ was the guardian of feelings, that is why now two soft gloves softly danced their fingers in the other’s foot, going from the heels to the tip of his toes again and again and again regardless Patton’s kicks, freeing all the kind of giggles.

- RohohohOHOHOHOHOHohohoho!!! – The moral aspect cutely squirmed in his arms, a gigantic smile adorning his face, wrinkled nose and his voice filled by the snorts and high pinch squeals.    – NHAHAHAHAHAHahahahahahahahaha!! He-he-HEHEHehehehehehehehelp!!! – And again dissolved himself in a mess of quick and adorable giggling.

Roman bitted his lip. - Of course, my dearest hearty partner! - And his hands repositioned themselves in sides of the other, who began to fight more, his head shaking non stop. Evil laughter poured through the prince’s mouth.

Every wriggle, scribble and squeeze generated and increased a new flow of laughter, making him to go from the most high tune to the deep belly laughter. Tears started to accumulate in the corner of his eyes and, while the tickles and laughter took over his body in a lovely, joyful sensation, Patton never felt so grateful for any and everything. Just laying there and receiving all the love and care, without thinking or worrying with absolutely nothing sounded like a dream.

- Ohoho. No, no, Padre. - Roman whispered, his lips touching lightly the other’s neck, making with each word resulted in small vibrations that even made himself giggle with Patton’s bubbling squeaks and laughter. - Now the greatest Tickle Monster got you and there isn’t any way to stop him from attacking his ticklish tickly prey!!! - He continued to poke and wriggle inside the one in cardigan’s belly button since Patton’s hands, which were holding his wrists, didn’t made any real attempt to stop him. - Muahahahaha!

The blush spreaded across his cheeks, his laughter going muffled when he turned around to hug Roman, who changed his techniques to a soft dance of his fingernails on the cat lover’s back, the wobbly laughter becoming more and more low, sleepy giggles.

- Thahahahahahank you, Roman. - Closed his eyes, tightened their hug, let out a happy sigh.

- Your wish is always and order, Patton. You’re welcome.

Just like a dream.

[eilonwiiy]

Though Lovers Be Lost ; a Witchlands one-shot

but I’m still times zones away  from who I was the day before we met. you were the first mile where my heart broke a sweat.

- andrea gibson

Summary: Merik Nihar has overcome death, but is it possible to return to the life he once had?

Ships: Safi/Merik

Tags: angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, body image

Word count: 3.8k words

Read on AO3: here

*   .   *   .   *   .   *   .

There were disadvantages to being alive.

Merik stood before the Origin Well of Marstok, hands clasped behind his back.  The water shimmered with the sky above, stars leagues away now within arms length in the ancient basin.  The night air was stifling.  Unmoving.  Dead.

His witchery was gone.

Merik didn’t know what he expected when he went into the sleeping ice.  What was death to a dead man?  But here he was alive.  Given a second chance.  Or was it third?  

He ran a hand through his shorn cut hair.  Hell-waters, there was so much he didn’t understand.

“There you are.”

Merik’s heart stopped.  Swallowing hard, he peered over his shoulder.  The sight he saw stole his breath, and beyond his better judgement, he turned to face the woman emerging from the shadows wholly.

A mistake.  Noden curse him, even after death he was shown no mercy. 

Safiya fon Hasstrel was a domna once more.  She wore a traditional Marstoki gown, a single sheer strip of apricot fabric draped and wound around her body as though bewitched itself, leaving her golden arms bare.  Her hair had grown since he last saw her, since he caught her in his arms before plummeting to her death deep in a nightmare of lightning and wind, but the sandy waves still hung short by her shoulders.  She wore no adornments, save for the glittering threadstone hanging around her neck.  

Safi’s blue eyes gazed at him from across the forest clearing.

“Domna.”  

The corner of Safi’s lip tipped up.  “I was looking for you.”

Merik offered a stiff nod.  The hand clasped upon his wrist behind his back dug into skin and bone.  

Safi made her way towards him, a smile playing on her lips.  The grass beneath her feet rustled against the hem of her dress and Merik was momentarily distracted by the swath of exposed gold the slit in her skirts teased with each step she took, her skin practically glowing in the moonlight.  But then his gaze traveled lower and the warmth that bubbled in his abdomen was suddenly doused in icy water.  

“What happened to your ankle?”

The question cracked through the night, his voice rough from disuse, and Safi paused her steps, ending on what now Merik realized was a limp.  How did he miss it before?  She brushed her gown’s fabric out of the way and looked down at the contorted ligament.

“Oh,” she said, the word light, like she’d only just now noticed that her ankle was twisted in such an unnatural way.  Scars covered the skin of her foot, crooked and white.  She fidgeted with the fabric before rearranging it so that her leg was covered once more.  When she faced Merik, she stood a little straighter.  Lifted her chin a little higher.

“I broke my foot in Lejna.  Well,” -her mouth twisted in a grimace- “the Empress broke my foot.  Smashed it with an iron flail while I was running around like a chicken with its head cut off trying to find the right pier.  It hurt like hell, and obviously, I didn’t make it, but it was worth it.”  Safi flashed Merik a wicked grin.  “She’ll never admit it, but I managed to give Her Royal Highness a black eye that day.”  

A burning heat filled Merik’s throat.  He couldn't tear his eyes away from her ankle.  

It was all his fault.  He had failed her, just as he had failed everyone else.  It didn’t matter that everything worked out in the end.  She’d gotten hurt, and he could have stopped it.  

Safi’s grin faltered in his silence.  She fumbled with her skirts, gave the scarred foot a more careful look, then peered back at Merik, hesitation in her eyes.  “Does it… does it look bad?”

Merik stared at her.  Blessed Noden, how could she look him in the eyes and ask such a thing?  Did she not see the monster he’d become?  The black shadows were gone, but he’d seen what stared back at him in the rippled waters of the Well.  The Fury.  He looked nothing like the prince he’d been when he’d first met her, all scarred skin and protruding bones.  Even as fine as the clothes he wore now were, they hung from his starved body.  Getting dressed now was a shameful and exhausting process.  Every rustle of silk dragged across his skin like a knife.  Wrong.  Wrong, wrong, wrong.  And Safi-

Hell-waters, she was rutting beautiful.  He could barely stand to look at her.  He’d forever be haunted by the kiss they’d shared.  Her hands on his skin.  Her body writhing against his, hungry, desperate for his touch.  The thought of it now only made him feel sick to his stomach.  Knowing for a few blessed seconds he had been hers… and that they could never go back to that.  He was the prince of Nubrevna no more, and the confidence - the arrogance - he’d touted around in everything that he did died along with the crown.  He’d never be able to expose himself like that to her again.  Not when he looked like this.  Even if it was taking every bit of strength he had left to not rush over to her and gather her in his arms.  For several long, agonizing weeks, he had thought her to be dead and all he wanted right now was to feel her heartbeat next to his.

Safi was alive.  

No, not just alive.  She was half of the Cahr Awen.

Merik had never been a believer in his aunt’s stories.  It all rang too close to hearsay and religious fanaticism if you asked him.  But now, standing beneath the moonlight with nothing but the glow of fireflies to illuminate her path, there could be no doubt that Safiya fon Hasstrel was the legendary light-bringer.

If nothing else, her new place in the world solidified everything he’d come to accept.  That he was not needed.  Not by Nubrevna.  Not by his people.  Even in his holiest of quests, he’d brought nothing but destruction to those he cared about.  

He would not make that mistake with Safi.  She deserved better.

Safi deserved better than a dead man.  Someone like the Hell-Bard commander.  Or even that big brute of a man, the one they called Zander.    

It was too much for him.  He turned away from her.      

But of course - of course - she couldn’t leave him in peace.  He was a fool to believe she would.

“Why won’t you look at me?” she demanded.

Merik said nothing.  He heard a huff of air.

“I’ve been looking for you all day.”  Frustration laced Safi’s voice, but not enough to hide her concern.  

“I...” Merik tried hoarsely.  He shook his head at the raw sound, throat bobbing painfully.  “I just needed some time alone.”

“Right.  Because a year trapped in a mountain wasn’t enough alone time,” Safi muttered.  A strained pause passed.  “I was worried.”

Merik rolled his lips through his teeth, the dry skin brittle and cracked.  “I am sorry, Domna.  I did not mean to trouble you.”

“It-” Safi cut herself off.  Her lashes fluttered with annoyed impatience.  “I wasn’t troubled.  I just- goat tits, can’t you just look at me?”

Merik’s jaw clenched and, silently begging Noden for mercy, he granted her her wish.  He kept his posture neutral, like a Nubrevnan naval officer at ease, hands still clasped behind his back and feet standing firmly on the ground shoulder length apart.  

“Happy, Domna?”

To his surprise, her eyes narrowed at that.  

“Stop calling me that.  Domna.”

“It’s what you are, is it not?”

“It’s not the title that bothers me.”

“Then, what?”  Merik kept his voice devoid of any emotion.  Like Safi was just anyone.  

As if Safiya fon Hasstrel could be just anyone.

“I see you for who you are,” he continued when she didn’t respond.  “If only you’d do me the courtesy.”

Safi’s already narrowed eyes turned into slits.  “What does that mean?” she spat.

In an instant Merik knew he’d killed any chance of her leaving him alone.  Stupid.  He should have kept his mouth shut.  But like Safi, he had a problem keeping his rage in line.  A low rumble of frustration ripped through his throat and he swung away from her again.  Boots stomping, he paced the small clearing, trying to avoid letting loose the fury his witchery no longer could.  The ring of cedar trees seemed to be shrinking in on them.  

“It doesn’t matter,” he retorted sharply, planting himself by the Origin Well.  Exactly where he should have stayed in the first place.

“No, tell me.  What did you mean by that?”

Merik shot a glare at her over his shoulder.  Quick and fierce.  Long enough to see the angry flush of her cheeks, but quick enough that he didn’t have to feel anything.  With a harsh exhale, he whipped back to the waters.  Even the ripples in the pool couldn’t hide the horror his face had become.  He glared right back at the monster.

He needed Safi to understand without him saying the words.  He needed her to see as he did now.

Merik breathed in deeply, held it, then let the air out slowly - like he would if he were calling on his witchery.  He did this again and again and again until his sunken chest rose and fell like the calm roll of the ocean’s waters after a storm.  

He should have been suspicious of the domna’s silence.  He wanted more than anything for her to leave him to his misery, but he found himself looking for her over his shoulder anyway.

Merik didn’t need his witchery to feel the shift in the air.  Safi’s expression was unnervingly blank.  An undercurrent of fear locked him in place.  

“What happened to you?” she whispered.  

A shiver ran through Merik.  His heart quickened against his chest.  

Come, come, and find release.

Come, come and face the end.  

Merik held her gaze until the words slipped out of him.  “I died.”  

The admission hung between them, heavier than the silence.  But Safi’s expression never changed.  She didn’t flinch.  She didn't run.  Her storm blue eyes held his, refusing to release him.  

“But...” she said slowly, and Merik could hear the questions coming.  None of that mattered though.  It was best to end this conversation sooner rather than later.  Spare her the pain.  

He released a resigned sigh.  “It’s… complicated.  And ultimately, doesn’t matter.”

“Right,” Safi murmured more to herself, nodding over the word.  Processing.

Then, her eyes flicked up to meet him.

“You’re right.  It doesn’t matter,” she repeated with more conviction.  And something else.  Had Noden heard his prayers?  Was this mercy?  Merik felt almost relieved.  He didn’t want to talk about this anymore than was necessary and he could feel his resolve cracking.

“You’re here now,” Safi declared, face softening, her lips trembling with the beginnings of a smile.

Merik’s heart sank.  

Hope, he realized.  That was the something he had heard before.  It saturated the air.  Poisoned his lungs.  Made him believe what she was feeling.  

That’s all that matters.  She hadn’t said the words, but he heard them.  If only that were true.            

Suddenly, Safi was striding towards him.  Long, determined steps.  Until she was standing before him, so close that her soft chest almost brushed against his.  He could count every freckle on her nose.  Smell the faint sea-salt in her hair, on her skin.  Horror spiked through him as her hands lifted into the air, time seeming to slow, reaching for his face like she going to-

“No.”

The word ripped from his throat, a monstrous, terrible thing, as Merik spun on his heel.  Blood roared in his ears - almost loud enough to hide the cry of frustration from Safi.

“I don’t understand!”

“That much is obvious, Domna,” Merik snipped and instantly hated himself for it.  He needed to get control over himself.  But she’d almost touched him.  He’d almost let it happen.  Almost gave in to his darkest desire.  

Monster.

A ripple of disgust rolled through him.    

“I don’t know what I did wrong.”

Merik’s head snapped to Safi, and one look at her downturned eyes, her chin dipped low, he knew he was in Noden’s watery hell.  He’d thought he’d known it before, been damned to walk the world with one foot in his grave.  But that was nothing compared to this.  Noden had his trident buried halfway into his heart from the moment Safi entered the clearing and he’d just twisted it the rest of the way.    

“You deserve more,” Merik finally forced himself to say, heart squeezing painfully.  “And I…” he swallowed, unable to finish the thought.  He shook his head once and straightened his spine.  “This is for the best.”

“Don’t.”  Safi’s voice cut through his like a knife as her eyes snapped up to him.  “My whole life men have made decisions for me.  Men I cared about.  Men I trusted.  All in the name of what’s best for me.”

“And I,” Merik ground out, “have spent my whole life seeing what I want to see.  I will do that no more.  Not to you.  I know what I look like.  Who I look like.”

“Who-?” Safi’s eyes widened, flickering back and forth over Merik’s face in confusion.  “What in Noden’s blighted waters are you talking about?”

Merik barked a single bitter laugh.  He’d had enough.  It was time to end this.  Pull out Noden’s trident and let his heart bleed out.  One last death.

“The irony,” he sneered.  “A Truthwitch who can’t hear her own lies.”

Hurt flashed across Safi’s face.  She gaped at him, stunned, and Merik, ignoring the way his chest felt like it was being ripped open, marched away from her, away from the Origin Well, and disappeared into the trees.  

It took Safi all of three seconds to recover, then, she was scrabbling after him.  Desperate hands grabbed at his tunic as though to stop him.

Just keep moving.

“Merik, please.  I don’t understand.”  

“Enough, Domna.”

“Can’t we at least talk?” Safi’s voice grew more and more panicked as she tried to keep up.

“There’s nothing more to be said,” Merik growled.  She had no idea how much it was hurting him to let her go.  “My face says it all.”

Safi breathed a hysterical laugh.  “Do you really think me so shallow?  Is that all you think I see?”

“It’s all anyone can see.  And you pretending that you can’t is pathetic.  I don’t need your lies.”

“Lies?”  Safi cried.  “Lies?!   Merik Nihar you are a sodding cow with balls for brains!  Do you want to know what I truly see?”    

It was too much.  She was too much.  Merik finally came to a crashing halt and whirled around, a tornado of fury, seconds away from tearing through the infuriating woman he was so unquestionably in love with, obliterating them both until there was nothing left to salvage.

“Yes, Domna, tell me,” he shouted, voice echoing through the trees.  “Tell me!  What do you see?”

With the same unbridled ferociousness, two fists gripped the open collar of Merik’s tunic and Safi yanked him to her.  Her face hovered barely an inch from his and she thrust her chin into the air forcing him to see nothing but her eyes.  They glistened with determination and unshed tears.  

“I see a man I once thought was lost to me,” she breathed.  Desperation caught in her throat.  A sob begging to be wrenched free.  “Please, Merik.  If you died - if you truly did die - please.  Do not make me lose you again.”

A big fat tear escaped the corner of her eye and the storm raging inside Merik reached its final crescendo.  He wrenched Safi to him and his lips crashed into hers.

Gone was the ice cold sleep.  Gone was the puppeteer.  All there was was Safi, and, with her heart thrumming against him, he realized with stunning clarity that this was magic.  Kissing Safi was the first three seconds after leaping off a cliff, the moment before your witchery ignites, when you’re falling and there’s nothing but you and the open air.  

Release rumbled through his throat, dark like thunder, as his hand buried itself in her hair and he deepened the kiss, surrendering himself to her completely, until the fiery hunger devoured his fear and doubt and burned it all away.  Safi sighed into him, her arms trapped against him, hands still gripping his collar.  He felt the hard press of her knuckles dig into his chest, almost painful.  He welcomed it and the bliss of knowing that she was here with him that came with it.

And then it was over.  Lightheaded, Merik leaned forward to brace his forehead against Safi’s, the heat of her blazing on his skin.  Moonlight spilled through the leaves painting them in ethereal light, their shared ragged breathing was almost deafening, alone, deep in the woods.  Tears clung to Safi’s eyelashes, stained her flushed cheeks.  Merik cradled her face in both his hands, his thumbs gently smoothing away the wetness.

“Please don’t cry,” he whispered.  “Please.”

She laughed, a watery thing that broke Merik’s heart.  “Then stop being a royal ass.”

Merik couldn’t help it - he smiled and kissed her again.  Gentle this time.  A slow press of his lips to hers.  

Many minutes passed before another word was said.  The sounds of the forest slowly returned as Merik’s pounding heart settled and his blood hummed with happiness.  He watched Safi slowly rolled her lips together.  A sign of restlessness.  But he continued to absently caress the blush of her cheek, perfectly content with taking inventory of every inch of her face and committing it to memory.  The freckles dusting her sandy skin.  The moon glittering in her blue eyes.  The bump along the bridge of her nose.

Hold on.  

Merik traced the slope of Safi’s nose with his index finger and paused at the small protrusion.  

“Where did this come from?”  he asked.  Unlike with the ankle, there wasn’t so much concern in the question as there was exasperation.  

Safi pursed her lips, fighting a smirk.

“Well?” he demanded.  It was like scolding a child.

“Would you believe, I got into a duel with a pirate queen?”

“You know, Domna, I would.”  Merik pulled back slightly - enough so that he was able to give her a once over, but not so much that he had to release her from his embrace.  He didn’t plan on doing that any time soon.  “Tell me, are there any other new facets to your being that I should be aware of?”

Although the question aired on the side of teasing, Merik’s eyes darkened.  He was entirely serious.  If she had been hurt in any other way, he wanted to know.  

Color rose to Safi’s cheeks under the intensity of his gaze.  “None that I can think of.  Though,” she murmured, peering coyly at him, “perhaps there’s something I’m forgetting.  It may be worth your while to do a more thorough search somewhere more private.”

Merik’s heart skipped a beat.  And judging by the smug way Safi’s lips curled, she felt it.

Merik never thought he’d ever feel the scorch of lust ever again after dying.  His body was a broken, dead thing to be poked and prodded by Esme’s merciless hands.  And yet, blessed heat fanned out deep in his core, melting his defenses from the inside out.  Desire was a feeling long since forgotten until now.  But however wonderful it felt, he pushed the sensation down.  Just the thought of Safi enduring more suffering than what he already knew was enough to snuff out the flame between them.  

“I’m serious, Safi.”

Safi tilted her head and let her hands wander up his chest.  “So am I.”

A fresh wave of yearning flashed through Merik, more powerful than the one before.  There was no uncertainty in her sapphire eyes.  He felt his face flush and blinked away, only to become very aware of the silk wrapped over the lovely slope of her shoulder.  One tug and he was sure he’d have her bare.  It almost frightened him how fast his mind went there, when minutes ago he could barely stand the thought of putting himself in such a vulnerable and intimate position.  If he were honest, even in his lust-dazed mind, it still made his stomach queasy.

Something must have registered on his face, because Safi’s playful smile faded.  Merik felt her left hand twitch, warm against him - and then, it was gone.  He could scarcely breathe as he watched her carefully raise herself to his scarred cheek.  Her eyes never left him, watching for any sign of discomfort or unwant, hand hovering inches away from his face.

This time Merik stayed where he was, resisting the urge to pull away.  He could do this.  His grip tightened on her waist in anticipation and he closed his eyes, heart pounding against his chest, in his ears, overwhelming all other senses.  

There was no stopping the sharp hiss of breath when skin met skin.  Safi’s touch, like his witchery, was a ghost of what should have been there.  He could barely feel it, most of the nerves on that side of his face burned away in the explosion that killed him.  

Grief he couldn’t explain throbbed at the base of his throat.  A burning sensation that spread behind his eyes.  He cracked them open and his chest expanded painfully at the sight of Safi’s eyes.  They were the color of the sky - and he was falling headlong into it.

Merik expelled the air that he’d been holding and let himself lean into her phantom touch.

Maybe it didn’t matter that he couldn’t feel her.  Maybe knowing mattered more than feeling.  Knowing that it was Safi touching him.  Standing in his arms, warm and alive, looking at him like he was the only thing that existed.

Besides, he did feel it.  In his heart.

“I thought you weren’t that type of girl,” Merik murmured huskily when he found his voice again.

“I’m not,” Safi murmured back, her thumb still stroking the ridged skin just below his eye.  “But I’m also not the same girl you met in Venaza.”  

“Nor am I the same man.”  Merik’s forehead dropped to her’s.  He pressed his eyes shut like he was praying to Noden for help.  A shaky breath rattled his chest and he felt the tear that fell from his undamaged eye.  “Safi, there’s so much I still need to tell you.  I wasn’t lying when I said it was complicated."

“Then tell me,” she urged him kindly.  “I want to know everything.”  She paused.  “Is that something you think you can do?”

Merik nodded numbly, overcome with emotion.  He kept his downturned gaze anchored to the hand on his chest covering his heart.

“Ok,” whispered Safi before falling into silence.  Then: “Can I at least kiss you one more time before you do?”

Merik answered her with a searing kiss, and a whisper of a breeze rustled through the trees, carrying a promise of hope.