#but on the other . i am wholly unprepared to go out in the world

[ineedibuprofen]

man being a senior sucksss

[downwiththeficness]

The Usurper-Chapter Seven

Summary: Lilah McNamara stole things for a living. It was tedious work and often dangerous, which made it just exciting enough to keep her interested. After botching a routine job, Lilah finds herself standing amid monsters. Wholly unprepared for the horror of living under Amaru’s reign, Lilah decides to use her well honed skills to thwart the queen’s plans and prevent the end of the world.

Word Count: ~3,200

Disclaimer: I do not consent to this work being copied or posted to other sites of blogs.

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Waking was simple affair. It was the aftermath that was the problem.

Lilah’s eyes opened to an empty hotel room. It was a different hotel room than the one she’d been in the night before. She could tell because the carpet was a more pronounced shade of brown. Other than that, it looked like just about the same.

She was suspicious the moment she sat up. Her body wasn’t registering an ounce of pain. In fact, Lilah felt pretty damn good. Her fingers traced the curve of a shoulder that she was sure would still be dislocated and down to a leg that should be dotted with cuts and bruises. Even the scrapes on her palms were healed. Weird.

Did she dream the crash? Her memory just before and after was somewhat fuzzy. Eyes that closed a little too long. The smell of oil. Pain. Brasa. She remembered his angry face wavering above her. Remembered his arm pressed against her mouth. Remembered the taste of his blood.

���This is beyond weird,” Lilah breathed while she swung her legs off the bed. ���Way beyond weird.”

On the nightstand was her purse. It was streaked with dirt and the leather look like it had been scrubbed with a cheese grater. More evidence that the crash was real. She picked it up and flipped it open. Javier’s money was still in there along with Antonio’s keys. Lilah shut it again with a disgusted scoff. Another failed escape attempt. Lilah thought she was better at slipping away from dangerous situations than this. No. She was better at slipping away from dangerous situations than this. She was just being thwarted by her superhuman captors. That meant that Lilah would have to be much, much smarter than she had been. Her next attempt was going to require actual planning. No more impulsive moves.

She slumped on the mattress, feeling her already low spirits sink even lower as she realized that she was back where she started. It didn’t help that Lilah was tired in a way that no amount of strange magic could cure. Worse, she was out of ideas. No matter how many times she went over it in her head, Lilah always came back to the same conclusion: I am screwed.

The odds of fighting against Brasa, alone, were insurmountable. And then, there was Javier. And Amaru. And, dozens of other variables that Lilah had no hope of controlling. The learning curve she’d need to overcome them was simply too steep. There was no wiggle room in the situation, nothing that she could grab onto as a lifeline.

She sat on the bed and dropped her head onto her hands. The urge to cry rode her hard. An embarrassing lump formed in the back of her throat. Lilah refused to give in. This, at least, was something she could control. There would be a time to let all her frustration and anger out, but it certainly wasn’t now. She squeezed her eyes shut to stop the tears and look long, calming breaths.

A knock.

Lilah jerked to standing. Her eyes were open wide and focused on the door while her body braced for attack. She could feel the heavy thump, thump, of her heart beating in her chest. Her skin prickled with fear while she listened for motion on the other side of the door. The knock came again, but she could not move to answer it. Lilah simply did not have the capacity to take on anything more and she probably wouldn’t regain the capacity for several days—no, several months. She was full up on strange, new things for at least the next six months. Possibly a year.

Seconds passed. For one desperate moment, Lilah thought her visitor may have moved on. That desperate hope melted to nothing when the knob turned and the door began to open. Brasa’s dark head appeared between the door and jamb, “You’re awake. I thought you might still be asleep.”

“I’m awake,” was Lilah’s weak response.

“Good,” he replied, and stepped into the room. “You scared me.”

She was taken aback, “I scared you?”

Brasa nodded, “When I found you on the road, I thought you might be dead. I panicked.”

The word ‘panicked’ slid across Lilah’s tongue in a slow, confused drawl. If anyone should have been panicking after the wreck, it was her. She was just in too much physical pain at the time to do so. She couldn’t remember Brasa panicking. He just leaned down and called her an idiot before giving her his blood. He sounded annoyed. Possibly angry. Lilah remembered how his movements were confident, no tremor in his arm as he held it to her mouth. There was nothing about him that was fearful.

He moved towards her, stopping when Lilah matched his steps in the opposite direction. His hands came together in front of him while his body settled into place. “Javier says you stole his car.”

Incensed at the accusation, Lilah bit out, “He gave me the keys.”

Brasa nodded, “And, you were headed to the airport. Where did you think you were going to go?”

“Away.”

His mouth thinned, “I was hoping to speak with you before you ran.” The word ‘again’ was silently hanging on at the end of that sentence.

Lilah sighed, “You can’t honestly expect that I would want to speak with you.”

“I saved your life, Lilah,” he replied, “A conversation would be the least of my expectations.”

“Oh, please,” she snipped with a roll of her eyes, “I wouldn’t have been in the accident if you’d just let me walk out of that church.”

“I wish I could. You’ve complicated an already complicated situation.”

“So sorry about that. Really.”

Brasa inhaled lightly through his nose and the corners of his mouth tightened, “What were you doing in the church, anyway?” When she hesitated, he continued, “You were using a different name. Your Spanish is… average. You showed up six months ago and suddenly you’re dating the head of the church. What were you doing?”

Lilah was quiet. She didn’t expect to ever have to answer for her actions—didn’t even expect him to care. Brasa let the silence hang between them while she fought back the fear that he was going to find out exactly what she was being paid to do. He stared at her with unrelenting curiosity that chipped away at the stone that was holding her tongue still.

“I was doing what I was paid to do,” she said, finally. Brasa’s brows lifted, but he didn’t otherwise speak or move. “The job was to find something for someone.”

“Did you find it?”

“No.”

“Ah,” he breathed, “So, you find things for a living.”

“Yeah.”

“Another reason to keep from drawing Amaru’s attention,” Brasa muttered, “She happens to be looking for a set of relics.”

“What kind of relics?”

He shrugged, “She won’t say. At least, not now. I’m sure she’ll share in the near future.”

Lilah cast her gaze around the room, unsure of herself. Brasa seemed to be falling into deep thought and, despite her own curiosity about the queen, Lilah knew not to poke a sleeping bear.

Brasa blinked and his focus returned, “Javier says that he explained our bond before you robbed him and stole his car.”

She sighed, “I told you I didn’t steal it. He gave it to me.”

A wave of his hand, “Semantics.” Then, “I have a feeling that you are more confused than before. I’d like to explain it, myself, if you’ll let me.”

Lilah had the deep inclination to tell him to fuck off. She didn’t think more information was going to make her any less pissed that her life was so definitively derailed or that she couldn’t get the space she wanted to figure out what happened. “I think that, the more you explain it, the worse it gets.”

Brasa’s expression was sympathetic, “Yes, I can understand how you might feel that way. But, you seem like the kind of person who enjoys thorough research. I can give you the basics and arrange for Javier to get you information on the more...complicated parts.”

She crossed her arms, “I think I have the basics, thank you very much. We’re some kind of vampiric soul mates and I can’t leave. Does that sum it up?”

At this, Brasa showed the first sign of frustration. His upper lip pulled up, showing the whites of his teeth. “It barely scratches the surface.”

“Sure, it does.”

He started forward, stopping again when Lilah stumbled away. The back of her knees hit the mattress and her ass landed hard atop it. Brasa schooled his features and pivoted to grab the chair sitting near the wall. He put it down a few feet from her and sat. They stared at one another while the air conditioner kicked on. Its low drone was the only sound in the room for a long time.

“It is... unheard of for a Xibalban to bond with a human,” he began. “You can imagine my surprise when I confirmed it was true. Bonds are usually happy occasions, even to our culebra cousins.”

He paused, and Lilah felt the words tumble out before she could stop them, “But, you’re not happy about ours.”

“I didn’t say that,” Brasa replied. “I...have waited a very long time. To be honest, I didn’t think it would ever happen. I am not unhappy, but I maintain that it complicates my situation.”

“How?”

“Amaru knows about you, and she wants to meet you. I was wrong to think that I could keep you a secret.” He took a breath, “The best course of action is to present you informally, then hope she forgets you exist.”

“That’s the part I don’t get.” Lilah pointed a finger at him, “Why would she want to hurt me? I haven’t done anything to her.”

Brasa’s hands turned upwards so that the palms faced the ceiling, “She’s not exactly predictable, and she can be mean spirited. Especially when things aren’t going how she wants them to.”

Lilah’s stomach turned over, “So, you think she’ll hurt me out of spite?” When he didn’t answer, she pressed, “You think she’ll kill me?”

“No,” he said quickly. “Not kill. To kill you would kill me, and she needs me. For now, at least.”

“If I die, you die.” It was a statement of fact, not a question.

Brasa nodded, “A side effect of the bond.”

Lilah began to understand what Javier was saying about being Brasa’s weakness. If Brasa screwed up, all she had to do was take Lilah out. It wouldn’t even be a fair fight, if she understood the magnitude of Xibalban strength. Amaru could just look at Lilah wrong and she would keel over.

“She’s got her right hand man by the balls,” Lilah said absently, “Hell of a place to be in.”

“Yes, it is,” he replied tiredly. “Do you understand why your safety matters so much to me? Why I need to keep you close?”

“No,” she answered, “it doesn’t make any sense. The closer I am to you, the more people will know about me. Its like painting a target on your back. Kill the weaker one to get at the stronger.”

Brasa leaned forward, “No one would dare. Not while I live.”

“Amaru would,” Lilah countered. “You said as much.”

“That’s different. She is the queen.”

“Yes, and her subjects will follow whatever command she gives them. At any moment, she could put a bounty on my head.”

“She won’t.”

“You just said she would.”

“You die, I die, remember? I have served her for centuries, longer than any other. She’s the only person in this dimension stronger than me, and only because of technicality. If she gives the order for my death, she loses her strongest defense. It would be a remarkably stupid decision, given her position.”

Lilah cocked her head to the side, “What is her position?”

Brasa lifted a shoulder, “A queen without a throne. She hasn’t yet corralled the culebras in this dimension. They might not have the strength, but they have the numbers. They could overwhelm her if I’m not there to convince them to follow. Or, to destroy them if they rebel.”

She blinked at him, “She can’t just, I don’t know, wave a hand and kill ‘em off?”

He laughed lightly, “No. She says she needs them, although the reason escapes me.”

“What happens when she doesn’t need them?”

“I don’t know.”

Lilah picked at the skin around her thumb while she thought about what she’d just learned, “So, what did you envision my life would be like while you hid me away from Amaru? I’m not going to hole up in a hotel room. I’ll go crazy.”

Brasa smiled, “A temporary solution. My people built a series of tunnels a long time ago. Amaru has been working to open them up so that the new culebras can find protection from the sun. Several have burned in the process and it makes the others nervous.”

“You don’t burn in the sun,” she pointed out.

His smile widened, “Of course not. I’ve stood in the sun since the day I was made.”

“Can Amaru?”

He nodded.

“Is that a Xibalban thing?”

“No.” She rolled her wrist to get him to say more, but he changed the subject. “I have a place for you. It is not as comfortable as I would like, but it is safe.”

Lilah looked away, “I’m assuming I don’t have a choice in this.”

“Not until I can be sure you are strong enough to hold your own against a culebra.”

She shook her head, “I don’t understand what that means.”

“The blood,” Brasa said, “is a conduit. When I give you mine, you also take some of my strength into yourself.”

“That’s how I healed.” Lilah barely had to think about it to make the connection. The answer was just there, sitting on the tip of her tongue.

“Yes.”

“What if I don’t want to drink your blood?”

Brasa’s expression sobered. His mouth thinned around words that he didn’t say.

“You won’t let me out until I do,” Lilah muttered, looking away.

“What do you expect me to do?”

“What if I fly out of the country?” She held up a hand when he began to protest, “That will keep me away from...whatever is going on here. I’ll even tell you where I am and you can...visit me when you have time. And, after things get settled, we can try to make some decisions.”

“Decisions?”

She nodded, “Yes. About what we want to do with all of this.”

Brasa’s brows dropped and came together, “The decision has been made, Lilah. It is done.”

The anger that had been banked back during their conversation rose up, “No, its not. I didn’t sign on for a bond with you. I didn’t agree to it. I had a life before all of this. I plan to continue to have a life and to have a choice about how I live it.”

“There is no choice,” he hissed. “Not for either of us. I am yours and you are mine, and that is the end of it.” There was rhythm and ritual behind his words, as if he’d heard them over and over in exactly that cadence. “I am perfectly willing to make some accommodations for how sudden this is and for your humanity. I have been lenient with you.”

Lilah’s anger boiled over, “You arrogant son of a bitch! Lenient? Lenient? How is telling me that there is no choice fucking lenient? You’ve boxed me in since the second we met, and you’re sitting there pissed off because I tried to get away. Fuck you, Brasa.”

He sat back in the chair and fixed her with black eyes, “Should I have chosen another path? An easier path for me? Should I have taken my right as a Xibalban? Stolen you away from that church and fed you blood and venom until it was all you could think about—all you could beg for? Not one of my kind would have given you what I have given you these past few days.”

Brasa was calm, but there was steel underneath his words. Lilah’s mouth went dry when she realized how serious he was, when she recognized that the option he described was still on the table. Acid burned in her gut and she felt the urge to cry push at the back of her eyes. She bit down on her tongue. Lilah was not going to cry in front of him.

“Do you want me to hate you?” she said in a small, low voice.

His shoulders slumped, “No. Not at all.”

“Then, we have to come up with some kind of compromise. Because, if you hold me here much longer, I will start hating you.”

“I need you safe, Lilah.”

“I know,” she said, “I can be safe elsewhere.”

“Where?”

“Canada.”

Brasa squinted at her, “Canada?”

“Yes,” she said, “Javier said that culebras like it warm. Canada is the opposite of warm, especially in the winter.”

He seemed to take a moment to think about her proposal, “Is it far from here?”

Lilah’s head bobbed, “Its a long flight, sure.”

“Too far for me to help you if you get into another accident.”

“I mean,” she allowed, “yeah. But, that was kind of an outlier. I’ve made it my whole life without dying so far, so I think I can handle it a while longer.”

Brasa straightened, “A compromise, then. You’ll stay with me until I can fortify you enough that I won’t have to worry about your safety while we are apart. And then, you can go to Canada until Amaru has solidified her plans. After that, we can discuss your place in her court.”

It wasn’t what Lilah wanted, but it gave her a way out. Lilah spent a few seconds worrying that this was yet another escape plan that was coming too easy. She held out her hand to Brasa, “Deal.”

Leather slid against her fingers and palm, “Deal.”

A knock came to the door, startling Lilah. She tried to draw her hand away from Brasa’s, but he held it firm, “Come in.”

Javier appeared in the doorway, “The queen has asked to see her.”

Lilah felt the fingers around hers tighten. Brasa used the leverage to pull Lilah to standing, “Tell her we’ll be with her shortly.”

“I have a change of clothes,” Javier offered, holding up a shopping bag. “I thought Lady Lilah might want to clean up beforehand.”

Brasa smiled, “Thank you for your foresight.”

After dropping the bag at the door, Javier left the way he came. Brasa retrieved it and approached Lilah, “Wash yourself and put these on. I’ll wait for you here.”

Mute, Lilah carried the bag into the bathroom and shut the door. She contemplated crawling through the window again, but didn’t much feel like it. Reluctantly, she turned towards the shower and spun the knob for hottest water she could stand. All the better to wash away the doubt that lingered in the back of her mind.

[vyeoh]

this is your chance: wax poetic about an Empires or DSMP character of your choice to a fan who is new to both. Explain why I should love them. I need guidance in this new and meme-populated land.

okok this is a lot of pressure haha. Spoilers for EmpiresSMP and DreamSMP below, obviously. I wrote a lot so prepare yourself, anon

I watch a lot of empires POVs but the ones I most anticipate every week are Scott and Sausage.

c!Scott (I'll call him Smajor for the sake of simplicity) starts off the series chilling, not really getting involved with the rest of the server, and staying aggressively neutral. After all, he's an elf. He has lived far longer than most of the other rulers already, and will most likely outlive them for many years. So, the best thing is to stick to his mountains and not get invested in the dealings of mortal affairs, maybe sometimes causing problems on purpose and dipping because what's life without a little spice right.

But then, this demon comes to the server, Xornoth. He's going around causing havoc and wants to send the world into an eternal winter, but he doesn't bother the kingdom of Rivendell much so Smajor stays tentatively cautious but ultimately unbothered. But then, the puzzle pieces start falling together. The first thing that the audience noticed was was Xornoth sounded like Smajor, but we mostly thought that this was just due to cc!Scott voicing both of them and there was nothing more to it. However, then, the people the demon starts possessing start chanting in elvish. The demon hates mortals, and the elves are conveniently one of the two confirmed not fully mortal races in Empires.

This culminates when Smajor stumbles across a cave that contains the backstory of the patron god of Rivendell, Aeor. Basically, there's two opposing forces, Aeor and Exor, and both have a champion. In a previous life, those champions were two brothers, where Aeor eventually prevailed and banished Exor. In this life though, the champions are - you guessed it - Smajor, and the demon Xornoth.

So now Smajor is like. Well fuck. It's my literal god-given destiny to be responsible for defeating this demon who is technically my brother, and if I fail the server gets plunged into an eternal winter. And I have no fucking clue what is happening because I've just been here on this mountain actively trying to stay out of the issues outside my kingdom. We watch him panic and teeter on the verge of spiraling for an entire episode, and when the followers of Xornoth go to the End to kill the dragon, releasing Xornoth's full powers, he fails to stop him. Smajor is a character who was used to being the smart one, the prepared one, the one who has the least deaths on the server. But he's also a character who runs away from his problems and ignores them. Before and during the dragon fight, we hear the desperation in his voice, as he's thrown into a situation he is wholly unprepared for, and it's bigger than him going to the Cod Empire to kill their king, or assisting in other people's plans to kill the codfather. He can't run from this. cc!Scott plays this scene so well as well, as I've said before, one of the best parts of Scott's acting is how he's never super dramatic, but he's so effective in the little things like inflection to make you feel, viscerally, the panic and dread.

So after the dragon fight, Smajor realizes, I can't do this on my own. I've tried and failed. So he gets allies. We watch him, someone who has so strongly been an isolationist, learn the benefits of allies and watch him learn to trust others and watch him learn how to get that trust in return.

My favorite thing about Smajor's characterization is that he's an incompetent protagonist, but not in the way of the "plucky young adventurer". He's capable skill-wise, and fairly jaded and very pessimistic. However, his issue is that up until recently, he did not care about the rest of the server at all, and by the time he learned to, it was way too late.

Also, in 3rd Life, cc!Scott and cc!Jimmy were canonically married and they reference it sometimes in Empires. Like, Scott goes over to the Cod Empire every so often both in and out of character to kill and/or flirt with Jimmy, the ruler of the Cod Empire, which may develop as a secondary plot into the future who knows. So ty Scott for giving the gays what they want o7

Now onto Sausage: his is a story of Icarus, his hubris and ambition being his downfall. He's one of the two followers of Xornoth, who promised him endless power in exchange for his servitude. He started the series being eccentric, but not outright unhinged, but slowly gets more and more extreme as the series progresses, as he gets brought more and more to Xornoth's side.

One of the best parts of Sausage's character, in my opinion, is how his gradual corruption affects the people around him. Initially, he got into a conflict with the Cod Empire and was allied with two other people in the Witherrose alliance. They were allies, but also close friends. The fandom liked to joke that the three had sibling energy, and I'm pretty sure the ccs played to that even more lol.

It was painful to watch the other two members, Gem and fWhip, watch Sausage get corrupted right in front of them, and see them desperately clinging on to this old idea of Sausage in their head because if they faced the truth, it would mean that their friend was gone. Eventually, they do finally cut him out of the alliance, leading him to fully commit to the side of the demon. Sausage felt very clearly betrayed by this, and declared the remaining two Witherrose alliance members to be enemies.

He gets more and more possessed, and we even see the other Empires, his enemies even, slowly realize that something is very wrong with the ruler of Mythland. He starts doing more and more evil things, like killing people more, making sacrifices to the demon, and eventually helping to kill the dragon to free Xornoth. So things are good for Sausage, for a bit. He won, and is more powerful than ever. Then he finds out: he's going to die. Xornoth's possession is slowly killing his soul, and eventually, his body going to be fully taken over and he himself is going to be trapped in the spirit realm. So how do you react to this? Over the next few episodes, we watch Sausage struggle between "the demon is literally killing me" and "the demon has given me so much, and I love it", all while Xornoth takes over more and more of him. We hear him exclaim that "don't worry!! I'm still about 15% there!" while trying to downplay every time Xornoth completely takes over his body. We watch him willingly oppose anyone who is trying to end the thing that is killing him.

My favorite thing about Sausage is that he is undoubtedly evil and proud of it, but he's also undoubtedly human. If you like to watch evil characters go absolutely feral, he's the guy for you. He makes the deal with Xornoth in the beginning, knowing and fully embracing the evilness of the demon, but at the same time he knows what he's doing is detrimental to both himself and everyone around him, but he's gotten in way too deep at this point, and to be fair the demon has held up its end fo the bargain, right?

Also, I would be damned if I don't talk about cc!Sausage's editing. Every one of his videos is like a movie. The way he does camera angles and uses music is so skillful- every lore scene feels like something out of a high fantasy action saga (think: LotR). Every big lore event I always wait in anticipation for Sausage's ep because his editing truly takes lore to another level.

I'm just generally very excited to see where this series goes. Empires is such a good mix of talented builders and good lore. Part of the reason why the series is so immersive for me, beyond any other lore smp, is that they have the settings to back it up. There is a certain charm to the DreamSMP's objectively terrible builds (with a few exceptions) but in Empires, the settings help sell the plot so much.

Another part of why I love EmpiresSMP is how much the ccs are involved with the fan community. I'm sure you've seen the memes about Scott being on tumblr, and Sausage regularly goes through the EmpiresSMP fanart tag on Twitter and likes art, even ones not related to Mythland. Most of the ccs, in fact, have brought up tumblr content on stream at some point or another. Like, several ccs have said that they read tumblr lore theories and hcs and stuff and sometimes take inspiration from them. Fun fact: Rivendell's church was inspired by my pinned drawing; confirmed by Scott Smajor himself. It's just such a good cycle of ccs and fans being excited about each other.

As for DreamSMP, I'm gonna be honest here, the only person I really am invested in in Technoblade. I started watching when he joined the server, and he's the only person whose lore I keep up to date with.

Techno's fun to watch because he's like the Deadpool of DreamSMP. Virtually unkillable, very skilled and scary, but consistently cracks jokes and breaks the 4th wall during plot. His POV is just fun. Like, he does wild plans and gives speeches and some of the stuff that happens to him should be called deus ex machine if it wasn't for the fact that Technoblade is the one who's doing it, and all the stuff is grounded in the fact that cc!Techno is just that good at the game.

However, the fact that he rarely takes anything seriously makes the few times Techno is 100% serious so much more impactful. His whole character has a basis in being perceived as inhuman and being treated as such, and therefore in return trying to hide his humanity. So, when he shows that humanity, whether that's fear, anger, or genuine love for his friends, it really makes you go "oh shit."

Techno's often said not to have character development, but I'd argue that while he remains steadfast in his moral code, he develops leaps and bounds as a person. Like, at the beginning, he's brought onto the server to help Wilbur and Tommy overthrow a government; them knowing he's 1) an anarchist and 2) very very powerful. His character was more of a plot device at that point and was treated as such in the canon. Wilbur and Tommy straight-up lie to him about their plans to establish another government after they overthrow the current one, while he was led on to believe that they were abolishing all governments in the area. But he isn't a plot device. He's a person, as much as he only shows the terrifying, blood god side of himself.

After the establishment of New Lmanburg (the new government its a long story), his friend Phil joins. And for the first time, we see him be fully human with someone and we see someone treat him like a human. Like, we saw glimpses before, with Wilbur and Tommy in Pogtopia, but Phil is the first person we noticeably see he trusts 100%. Then Doomsday happens, and Techno essentially retires to the tundra. During this time, we see Techno learn to be more human, first with Ranboo, then Niki when he establishes the Syndicate. In fact, the two of them, along with Phil, canonically throw him a birthday party, which is a far cry from his treatment in Pogtopia.

Techno's development is one of a god learning to be human, and I just think he <3

[iheartbookbran]

Ok so actually my biggest problem with the whole “Daenerys will burn KL” theory—not even the Mad Queen Dany theory, which is of course very sexist for obvious reasons, but just like, the idea that Dany will ~accidentally~ ignite the wildfire in the city, burning it all to the ground. That, at first, doesn’t sound that bad, but the longer I think about it the more I hate it because tbh it doesn’t do anything for her character? And also… that fate for her is just down right cruel.

Like, the most frequent argument I see on why this would be at all satisfactory for Dany’s arc is basically that it would be a sort of lesson for her about the dangers of unchecked power and the real threat the Dragons can pose on humans and that she shouldn’t use them to fight against other people. And that’s all well and good, excellent message… except that’s not something Dany’s ever really needed to learn? Not anymore that her fellow rulers, which I will touch on more detail later, but in general Dany has seen what the abuse of power can do. Starting with her conflicting feelings regarding Viserys and how she recognizes that even though he was her brother and she loved him, he also abused his power over her as her older brother, her only family and her king; she feels guilt about the atrocities Drogo committed to the lhazarene and tries to help them; she feels so much guilt about not handling things correctly in Astapor that she decides to throw away all her plans to go to Westeros and instead stays in Meereen.

And about not knowing the true danger that her dragons can pose? I mean, this is the same girl that literally agonizes across several of her ADWD chapters because Drogon killed a child, and then takes the extreme measure of caging Rhaegal and Viserion to prevent that from ever happening again. I think she’s at least a little bit aware that the dragons can be dangerous, thank you very much.

Ok so this got long...

Anyways, the only time Dany legit uses Drogon to harm someone and not just as bluff was at the house of the Undying, where she was being attacked, and in Astapor… and like, lmao, that asshole Kraznys mo Nakloz and the rest of his slaver buddies deserved it. Don’t at me. Also, Dany’s hardly the only one with a big magical and deadly beast at her disposal, why didn’t Robb had to go through some horrifying traumatic incident to learn he shouldn’t use Grey Wind in battle to tear his enemies’ throats. Bran will be learning about the dangers of abusing power, but that’s linked to his magic powers and an actual reprehensible thing he’s doing, not the use of his glorified prehistoric dog to kill, which he’s done, just like Robb. By all means let the narrative hold Dany accountable for her mistakes… but her actual mistakes and not shit she has no control over, because she doesn’t have much control over Drogon or the other dragons even though she’s trying to, and that’s very obvious in her last ADWD chapter where she’s delirious and Drogon could kill her at any moment, and she knows that.

The other big argument people make for Dany burning KL (even if it’s by accident!) is that it will teach her about the price of war, that someone as young as her shouldn’t be leading armies and conquering kingdoms, and that fighting for the Iron Throne is not a worthy cause, and I feel like that misses the actual point of her story by a mile. First of all because a) Dany is hardly the only teenage ruler in the story and b) this is a fantasy medieval story, a lot of the characters shouldn’t be doing the things they do, aaaand yet. Also speaking of other teenage rulers with far more power that they should have—Robb and Jon, being the biggest examples.

Granted, Robb and Jon aren’t exactly successful during their time as rulers, they’re literally betrayed and killed by their own men (even if Jon will technically come back for round 2 of bullshit he’s too tired for). But the moral of their stories is not that they lost because theirs was an unworthy cause and they were stupid kids wholly unprepared for their roles. And I actually partially agree! They are just kids, including Dany, and they shouldn’t be responsible for looking after so many others and going to battle, but their cause is still just and worthy, even with all the mistakes they make along the way. Robb didn’t loose because he was wrong in demanding justice for his family or trying to protect the riverlands from the Lannisters and their minions, he lost because Tywin Lannister was a giant coward who couldn’t take him out in a fair fight.

Likewise, it isn’t wrong of Jon to try to incorporate refugees from beyond the Wall into Westeros. He’s not too stupid and honorable to do politics like his father (how I hate when people insult Jon and Ned like that), and while he did some very obvious mistakes that inevitably ended in a coup and in him dying, this is more connected to his inability to let go of his ties with his family (mainly Arya or who he believes to be her), and in isolating himself from his friends and the people he could actually trust.

I’ve always thought that Dany and Jon share a parallel narrative within the story, so while Jon is struggling with that Dany is faced with similar problems. She cages her dragons, that to her represent the only family she has left, and she tries to compromise with the slavers, marry a man she doesn’t love, pretend she’s ok with reopening the fighting pit. While she tries her best to rule wisely in Meereen, it all comes at the cost of betraying herself and her beliefs, so it’s no surprise when it all crashes around her and she’s betrayed and nearly killed. Ironically, it is Drogon who comes to rescue her.

If they are monsters, so am I.—Daenerys II, ADWD.

This is hands down one of my favorite Dany quotes from the whole series, and I hate that it’s been given such a negative connotation in the fandom, when for me it represents Dany’s humanity and compassion at the fullest.

GRRM has a knack for humanizing the ‘monsters’ of his story, for showing the good in the outcasts and the ugly and the scary. He embraces their ‘otherness’ and makes them the heroes of his stories; Arya, Bran, Brienne, Dany, Tyrion, Jon, Theon and many others are all compared to monsters or beasts at one point or another in the books.

Dany sees herself in her dragons, literal monsters in every sense of the word. Later on she faces Drogon inside the pit, and in that moment you could say that she accepts that ‘monstrous’ part of her, and in doing so she’s saved from her fate of dying at the hands of the men who would crucify innocent children and gleefully profit off of the suffering of their fellow human beings while watching them fight each other to the death for their own amusement. Now tell me who’s the real monster in this situation.

But shortly before that happens, Dany is able to see the humanity in Tyrion, an outcast who has been branded as monstrous and unlovable due to his disability all his life, a man who has come to believe in his abusers’ rhetoric about him so strongly that he’s started to act cruel and detached. She saves his life. She sees value in his life when few others would, because she cares.

I’ve always find it funny that the “dragons plant no trees” is—another—example fans use to argue in favor of Dany’s descent into Darkness™ because the actual scene goes like this:

You are a queen, her bear said. In Westeros.

"It is such a long way," she complained. "I was tired, Jorah. I was weary of war. I wanted to rest, to laugh, to plant trees and see them grow. I am only a young girl."

No. You are the blood of the dragon. The whispering was growing fainter, as if Ser Jorah were falling farther behind. Dragons plant no trees. Remember that. Remember who you are, what you were made to be. Remember your words.—Daenerys X, ADWD.

Now am I the only one who finds it at least a bit relevant that it’s freaking Jorah Mormont aka Jorah the Enslaver whom Dany’s subconscious, at her literal lowest moment, utilizes to represent this particular thought, which btw I’ve always interpreted as Dany’s own self-loathing manifesting in her, and this is something she’s actually always struggled with—the idea that she’s not enough and she’s failing. Because above all things, even Westeros or the Iron Throne, what Dany wants is peace, she wants to plant trees.

When Dany made her descent, Reznak and Skahaz dropped to their knees. "Your Worship shines so brightly, you will blind every man who dares to look upon you," said Reznak. […] This match will save our city, you will see."

"So we pray. I want to plant my olive trees and see them fruit." Does it matter that Hizdahr's kisses do not please me? Peace will please me. Am I a queen or just a woman?—Daenerys VII, ADWD.

But of course the world doesn’t work like that, and so long as there’s Jorahs and Tywins and Eurons out there, men who would take the freedom of humans and submit them to their will, Dany can’t have the luxury of peace, just like Jon can’t have the luxury of belonging and family so long as there’s people still beyond the Wall who need his protection.

And I think that’s fine. It’s fine that Dany failed, it will help her develop as a character and realize that there’s no room to compromise with slavers, the metaphorical monsters of the story who do far more harm than the other more literal ‘monsters’ of the story. So that when she has to face down Euron Greyjoy—who btw, there’s a high chance he will end up stealing one of Dany’s dragons via Victarion using Dragonbinder… y’know, as in enslaving one of her children and using said dragon to inflict god knows what horrors, yet not many people ever consider this for some reason?—she will know. When she has to face down the Others, the magical ice fairies with no regard for human life, she will know.

That’s why I believe that it would make absolutely no sense for Dany to have to go through such a tragic and traumatic experience like burning a whole city even by pure accident, over something that’s either never been a problem with her character or she’s well into her way of learning anyways, so it would just feel repetitive. As I have pointed out, she’s already reached one of the lowest moments of her arc. Not saying there will be no other blows for her, and probably the destruction of KL will be one of them, and knowing Dany she will feel responsibility over it no matter what, but that doesn’t mean she has to be the culprit, intentional or otherwise.

[flyingkoalaandsloths]

fave Flint quotes in every episode | S2

IX.

Civilization needs its monsters.

X.

In less than two days, I intend to be the captain again.

XI.

I know how you all must feel. How desperate you must be to go home and be embraced by Nassau again. But I'm here to tell you, that place no longer exists. It has been taken from us by a madman. Held hostage by threat of force that no one on the island seems able to resist. Now I would like to say that the Urca beckons us. That we should look the other way. That the affairs of the beach should never take precedence over those of the purse. But in this case, these issues would seem to be one and the same. Even if we could make it ashore safely, even if we could refit amidst the chaos that has been sown, even if we could ignore all of this and go on to win the Urca's gold, what then? We return home only to have Vane extort from us the very prize that we have sacrificed so much to win? Nassau was unable to resist him. But we have yet to have our say. So at sunrise tomorrow, we make our terms clear with no room for bargain or compromise. Charles Vane and the animals he commands have until sunrise tomorrow to vacate that fort or so help me God... I will rain holy hell down upon him.

XII.

I support it. I found his argument persuasive. I find his intent to be good and true. And I find yours wanting, sir. I will be relaying my findings to Admiral Hennessey in short order. And now I think it's time you left, sir.

XIII.

The only thing I am ashamed of is that I didn't do something to save him when we had the chance.

XIV.

I'm seeming unconcerned.

XV.

Those men listen to you. They give a shit about what you have to say. What you think, what you want them to think. Where else in the world is that true? Where else would you wake up in the morning and matter? You walk out on this, and where the fuck are you going?

XVI.

What lies ahead, I'm afraid I might be wholly unprepared for. I always thought this journey would end in battle. A fight to preserve the things we held dear. I understood that. I was ready for that. Now, as it turns out, something else lies at the end of this road. Judgment. Not of Nassau, but of me and the man that I've become. And this entire endeavor hangs in the balance of that judgment. [...] I will make my argument having no sense of my footing with [Peter Ashe]. No sense of the things he knows about me, the lower things. The darker things. And the moment he reveals that he knows these things may be the moment that this all comes crashing down. He is going to render judgment. And it all depends on what he sees standing before him: Me or my name.

XVII.

I told you of my grandfather who raised me. A fisherman in Padstow. Well, in his youth he was a deckhand on a privateer off the coast of Massachusetts. And one night he was alone on the late watch at anchor in the Boston Harbor when he sees this man climbing out of the water and onto his ship. A stranger. Now, my grandfather thought about ringing the bell, but curiosity got the better of him. The stranger approaches my grandfather and asks him for a little rum. Man said that he'd fled his fishing trawler, accused of killing another man. And when asked his name, the man simply replied Mr. Flint. This stranger, he never said whether he was guilty of the killing or why he chose that ship or where he was bound, he just just sat there. Eventually, he asked my grandfather for a little more rum from below. My grandfather went off to fetch it, but when he returned the man was gone. My grandfather was in Boston for a month after that. Never heard a word about a killing or a fugitive at large. It was as if the sea had conjured that man out of nothing and then taken him back for some unknowable purpose. When I first met Mr. Gates and he asked me my name... I feared the man I was about to create. I feared that someone born of such dark things would consume me were I not careful. And I was determined only to wear him for a while and then dispose of him when his purpose was complete. And I thought of that story. Am I ready to let him go? Truth is every day I've worn that name I've hated him a little more. I've been ready to return him to the sea for a long time.

XVIII.

I have one regret. I regret ever coming to this place with the assumption that a reconciliation could be found. That reason could be a bridge between us. Everyone is a monster to someone. Since you are so convinced that I am yours, I will be it.

S1 S3 S4

[chews-erotically]

Waxing Gibbous 

Pairing: Ezra + femNurse! Reader

Rating: Hard M / 18+ ONLY

Warnings: Angst/violence/gore/blood/mentions of prostitution/SMUT(eventual)/veryinaccuratesurgicalprocedure

     Honestly words have been fermenting in my brain for many moons. I am new to this, so please be gentle.  I have written before, however never for a fandom. Special thank you to @yespolkadotkitty and @rzrcst for their support and encouragement, it truly means the world to me.

Summary: You are a nurse on the Green moon contracted to care for a group of prospectors. An act of violence forces you to flee your camp. Ezra finds you.

Words: 2376

 PART ONE

    The first time Ezra fell, it was with the Saters. You’d been hunched in a cordoned-off section of tent, dust motes waxing and waning against the haze of thick, dank air. At least you could breathe, a small mercy it was to remove your helmets and sit unfettered in the musty inner folds of the makeshift barracks.

    The Sater stank. When he sneered at you, his grey lips parted to reveal the jagged tombstones of his teeth. When you had first sat down and dispelled with the perfunctory greetings, choking down the offering of what always reminded you of unsweetened Turkish coffee mixed with engine oil, his eyes made no attempt to hide the way they had raked over you as if you were some shiny toy. Or a bag of meat. You were under no delusions when it came to the fact that you, by nature of being female, were going to be ogled. Still, it left you no less disgusted as you fought to keep your face impassive while his eyes honed in on your chest.

    Ezra sat beside you on the narrow bench, hunched forward with forearms balanced on knees that were spread to allow for his head to clear the sunken canvas ceiling. His expression was equally neutral, the only hint of tension showing in the tight bunch of muscle at his jaw. He knew as well as you that if the sater did not accept the barter, things would turn dark.

    Ezra had been here longer than you. Stranded with no transport after the crew he’d arrived with turned on each other over dig locations and payload disbursement. The pod they’d arrived in had been burned, irreparably damaged and left no more than a husk in the Green due to the short-sighted fury and bullheaded ire of his hired compatriots. In the fracas, he’d sustained an injury to his right arm from a rogue thrower shot. In retrospect it could have been much worse, but the spores of mold that made the air so toxic had worked its way into his flesh the same way selfishness and suspicion had seeded the demise of his partners.

    You were hired as a nurse to tend to your own hired prospecting crew, lured in with promises of adventure and treasures beyond your wildest dreams. You had known there had to be a catch, you were not so naive to believe that consequence could elude you, but you had signed the contract anyway hoping for more than the dreary clinic you’d worked in for the past five years. You were alone, you were lonely, you had no family. Your few friends had steadily drifted away from you as they met their own partners, started their own families. You were left to the ether. So you signed almost without thought when the recruiter came, signed before you had time to think it through, because you were aware that if you thought too much you’d talk yourself out of it. You knew all too well how adept you were at talking yourself out of things.

    So, you’d arrived on the Green and things had proceeded as planned, uneventful for the most part. The others on the crew were respectful, if a bit distant. Nothing untoward had happened until a contractor by the name of Jorin began to take a particular interest in you. At first you’d been able to politely deflect his advances. Showing up in your tent unannounced, he feigned all manner of illness and injury to get your attention. Over time he became more aggressive, invading your space until you had told him, in no uncertain terms, that he was not welcome. It was not until he’d followed you back to your cot and tried to push you down that you’d snapped. You hadn’t meant to kill him, but the scalpel you had hidden in your fist had found its way to his carotid artery nonetheless. So you left, and you were blank and in shock and covered in someone else’s blood when Ezra found you.

    He’d stood, imposing and straight-backed, hand on hip while his head followed your shambling approach. Your adrenaline was waning, and you shuffled forth on trembling legs, hands held aloft in supplication. When you reached his clearing in the midst of dense vegetation you noted his mouth moving at light-speed, the hand on his hip twitching toward the thrower he had slung across his back. As you got even closer you noticed his eyes were wide. You were not on the same transmission channel so you could not hear him. Your hands gestured as if underwater, left hand tapping your transceiver while your right held up three trembling fingers. When Ezra understood he switched the channel and immediately his animated drawl was filling your helmet.

    “.....cannot fathom how you are standing in my sights looking like you’ve been baptised by Lady Bathory herself, alone? Please do tell this lonely old prospector how in Kevva’s name above you’ve found yourself in such a state of affairs?”

    You noticed immediately that he did not seem at all frightened or wary of your appearance, just confused, and….excited? You gazed up into the visor through a constellation of blood spatter and freed your tongue from its bone-dry cavern, swallowing thickly.

    “I didn’t mean to kill him. He tried to, to…..he came after me.”

    Ezra stepped forward in what seemed a conspiratory move. You froze. Taking note, he’d immediately stepped back, but his dark eyes fastened to yours with an intensity that made you feel as though he could see through you into your very essence, every shameful childhood memory, every flaw and triumph as readable as prose on paper.

    “Intention rarely informs the realities of snuffing out the flame of mortality. Between intention and action there lay an endless array of variables, something I know as well as my own name. In all my time on the Green the one thing that continues to ring true is that people here take. If you have nothing to offer, they will find something to take.” 

    He straightened before continuing, “Given that you are appreciably female I can imagine what it is he believed himself entitled to. You have none of that to fear from me, little stranger. I am but one lost soul amongst this verdant hellscape.”

    You were still processing the events of the past several hours, and it took you some time to accustom your ears to the man’s mellifluous cadence. The people in your previous company had been stilted, blunt, mostly monosyllabic. This man before you spoke as if convinced his words would alight and manifest whatever sacred force or unimagined color the universe deemed fit to spew forth. It was incongruous. You considered your next words carefully before you spoke.

    “Do you have a dwelling? A tent? I hate to impose, but this is my only suit and I’d like to get as much blood out of it as I can.”

    That was how you’d become acquainted with Ezra. You’d exchanged names as you walked to his tent, and all the while Ezra pontificated. The tent was modest, two cots arranged across from one another. Equipment stacked along one canvas wall, while texts and notebooks spread across a folding table toward the front entrance. Ezra explained where the water source was located as you both disconnected your helmets and stripped your suits. The blood splashed across yours had dried to a dull rust. Almost as if it could be something other than blood. Almost. 

    You’d set the suit to soak in cold water and truly noticed the man in front of you for the first time. He was tall and broad-shouldered, thick locks jutting chaotically from the dome of his head and curling around the lobes of his ears. A shock of blond colored the seam of his hairline. His brow was lined with years of tension and unrest. Wide, dark eyes below pronounced brows. A prominent aquiline nose. His mouth, still moving. Always moving, as if he were trying to get every thought he had out of his head before the hourglass ran out on him.

    Your eyes were next drawn to a dirty bandage circling his arm. You’d been so lost in your head over the strange turn of events that you did not notice the barely perceptible wince as he inventoried what appeared to be dried ration packets.

    “What happened? To your arm, I mean?”

    Ezra sighed deeply before answering. “Merely a flesh wound from an errant thrower blast while my crew and I were in the midst of parting ways. It was a most unsavory affair, I’m afraid. I don’t believe the weasel wielding the staff even meant to shoot me.”

    You stepped closer, eyeing the torn, worried cloth. “You have to be careful. The spores in the air will seep into everything, especially an open wound. Your bandage is filthy. Do you mind if I take a look?”

    “You have experience with dressing wounds?”

    “I’m a nurse.”

    You were wholly unprepared for the brilliant smile that split his face. Suddenly you could see the younger, roguish man that he had undoubtedly once been. You were suddenly overwhelmed, you could not understand how the heart in your chest fluttered as desperately as a bird beating its wings against the cage of your ribs. You felt close to panic as you realized that you were reacting this way to a man you did not know. 

    Careful.

    “Kevva above, I must have done something right in a past life as I’ve done nothing in this one to deserve such a fortuitous gift! A nurse! An angel of mercy, a dove of benevolence!”

    You felt heat rush to your face, and you cursed your feeble emotions as you turned quickly away from him. Please, ignore my abject idiocy. 

    “Med kit?”

    “Ah, of course. My apologies, Dove, I forget myself.”

    You pointedly ignored the unprompted endearment as any further contemplation on this new development would lead to literal hysteria. What the fuck is wrong with me?

    Ezra sat at the table near the entrance, sweeping the array of notebooks and papers to the side. You pulled up a crate once taking the med kit and unwrapped the soiled bandaging. You understood how awkward it had to be to dress a wound with one hand, and so you were able to forgive the haphazard application. He hissed and winced again as you revealed a very red, open and angry wound bed assaulting the meat of his right bicep. Black had begun to settle in around the ragged edges. It did not look good. Your gut sank as you noticed the purplish pucker of skin surrounding a crater that oozed and tunneled, purulent drainage saturating the underlying gauze. 

    The mold had done a spectacular job of decaying what would have normally been a straight forward traumatic thrower wound. You were shocked that Ezra was not screaming in pain.

    You kept your face studiously blank as you set out supplies: a vial of Ancef, sterile saline, bandaging, gauze, antimicrobial foam, hydrogen peroxide, a basin, and the scalpel you’d kept clutched in your fist as you’d fled. There was an injectable narcotic preloaded, you offered this to Ezra and he shook his head, his eyes still and worried. He knew it was bad, and he was scared. A wave of melancholy slammed into you and without thinking, you reached out and laid your fingers gently on his wrist.

    “Hey.” He met your eyes, and they were old. Ancient, and filled with what was akin to an existential weariness. You had to dig the toe of your boot into your calf to keep your eyes from filling with tears. You cleared your throat. It did not sound like a noise you’d make. You wondered who you were, really, before speaking.

    “I’m going to do the best that I can. It won’t be pretty. Your wound is badly infected. The black bits are necrotic, and if I don’t debride your wound it will spread. I’m going to try my hardest to save your arm. This is going to hurt, so I really think you should take the injection.”

    Ezra’s solemn gaze swung to fasten on yours. After a pause of internal debate, he simply nodded. You filled the basin with hydrogen peroxide and placed the scalpel in. You picked up the preloaded syringe and sterile gauze and quickly discharged the narcotic serum into Ezra’s left deltoid. His eyes soon took on a haze of detachment, pupils constricting to pinpoints.

    You picked up the scalpel and got to work, and Ezra finally screamed.

    He kept his arm impressively still while sweat cut rivulets down the planes of his face. His jaw clenched so tightly you feared his teeth would crack and splinter- you’d finally and wordlessly paused your work to place a length of spare leather strapping between his teeth, which he clamped onto like a feral dog.

    You worked quickly and wordlessly, cutting ribbons of spoiled flesh from the blessedly granulating bed of tissue and muscle beneath. Your mind worked in circular prayer, asking forgiveness from the universe for killing, for hurting. Ezra’s flesh was a sacred scroll and you were inscribing your texts upon it, begging for deliverance. It was not lost on you that the same scalpel you’d used to snuff one life was carving death out of another.

    When the deed was done, you reconstituted the Ancef and injected it into the meat of his buttock. You did it quickly, too wrung out and disturbed to feel impure. There was nothing prurient about what had just happened, nothing sexy in his agony. For all of its intimacy it was brutal and ugly and traumatic. At that moment you were inextricably bound to one another.

[ceratonia-siliqua]

I saw you were open to prompts and I was wondering if you could write something with Android Peter?? (bonus points if smut is involved) Your writing is so good and I would love to see your take on it!

Thank you for waiting! I hope it delivers!!

Ship: WinterSpider (former Stucky mentioned)

Warnings: Nudity mentioned, some dehumanization due to the nature of androids, and some asshole Steve mentioned (sorry buddy)

“Bucky, come on. Just give it a shot.” 

“Tony-”

“You’ve been depressed for months, just take him for a few weeks. If you absolutely hate having him around then you can return him. I just finished designing a maternal instincts chip for Pepper, worst case she’d love to use him as baby practice.” 

“Fine, fine. Whatever, what do I need to do?” 

Tony beamed like Bucky had been the one begging rather than the other way around. The bastard put a hand on his shoulder as he led him out of the study and into the lab. It wasn’t a long walk, just a quick pop down the hall and a few stairs. The room was not a place he ever went, having heard legends of the absolute horror show it was. 

The rumors were on the fucking money but not in the way he had expected. 

It was filled with mechanical body parts, shocking realistic ones that left him staring as he tried to put together that they’re entirely creations of tech. He knew Tony built droids, fuck, the whole world did. It was his business. He’d gotten so good at the task in fact that he was facing some news shitstorms given the advancements in AI leading to a genuine conversation in what to do as the creations gained further and further sense of sentience. They’d tried to stop Stark, but when you have enough money to buy out the federal government, not much could be done on that front. 

“You’re gonna love him. He’s an absolute sweetheart, in fact, he’s got a heavily modified Gen 4 Sweetheart Build. One of a kind! Even perfected the synthetic curls working on him. Possibly one of the kindest AI’s I’ve ever constructed, little bit of a trickster when he wants to be though, couldn’t let you get away without a bit of a challenge-” Tony continued to go on as he practically shoved Bucky towards a side room. 

“Tony, please don’t tell me you made this android specifically for me.” He had been under the impression it was a match Tony had made after the fact, not something with genuine thought put into it. 

“Can’t just throw any random personality at you, Bucko! You need a specific set of traits and I am happy to deliver seeing as how nothing like this kiddo is like what we have on the market.” 

“Tony, you should have asked first. What if I can’t take care of this-” Machine? Man? How was he supposed to refer to this gift Tony was trying to give him? 

“Trust me! You will.” 

“Tony.” He stopped just before the closed door leading to the room where this now present anxiety was lurking.  “Why are you doing this?” 

There are several beats of silence before a word passes through the space. “Bucky… you haven’t been the same since Steve left. I want to help you move on from him. It doesn’t take a super genius to see that he broke your heart.” 

It would have been kinder to just have punched him in the gut. Steve had abandoned him. Left him for a woman from his youth after promising a life with him. There had been no reason, no suggestion Steve had been unhappy with him, yet one day he was there and the next there was a note on the coffee table and a gaping hole in his apartment. 

“Please, just try. I know you’re still trying to work through this but just try him out for a little while. You deserve to be happy, open yourself up to it. That asshole wins if you stay hung up on him forever.” 

He really fucking hates when Tony is right. 

Without another word he opens the door without Tony’s permission and steps into the room. The tiny form that lays on the fluffy duvet takes his breath away. 

The boy is lithe, so small Bucky is scared for a second that Tony has given him a child. Getting closer though he sees the marks of manhood, more defined muscle, raised cheekbones, a lack of true baby fat anywhere on his body. He couldn’t help but notice the way a set of small, smooth balls peek out from his pressed thighs. Yet to see his face and Bucky was already feeling the tugging connection, a need to know more. 

Rounding the bundle, he can’t help but pull a blanket off of one of the random shelves, covering the slip of a thing in front of him. Taking the opportunity to glimpse the face of the android coming home with him, he crouches in front of that seemingly sleeping face. 

It takes his breath away. Small noise, delicate cupids bow, wild and frenzied curls framing rosy cheeks. He desperately wanted to see those eyes, wanted to know if they were just as soft as the rest of him. 

“His name is Peter. One of the most high end models, he has features not even on the market. He can feel cold, heat, pain, pleasure. Both his throat and anal cavity are outfitted with the most expensive and durable stimulation sleeves we have available. I picked a version that everyone loves, top seller. He’s able to cum if you want him too. Knows how to groom himself but has preferences. I picked… something a little more dependent. He’ll keep you busy. Utter love bug is what he is. He’s had a little bit of ‘on’ time, just enough to calibrate some settings. His list of enjoyment is fairly open, he’s predisposed to certain things but since he’s never experienced anything he’s not sure what he likes quite yet. Gentle, kind hearted, and designed to form deep attachments, he should be perfect.” 

He is the opposite of Steve. Not the exact opposite, but it seems Tony worried about hitting too close to home and made something that was unfamiliar enough to be wholly new while still takinging into consideration what he might enjoy. Even size wise, where Steve had been bigger than him, Peter was much smaller and maneuverable. Peter could be a doll in his hands if Bucky wanted, put him in control. 

“He’s also the second ever android to be programmed with the ability to form connections of love and feel the full range of emotions available to humans.” 

Bucky’s head shot towards the other man. “Tony, that’s illegal.” 

The frown on that goatee ridden face shows just how aware of that fact he is. “I know, but only on market versions. If you self construct a droid or personally program and install the coding needed, which most people can’t, then it’s fine. I’m not allowed to sell people love, but I can give it to you for free.” 

Already stuck in this deal, already tender for the angelic little thing in front of him, he sighs. “We’re not gonna get in shit for this? He’s not gonna get disassembled if people find out?” 

“Most people aren’t even going to know he’s not human. Unless they get really close and study him, no one on the street is going to see him and think he’s anything but a regular young man out with his boyfriend.” 

“... Alright Tony, you win. Where do I sign?”

____

Becoming conscious, and aware of that consciousness, it is something humans were unprepared for in their creation of AI. After all, children forget the trauma of being born, but how do you prepare a being that can already understand the complexities of life for the sudden plunge into reality? Really, you don’t. 

Peter woke up and for the first time, was aware. His systems were all fine, green lit and all areas functional and ready to go. Yet, he didn’t move. Everything was sounds, shapes, colors, objects, things he knew but that were not familiar. It was something to take in, how do you even begin when there is so much? 

There is a pressure between his shoulders, and suddenly he is focused on what it is to feel. 

“You seem a little overwhelmed, sugar. Everything okay?”

The voice is smooth, registers as male in his system, compared to things he’s never heard but knew the sound of. 

“Yeah… just- trying to get my bearings.” At least speech wasn’t a difficulty. It was not comfortable on his tongue but they were still doable, something he could succeed at even as his vision is too full. He closes his eyes, sighing as the lack of input makes everything feel less chaotic within him. 

“Take all the time you need, I’ve got plenty to give.” 

“What’s your name?” A basic way of understanding, something so ingrained in his code that it was the easiest thing he’d done so far. 

“Bucky, James Buchanan Barnes if you wanna get technical but Bucky is fine.” 

“Bucky,” The name rolled across his tongue, smooth and buttery. It was new but old, as if he’d been told the name thousands of times. It felt like an old hat, a detail he would remember even if everything else in his memory failed. “I like it.” Something clicked, a sense of enjoyment, a rush of pleasant feelings across his skin and the delicate, hair thin wires underneath. 

That seemed to knock the man into silence. Peter reached out, groping for the being that was with him, showing him kindness despite their lack of previous introductions. Fingers grazing something slightly scratchy, he gasps, eyes flying open on reflex when a light pressure envelopes his wrist. 

The man is fuzz but Peter knows enough to know what beauty is and this man must be the very definition of it. Long hair, dark shadows across his upper lip and jaw. Blue, a color he had not realized had a name till he saw it here. He feels warm, a giggle escapes him, something he knows is a sign of his happiness, one he hopes Bucky will share in. 

Smiling is a sign, a good one. Something that makes Peter giddy as he flexes his fingers against that same scratchy surface on Bucky’s face. 

“What is this?” Scritching away with the tips of his digits. 

A chuckles, soothing and filled with a note that rolls slow and low across Peter’s ears. “A beard, you know what that is?”

He looks up the word, searching in his head for an answer until it pops up. “Oh! Yes, I do.” 

“Really are new to this, aren’t you?” 

His cheeks suddenly feel heated and an odd feeling curls in his belly as he glances away. 

“It’s okay darling,” There is a rustling of fabrics and a gentle set of lips pressed to his forehead. A sign of affection, and one Peter knows he loves the second he feels it. “We’ll get you all figured out.” 

[sophiamcdougall]

EXPLAINING SANREMO

(PART TWO) I am back. I have barely eaten or slept and Tumblr has tried to murder me and this post multiple times, but I have survived. Thank you for your patience.

Part One of my attempt to explain the seismic experience that is 2020 Sanremo Festival of Italian Song is here. 

Ready? I assure you, you are not, but let’s proceed. So Sanremo rages pitilessly on.  Now everyone knows what’s at stake, and everyone, including your humble recapper, is exhausted, but doing the gay/chaotic best they can.

As the final battle to save Amadeus, Rancore, Italy and THE WORLD approaches, Achille Lauro has a last message for the troops. And I’m not deducing this, he literally said it on Twitter. 

...Hold me I’m scared.

Meanwhile (sort of) (go with it) (time isn’t real at Sanremo)  a minor drama  has occurred offstage. Singer Tiziano Ferro made an ill-advised joke about Fiorello’s interminable comedy bits, some idiots on Twitter ran away with it, and poor Fiorello was upset! This is minuscule in Sanremo terms. But consider the flapping of a butterfly’s wings. Consider hurricanes. But who is Tiziano Ferro?

Hold on. We’ll get to it. For now ...

Fiorello is dancing seductively for an absolutely delighted Amadeus while dressed as a rabbit. And wearing a blonde wig. Is there a rational explanation for this? I mean, sort of. But also no.

And then he worries Amadeus might give him herpes, which causes Amadeus to freaking snap.

“No, no!” yells the mercurial Fiorello. Amadeus isn’t worthy of his kisses yet. He ricochets out of Amadeus’s arms and into the audience and “passes on” the kiss to a guy in the front row. 

“Incredible things are going to happen tonight!” yells Amadeus, who has no fucking idea. ”Beautiful things,” corrects Fiorello. 

But just because Fiorello is a mayhem elemental on a mission of love doesn’t mean he hasn’t got feelings. 

Enter Italy’s sweetheart, Tiziano Ferro.

Actually, Tiziano’s been there all along. He’s the specialest of special guests, singing through basically his entire back catalogue every night. Which why it really was unfair of him to pick on Fiorello --   it’s not his fault he’s literally got to stand there and babble nonsense for aeons on end, Tiziano! He’s just serving the hungry chthonic entity that is Sanremo, same as you.  

While the gay mayhem (the gayhem, if you will) surges around him, Tiziano  has been fighting the good gay fight in his own steadfast way, so far untouched. His mere presence is a message of hope in itself, he knows this, and is determined to make it count. Ten years ago he was closeted, convinced coming out would end his career, and suicidal. Now happily married and gloriously successful, he is here to demonstrate that “it gets better”. He radiates such wholesome joy and resilience that everyone loves him.

So anyway, Tiziano didn’t mean to hurt anybody because he would never, and now he wants to make things right. So will Fiorello forgive him?

Ah, what better gesture of reconciliation than to goofily sing a  love song written by Fiorello himself. Of course Fiorello forgives Tiziano, because Fiorello loves everyone, good and bad, (after all he loves Amadeus the most). But he is also a chaos being, and he is working harder than anyone else to channel the divine madness of this deranged Sanremo Festival into anyone who gets close. Tiziano, watch out!

Seems TIziano naively thought he could lean in for a staged, nearly kiss, but  Fiorello’s very soul is antithetical to “nearly” anything.

“My husband’s going to divorce me!”  wails poor Tiziano, but Fiorello has never felt so alive. This is Sanremo, bitches. Rules like “sixty-year-old men can’t be danger twinks, Fiorello,” have ceased to apply. He is an apostle of Achille Lauro, he has accepted the sermon of Benigni into his heart: it is time for PHYSICAL LOVE. While not quite ready (yet) to fuck everyone in the orchestra pit, he is throbbing with readiness, to frolic all over the theatre giving all the guys he can get his hands on THE KISSES OF HIS MOUTH.

Naturally this sparks further firestorms of chaos. “Do it again!” begs grizzled rocker and high-ranking competitor Piero Pelù. Electrified by the touch of Fiorello’s lips, he is later to be found running shirtless through the auditorium where he steals a handbag.

Everyone is kissing everyone, age and orientation be damned. Summoned by the gay sorcery unfolding, 65-year-old queer rock goddess Gianna Nanini manifests and is kissed worshipfully on the lips by 36-year-old duet partner Coez.

There’s also some kind of song competition going on I guess. 

This happens:

That’s Ghali, GUYS, IT’S NOT WORKING, rappers ARE DROPPING LIKE FLIES ALL OVER THIS STAGE, WE’VE GOT TO DO SOMETHING.

(...  it isn’t really Ghali and don’t worry. This is a gag? Which I still don’t really get? And nor does sweet anarchist cherub Fiorello whom we will later discover is currently being physically restrained from rushing onstage to tend to the fallen rapper’s wounds.)

The real Ghali raps in Arabic which among other things is a big old “me ne frego” of his own to Italian Trump-tribute act and failed wannabe prime minister Matteo Salvini. Then he gets close to Fiorello, which can only end one way.

All the boys are crazy for Fiorello’s kisses but Amadeus still can’t have any

It’s already a difficult night for Amadeus.  TV presenter Antonella Clerici enters and far from standing a step beside him, righteously rips the piss out of him, which to be fair he accepts with grace.

And as for Achille Lauro ... ...No.  Patience. The time to bear witness to the last stand of Achille Lauro is not yet come. There are other forces stirring at Sanremo.

Chaos has its dark side.

The gun on stage is cocked and loaded. This is it. ENTER MORGAN.

... and enter Bugo,  who trails in behind Morgan, looking dazed and haunted. But whatever, it’s a million o’clock in the morning, aren’t we all. 

They start to play.  Italian Tumblr dozes fitfully on its sofa, idly crackshipping Amadeus and Fiorello. Utterly unprepared.

So most of us don’t notice what’s happening ...

... until the music just stops.

No one’s paid attention to the Morgan and Bugo in days. As far as I’m concerned Fabrizio Moro has already been avenged and my bloodlust is slaked.  The song - apparently written wholly by Bugo - honestly, isn’t bad, but Morgan’s been tuneless throughout and their duet/cover last night was cringeable. There have been some major reversals in the rankings but at this point there’s almost no way they’re going to be one of them.  And Morgan is not happy.

So Morgan changed the lyrics (and this isn’t even last-minute improv, he fucking printed it) to attack the one person who still had faith in him, blaming Bugo and Bugo alone for their poor performance so far. On live TV. In front of millions. After screaming at Bugo backstage just minutes ago. And he expects Bugo to just stand there and take it.

"Me ne frego to that shit,” thinks Bugo, and becomes the unexpected self-care hero of Sanremo as he vanishes into the night.

And that’s how I learned the Italian word for pandemonium. 

Morgan has the absolute nerve to ask what’s going on. Amadeus breaks out in visible cold sweat. Fiorello is thrown bodily onstage to DO SOMETHING, ANYTHING, OH MY GOD.

It’s long past midnight and a bunch of worried middle-aged men in sparkly jackets are scampering around yelping “Bugo? Bugo! BUGO? BUGO!!!” and that, I am here to tell you, when you are already delirious from exhaustion and shitposting-induced hysteria, is more than enough to tip you right over the edge.

Italian Tumblr resigns itself to never sleeping again.The memes aren’t going to make themselves. 

Translation: ”Is Bugo there?” “What’s happening?” “Where’s Bugo gone?” “I have to go and see where Bugo is.” “Bugo left.” “BUGO!”

Morgan wants vengeance. Fiorello, adorably indifferent to the fact that he was shoved on stage to, you know, entertain the audience, wants to find the missing waif, wrap him in a blanket and feed him soup. So they both rush offstage and Amadeus is left alone in a living anxiety dream.

The audience are booing.  The 70th fucking Sanremo Festival of Italian Song is falling to pieces on his watch. For all he knows murder is going on backstage and he picked known powder-keg and scoundrel Morgan for the Festival. The buck stops with him. And he has no lines, no back-up, no idea what to do about it.

And then Fiorello, angel of misrule, avatar of lawlessness and love, strolls back onstage. He looks confident and relaxed, like a man with all the answers.  Which he is.

“Have you got Bugo?” Amadeus inquires desperately.

NO RULES, NO MASTERS, NO SPONSORSHIP MONEY. ME NE FREGO.

Everything is broken. And somehow everything is OK.

Everyone, Amadeus included, bursts into hysterical, cathartic laughter.

“Is this my fault?” Amadeus asks. “YES!” crows Fiorello, lovingly forcing Amadeus to face his sins and his nightmares in a healing atmosphere of radical acceptance and mass psychosis.

And that’s how Amadeus learned that the real Sanremo was inside us all along.  And what he needs in this glorious maelstrom was never a beautiful woman standing a step behind him. It’s a chaos pixie dream boy at his side.

It’s time to cast out toxic masculinity and become a better man.

So Amadeus wraps up the show as best he can and then out of pure human compassion, he and Fiorello personally wander the streets of Sanremo looking for Bugo until four in the morning.

Bugo and Morgan are automatically disqualified

And now let us witness the final passion of Achille Lauro. Who is this Achlle Lauro kid anyway? How intentional is all this? Is he the Messiah, or a very naughty boy?

SO YEAH. Anyway, everyone’s wondering what the fuck Achille and his producer/guitarist Boss Doms (yes, really) are going to do, and BE, next. Achille’s first three looks were inspired by St Francis of Assisi, David Bowie, and Marchesa Luisa Casati. 

So ... Freddie Mercury, maybe? Elizabeth I? Jesus Christ?  And after the flurry of kissing Fiorello whipped up .. 

Will they ... can they ... dare they...

Do you even need to ask?

I have no idea how the crazy bastards who guessed “Elizabeth I” did it. 

Achille thrusts his hips against Boss’s backside. Drops to his knees before him and lets the shape of the microphone speak for itself. Briefly chokes him. And throughout they are tender, elegant, and utterly, regally dignified.

And then, at last.

A  joyous chorus of maenad-like shrieks rings out across Europe. If you’re in the Greater London area and your ears are still sore, I’m sorry. That was me. 

That’s it. Achille Lauro and Boss Doms ascend into heaven and pass into history. 

Not even they can give more to Sanremo.

The dust settles. 

The dawn breaks.

WE FUCKING DID IT! RANCORE LIVES! WOUNDED (as are we all) BUT SMILING AT A WORLD TRANSFORMED! (Not only that but, after starting at the bottom of the leaderboard he’s been catapulted up into the top ten and wins the special prize for Best Lyrics!)

And Amadeus?

Well, let’s hear from him in his own words.

Because Fiorello asked him to, Amadeus is wearing a blonde wig to look like legendary TV host Maria de Filippi. Amadeus doesn’t normally sing, but because Fiorello asks him to, he joins him in song.“A WORLD OF LOVE! LOVE! LOVE!” they chorus. It’s the hymn of the new day. 

“He can make me do anything!” Amadeus sighs to the audience. So Fiorello asks him to slow-dance.  And they do.

The prophecy has been fulfilled. Amadeus has let love into his heart. He has surrendered to the holy power of gay chaos. He is a man reborn. 

He didn’t find Bugo on that long, gruelling dark night of the soul, because incredibly,  poor Bugo never left the theatre and spent the night literally hiding in a cupboard.

But he found something else. 

As Sanremo finally, mercifully approaches its end, Fiorello grapples him close and, all teasing cast aside, whispers fiercely in his ear:

And somehow it was.

And toxic masculinity?

To find out why don’t we - and I am sorry about this - check in on Matteo Salvini who would normally be rage-tweeting up a Trump-style storm by now. He loves bitching about Sanremo for being “rigged by the left”  or occasionally letting a non-lily-white performer win, and this year he even tried to organise a boycott. Let’s see how that’s going.

This, the gayest-ever Sanremo in history, is the most-watched Sanremo in 18 years, with an incredible 60% audience share.

“Me Ne Frego” flies to the top of the Spotify charts.  (And though the judges are still cowards and traitors who left Achille in 8th place, there is no doubt across the media who the real star of the festival was. ) And Salvini’s “boycott” just meant he effectively banned himself from making a peep about it.

So who won the festival?

ALL OF US.

Oh, you meant literally.

This guy. His name is Diodato and his song is called “Fai Rumore” (Make a Sound.) It’s fine.

And that was Sanremo. It wasn’t a dream, it was a place. And you, and you, and you were there.

[homeformyheart]

the sunshine of life - beckett harrington x f!mc (te)

author’s note: i wanted to write a “meet the parents” type fic for beckett meeting mc’s parents but then it turned into a pend pals/holiday fic. i didn’t particularly want to use the default mc name for this fic, even though that’s what i usually do, so hopefully the name i chose here fits. also, i suck at coming up with names of characters that didn’t have one in canon. i hope you enjoy!

copyright: all characters owned by pixelberry studios. series/pairing: the elementalists – beckett harrington x f!mc (celeste russell); minor f!atlas x shreya rating/warnings: 13+; kissing and fluff word count: 2.1k based on/prompt: i started working on this two months ago in anticipation of @teappreciationweek! the title is based on the phrase that “friends are the sunshine of life.” summary: celeste is excited to introduce beckett to all of her parental figures over the holidays and has a surprise in store for atlas. guess which parent makes beckett the most nervous?

the sunshine of life

celeste squeezed beckett’s hand reassuringly. her boyfriend was understandably nervous since today they were meeting her parents, definitely plural. she reached up and poked the frown lines appearing between beckett’s eyebrows, giggling as he appeared startled before softening as he looked at her.

“they’re going to love you, beckett. you have nothing to be nervous about. unlike your parents, who clearly did not like me,” celeste said, muttering the last part to herself.

she felt beckett wrap an arm around her waist and pull her close. “that wasn’t about you, i promise.”

two months ago

celeste cleared her throat nervously as she stood outside the tall, intimidating mahogany doors that led inside the harrington mansion. even though she had some idea of what the harrington name meant in the attuned world and thanks to shreya, knew how influential and wealthy some magickal families could be, she was still wholly unprepared for how unnerving it would be to feel as small as she did in that moment.

suddenly she was going over her appearance piece by piece in her mind, evaluating everything she was wearing against the unknown standards she presumed beckett’s parents would have. the blue and gold waistcoast and matching dress that seemed like a safe bet at the time given beckett had picked it out for their lunch date with katrina last year, now seemed to pale in comparison to what she imagined they expected their only son’s girlfriend to wear.

beckett wrapped an arm around her shoulders and leaned in to leave a kiss on her forehead. “it’ll be okay, celeste.” she nodded and took a deep breath before following him into the mansion.

just as expected but worse than anticipated, the evening was one awkward moment after another. her introduction included her nervous rambling about how she was raised attuneless and the shared looks between beckett’s parents made celeste want to slouch down and disappear underneath the table. dinner wasn’t any better given the conversations seemed to focus on advancements in magick technology that their company was working on as well as ground-breaking new research in the fields of elemental biology and medicinal magickal plants.

they were mildly impressed with the stories of how they defeated raife highmore, but that passed quickly once they zeroed in on the danger that beckett was in. it was clear that they were going to blame her for putting their son in danger. celeste couldn’t wait for the evening to be over.

“if you say so,” she said, glumly.

beckett lifted her chin and lowered his head to give her a sweet kiss. “i love you, celeste.” he straightened up and celeste could tell he was about to give himself a pep talk. “if you can get through dinner with my parents, i can get through an evening with yours… even if one of them is a source.”

“that’s the spirit! and well, there will be two sources, actually. nome said he’d stop by,” cadence quickly explained as beckett’s head turned so fast she thought he was going to give himself whiplash.

before he could say anything, the doors to the cottage swung open as they climbed up the short steps. celeste was immediately pulled into a hug from her adoptive parents who quickly wrapped beckett up too before he could protest. theia smiled warmly at the four of them before wrapping celeste up into a tight hug.

“i missed you sweetie. and i am so excited to meet your sweetheart!” theia exclaimed, grabbing beckett’s outstretched hand so she could pull him into hug.

“yes, i am sweetheart – wait, no, i’m harrington, um, i mean beckett. beckett harrington. it’s, uh, very nice to meet you, ms. sun source,” he said, licking his lips nervously and trying not to wipe his palms on his jacket.

she waved at him dismissively. “call me theia, you’re practically family!” she looped her arm in beckett’s and started pulling him toward the house. he turned to look back at celeste, who gave him a small supportive wave while trying really hard not to laugh.

fortunately for beckett, theia was filled with questions for her future son-in-law, as she so embarrassingly put it despite celeste’s protests. that left celeste with a few minutes alone with her adoptive parents; her father cleared his throat awkwardly in her direction and she sighed.

“how was school this semester?” john russell asked awkwardly.

celeste rolled her eyes. “school was fine.” with all the events of the last three years, including discovering and bonding with her twin, fighting for her life twice over, and being reunited with her birth mother, she hadn’t really spent much time processing the fact that her parents lied to her about her birth family, her magickal nature, and the fact that a madman was after her. all in all, it felt reasonable that she’d be pissed and her parents knew it.

anne russell cleared her throat. “how was dinner at the harringtons?”

celeste gave her mother a pointed look just shy of an outright glare. “it would’ve gone a lot better had I been raised with a working knowledge of the magickal world.”

john had the decency to look a little ashamed. “we’re really sorry, honey. we thought you’d be safer as an attuneless and when raife had seemed to all but disappear, we thought we were in the clear. but we shouldn’t have kept your true identity a secret.”

“i guess i understand since you were trying to protect me. i forgive you,” she said, wrapping both of her parents in a big hug before turning toward her boyfriend who was being grilled by her other parent.

even though she was sitting on the opposite end of the living room from beckett and theia, she could tell by his rigid posture that he was tense. the gentle, but commanding lilt of her mother’s voice carried softly across the room.

“so beckett, i’ve heard a lot about you from celeste. what i want to know is, how do i know you’re not just attracted to her magick?” theia asked. although she was smiling, celeste knew the underlying tone did not go unnoticed by beckett.

“because i love her! she’s smart, brave, beautiful, compassionate, and she feels so warm and i can tell my innate metal attunement is drawn to her,” he blurted out a little too loudly for the level of conversation in the room.

“but that makes sense since she’s a sun-att and you’re the sun source and you feel like celeste which was still surprising since she doesn’t really look like you, i mean, not that i can’t tell you’re related, it’s just—augh, sorry.” beckett’s ears and neck were flushed a bright pink.

“wow, harrington, real smooth,” atlas teased. “no book in the library to study up for this, huh?”

“atlas!” celeste said through clenched teeth.

theia chuckled. “beckett, it’s alright. just ask me the questions you have, i promise i won’t bite. i could make it miserably hot, but i won’t.”

“man, this is sooo entertaining. better than all that trashy reality tv you got me into,” atlas said, grinning from ear-to-ear.

“could you be a little more supportive, atlas?” celeste asked, annoyed.

atlas grinned cheekily. “nah, i’m good. i will make more popcorn though. hey harrington, don’t stumble over yourself until i get back.”

celeste could feel her eyebrow twitch in irritation before realizing that she could get some of the attention off beckett and get back at atlas at the same time with a single phone call.

* * * * * just a little while later, a knock on the door made everyone pause and look around at each other. since everyone that was expected was there already, except for nome, and he never knocked, it was natural for everyone to look confused.

celeste couldn’t help the mischievous smile that crept over her face. “atlas, why don’t you go see who it is?”

atlas turned to glare knowingly at celeste as she stood up. “what did you do?”

she barely had the door open before she was bombarded by the rest of the pend pals all fighting to simultaneously hug her and get out of the cold all at once.

“double trouble, double trouble’s mom source, mr. and mrs. russell, happy holidays!” zeph cheerfully shouted out, his arms full of containers of his grandmother’s cookies, which atlas grabbed from him ecstatically.

“i hope you guys didn’t have too much fun without us! and atlas, i hope you save me a spot under that magickal mistletoe,” shreya said, giving atlas a flirtatious wink.

“what? we don’t have mistletoe and why would i—” atlas’ confused thoughts were interrupted as shreya glided through the hallway, stopping briefly to give atlas a kiss on the cheek before making her way to the living room and greeting everyone properly.

atlas flushed briefly before she noticed the huge smirk on celeste’s face. “you are so going to pay for this.”

“i have no idea what you’re talking about, i just thought it would be great if all of our friends could hang out with us over the holidays,” celeste said, grinning before she went back to the living room to see if she could save beckett from further questioning.

all the lights in the house suddenly went out. almost immediately, theia snapped her fingers and the lights all flickered back on to reveal a tall man with long white hair standing in the middle of the living room, surrounded by nine stunned faces.

“always with the dramatic entrances, nome,” she said, but there was a lightheartedness to her tone.

“it’s more fun that way,” nome responded, giving her a quick peck on the cheek before introducing himself to everyone.

with everyone distracted by nome’s arrival, celeste slipped her hand into beckett’s and gave him a small tug. he looked at her inquisitively as she signaled toward the staircase with a tilt of her head. a few moments later, she closed her bedroom door behind them before wrapping her arms around beckett’s neck and standing on her tiptoes so she could give him a kiss.

“thank you for coming – i’m so proud of how you handled yourself,” she murmured, looking up at him.

beckett gave her his signature smirk. “well, of course, you shouldn’t expect anything less from a harrington.”

celeste let her eyes roll lightheartedly. “you know i heard the entire conversation and can tell how nervous you were just from the back of your head?”

his smirk faded into a warm smile. “you know nothing.” before she could protest further, he bent down to capture her lips into a kiss, his hands tightening around her waist to pull her flush against him.

celeste pressed against him as much as she could, intertwining her fingers at the nape of his neck. beckett deepened the kiss, coaxing her mouth open so his tongue could play with hers.

“hey, where’d beckster and celeste go?” zeph’s voice wafted up the stairs, reminding her that their alone time was limited.

“dunno, probably doing it upstairs in her room.”

celeste pulled back at the sound of atlas’ voice and winced. she knew she could count the seconds before her mother’s voice rang out right on cue.

“celeste russell, get down here right now! no boys alone in your room!” theia’s voice boomed through the house, reverberating through the walls.

she let out an embarrassed huff as beckett chuckled. “we really should be used to atlas’ comments by now,” he said, giving her one last kiss on the lips before opening the door and holding out his arm for her to take.

as they descended down the stairs she got a full view of the living room and realized everyone she loved was under one roof. atlas and shreya were sharing the loveseat while zeph and griffin were listening to whatever crazy and embarrassing story nome was telling about theia, with theia refuting and sharing her own stories about nome; aster was showing her adoptive parents how to care for some of the trees and plants in the garden with butterball and navi playing in the snow at their feet.

she felt her eyes fill with happy tears and looked up at beckett, who was giving her a warm, knowing smile. he gave her hand a squeeze and headed out to join aster and her parents in the garden and celeste took a moment to acknowledge the gratitude she felt. even though she had gotten used to being a sun-att and feeling a strong warmth emanating from within her all the time, never had she felt warmth like this. it was gentle but all-consuming, starting in her heart and slowly spreading outward throughout her body. but she knew that if love and gratitude could be summed up in a feeling, this was it.

* * * * * taglist: @robintora; @miss-smrxtiee; @eleanorbloom; @itsjustwinter; @mm2305;

[wordsablaze]

hardest of hearts

A fix-it songfic inspired by a request for something post-mountain where Geralt feels guilty for hurting his bard and Jaskier struggles with low self-esteem...

A/N: @holisticfansstuff hey, i finally wrote this for your ask !! sorry it took a while and i’m not quite sure this is what you wanted but i hope it’s alright !! the song is hardest of hearts by florence + the machine x

-

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!”

And with that one sentence, Jaskier shatters.

And everything changes.

there is love in your body but you can’t hold it in

Meletite knows Jaskier has had enough practice picking up the broken pieces of himself, whether it’s literally pulling his skin back together after being too troublesome or reassembling the shards of his heart after someone carelessly, unknowingly damages it.

He’s broken and been broken countless times before and really, it should be nothing new to witness himself do so once more. Because Jaskier has always loved freely and deeply, but it had been different this time.

And yes, he’s long since lost track of how many windows he’s leaped out of before the sun has risen or how many hushed promises have turned into hazy tavern memories. But this time, it was Geralt.

It was his livelihood and his muse and his very reason for making it through winter, and it was different to any other love he’d nurtured - it was the only one he’d offered slowly and steadily, the only one that had been so sharply spat back at him.

Never has he struggled so much to even breathe right as he turns away.

it pours from your eyes and spills from your skin

Geralt is so, so fiercely angry that he forgets how to be guilty.

That is, until he sees Jaskier’s expression, because Jaskier should be angry or upset or amused but he’s simply a brave face, a faux smile, a testament to Geralt’s mistakes.

An excuse is made about collecting the rest of the story but they both know there’ll never be an accurate song sung about a dragon hunt. And if Jaskier’s expression isn’t enough, the bitter sorrow and sharp pain that radiates from him even after Geralt has turned around is evidence enough.

He’s messed up and he’s messed up horribly and he’s frozen in place as he hears Jaskier’s footsteps fade until they’re too far to follow.

Part of him hopes Jaskier will stay so things can go back to normal but by the time he remembers to move, the only trace left of him is a lingering floral scent that does nothing to fill the sudden void in Geralt’s world.

tenderest touch leaves the darkest of marks

Jaskier walks until his feet hurt and then he carries on walking because that’s what he always does when his heart breaks. Only this time he’s certain the blisters on his feet will heal long before his heart does, if it ever does.

He’s no stranger to this sort of pain, he’s travelled a path paved with the disdain of people he’s loved, but Geralt’s blow seems to have hit the hardest of them all despite never truly touching him.

And worst of all, he doesn’t dare sing about it lest anyone get the wrong idea about witchers, for that would unravel decades of effort and he couldn’t bear to see their kind suffer just because it turns out he has a weak heart.

“Toss a coin to your witcher…” he sings, tempted to toss and lose the coin that’s been nestled in his pockets since Posada.

He’s a fool for keeping it, he knows he is, but he can’t bear to part with it, can’t bear to admit that he’s been cast aside by yet another love.

and the kindest of kisses break the hardest of hearts

It’s no secret that Geralt is a quiet person by nature.

He’s never pretended otherwise, which is why it was such a shock when Jaskier slots into his life as if he were born to do so.

Because Jaskier talks enough for the both of them and he becomes an expert in knowing what Geralt is feeling, even when he himself hasn’t figured it out. And Geralt hates it at first, hates the way Jaskier knows when he needs help with bargaining or when he just wants to get away from people and shelter in the forests.

He knows he doesn’t express his gratitude enough, he knows that Jaskier deserves someone who can match his love, who can hold his hand in broad daylight instead of curling up with him in the dead of night under the pretence of necessity.

It doesn’t bother Jaskier though, and all the bard asks for in return is tales of heroics and heartbreak for his songs - Geralt hates himself for so harshly providing the latter.

there is love in your body but you can’t get it out

Sometimes, just sometimes, Jaskier regrets building up his career on Geralt’s adventures.

He’d never imagined that they’d part ways - or rather, he’d let his guard down and forgotten to remember that most people leave him eventually - so he’s wholly unprepared for how much it hurts to sing about witchers when he’s no longer travelling with one.

But he does it anyway because he’s loved Geralt from the start and he doesn’t think he’s capable of ever not loving Geralt and he doesn’t know what else to do with himself.

So he keeps going.

On and on.

He travels as far as he can so that he can stay out of Geralt’s way, taking his broken heart with him and ignoring the way he feels like its shards are tearing into his insides a little more with each passing day.

it gets stuck in your head, won’t come out of your mouth

There is more than one town in which Geralt wants to murder a bard.

His bard - for that is what everyone knows Jaskier as - has created masterpieces and they are being butchered by men with far lesser voices, by men who don’t deserve to sing them in the first place.

And Geralt yearns to hear the original versions but it seems he is fated to hear Jaskier’s pain second-hand. He asks around, of course he does, for where to find Jaskier, but nobody knows what to tell him and he has never been good at bargaining for information.

He wishes he knew how to say more than please and thank you but Jaskier was his communication and without him, he can only really achieve the minimum required from him.

Regret pools in his gut every time Jaskier’s trail fizzles out.

sticks to your tongue and it shows on your face

Performance has always been Jaskier’s area of expertise but gods is it difficult to pretend he isn’t drowning in the love he was never meant to keep for himself.

He doesn’t know what to do with his compliments and his teasing and his fond exasperation because all of it was for Geralt and if Geralt doesn’t want it, doesn’t want him, he doesn’t know what to do with it, with himself.

He wastes some of his unwanted love on drunken adventures and always regrets it when he’s asked to stay and give up his travels or asked to leave and flee before a betrothed returns - both demands are knives that sink into his chest and add to the cracks in his heart.

It seems that nobody can truly understand what pleases him but he cannot fault them for he has forgotten how to be honest, whether it’s with others or himself.

Jaskier is tired of loving and hurting as if they are one and the same.

that the sweetest of words have the bitterest taste

“I care for you,” Geralt tells Ciri.

“I want you to be safe,” he adds sincerely.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, because he is.

But all he’s doing is repeating what Jaskier had done, what Jaskier had taught him, and the words sometimes refuse to leave his lips because even they know someone else should have had the right to hear them first.

And all Geralt can do is hope Ciri understands that he means well, he really does. She does, of course, because she is far smarter than she seems and because she too has learned from Jaskier - another fact that sends wave after wave of sour guilt through his mind.

With no way to cure it, his guilt only festers.

darling heart, i have loved you from the start

Jaskier was a mere infant the first time he was abandoned, not that he truly remembers the woman who had decided she didn’t want to take care of him anymore. He only knows because his parents had held it against him, as well as every other heart he failed to win over, right from the start.

Geralt hadn’t abandoned him, Jaskier reminds himself every time he feels anger rise inside of him, he was the one who had abandoned Geralt. And he feels terrible, especially after hearing about Cintra, about Nilfgaard, about everything.

A part of him firmly believes that Geralt is safe because he refuses to think that the love of his life could die without him feeling it, but a part of him is too scared to hold onto that faith.

“I’m weak, my love, and I am wanting…” he sings, because he is.

But only ever for his white wolf.

but you’ll never know what a fool i’ve been

Geralt takes Ciri to Kaer Morhen and feels sick when his brothers tell him how soldiers have been none too gently questioning any bards they come across.

He feels stupid when he realises that all this time, he’s been endangering Jaskier by not trying hard enough to find him, to make sure he’s okay, to apologise for his cruel words on the mountain.

And he feels even worse when he thinks of what little Jaskier has told him about his past, of how he had never spoken of his parents, of how his touch had lingered as if waiting for permission that he hadn’t thought to grant.

Oh, how ungrateful he had been of the first person to teach him the true meaning of emotions.

“You have to find him,” everyone says, and he can’t bring himself to argue.

there is love in our bodies and it holds us together

Funny how one can never be prepared for the sting of a whip, Jaskier thinks.

A brief flirt with fame had inflated his ego but no matter because bleeding out in a stone cell is the perfect way to remember that he is nothing and means nothing to anyone.

He lives, of course he does, but only because he hangs onto the possibility of once more meeting a golden gaze the same way he hangs from the ceiling and ruins his wrists, which is to say he does so every day.

And he’s okay with all the superficial agony inflicted upon him because although nobody learns anything from him, he learns from them that they’re still searching, that Geralt is safe, and that he has no true reason to be upset.

He doesn’t even care that there’s not a single person he can think of who would bother trying to save him.

but pulls us apart when we’re holding each other

Witchers cannot travel in time but Geralt so dearly wishes they could.

He doesn’t find Jaskier before snow starts to fall and travel becomes impossible.

He fails and it’s his fault that Jaskier is out there somewhere - possibly hurt, possibly dead, and possibly worse - when he is given warmth and love and everything his bard deserves more than him.

A deep chill settles into his very bones and although he is offered blankets, he knows it cannot be averted except by Jaskier’s touch. Oh, how he craves the warmth of sharing a bedroll and waking up at ungodly hours so Jaskier can learn about the constellations for his newest ballad.

He wants nothing more than to take back his words and keep Jaskier in his life, in his arms.

we all want something to hold in the night

A noble lineage meant that Jaskier was taught independence before anything else.

It meant he was always “a big boy who needs to stop wasting time” and “not a child anymore, for goodness sake” and “such a pathetic excuse of a noble, you should know better than that by now” but he was never truly loved.

And he never learned that he was meant to be loved, never learned that the affection he gave was supposed to be returned in equal.

So as Jaskier wobbles and stumbles through his escape, collapsing into the forest floor when his legs refuse to support his weight any longer, he just closes his eyes and pretends that he’s not in his own arms, that he’s in the arms of someone who cares enough to look for him.

But of course, he’s not.

And he wakes up alone.

Over and over again.

we don’t care if it hurts or we’re holding too tight

Geralt leaves at the first sight of spring.

He couldn’t possibly wait a day longer when he’s made Jaskier wait so long, even though he can’t be sure if Jaskier is even still waiting for him or if he’s moved on, which he had every right to do.

He forgets how to plan and finds that his resources run out before he’s crossed even two towns, but he makes do from under the cover of shadows and night because he couldn’t bear to give up, not on Jaskier.

With the bounty on his head, he finds himself fighting monsters just to survive rather than for coin. And with the bounty on his head, he finds himself having to treat his own injuries because he can’t ask a healer and he doesn’t have his best friend to help him.

Nothing hurts as much as Jaskier’s absence.

darling heart, i have loved you from the start

The only reason Jaskier survives past winter is because he heads to the coast.

He’s lucky that despite his reputation for trading secrets, he’s never traded all of his own. He’s always kept his love of the open water to himself and that’s the only reason he makes it there at all.

It still hurts to curl up inside his secret little coastal home though, because he’d spent so long imagining what it would be like to bring his- to bring Geralt with him. But he knows that can’t happen because Geralt had grown tired of him and wants nothing to do with him.

He doesn’t have a lot of food and he knows he should be concerned about that but he can’t bring himself to care because for the first time in over two decades, he doesn’t have anything - note, anyone - to live for.

but that’s no excuse for the state i’m in

It’s harder than it had seemed to travel without being seen.

Geralt knows how to hunt. He knows when to hide and when to begin travelling but for some reason, getting to Jaskier is far more difficult than any contract he’s ever taken.

He’s never been one for Destiny but he finds himself practically praying to her for a way to reach his- for a way to reach who he so dearly wants to make his again. His bard, his friend, his Jaskier.

Roach jerks to a halt every time he almost falls asleep whilst still on the saddle but he doesn’t learn from it, he can’t afford to when he so desperately needs to make amends, so desperately needs to figure out how much damage he’s caused and then fix it before he loses the best part of his life.

Desperation has never been his colour but then again, he's never cared for being fashionable.

my heart swells like a water at work

There’s a knock at the door but Jaskier doesn’t have the energy to move.

He stays where he is, huddled by a fire that’s long since run out of fuel to burn, and hopes that if it’s another mage, they kill him quickly this time. But it’s not.

“Jaskier, please!”

He blinks.

It can’t possibly be who he thinks it is, who he wants it to be, can it?

It can.

“Jaskier?” Quieter this time, as if he’s worried.

And then a crashing thud echoes, followed by his favourite set of footsteps and a hand on his shoulder.

He flinches without meaning to, not sure if he wants to laugh or cry. Geralt offers him a small smile and he promptly decides to do both.

can’t stop myself before it’s too late

“I’m sorry, Jaskier, I’m so sorry.”

It’s an apology long overdue, Geralt knows that, but he has to try, he can’t stop himself from trying, not this time, not when it comes to Jaskier.

And he looks so awfully small wrapped in blankets that Geralt can feel his heart clench. He feels even smaller when he melts into Geralt’s touch as if he’s never been granted the luxury of being held as he cries.

“I know,” Jaskier replies between sobs.

There’s so much more that Geralt needs to say but it’s a start and it’s more than enough because Jaskier is alive.

“Come to Kaer Morhen with me,” Geralt says, not sure if he’s asking or demanding or begging. But it doesn’t really matter which because Jaskier agrees all the same and he’s just glad he has another chance.

hold on to your heart

Jaskier doesn’t want to get comfortable again.

Well, he does. More than anything. But he doesn’t want to risk the consequences again, he doesn’t think he can live through another heartbreak because there’s so little of his heart left intact and he’s scared to lose himself entirely.

So he goes to the school of the wolves and he gets help for his injuries - and scars, but he doesn’t want to think about that any time soon - but he can’t bring himself to relax, not entirely.

He’s sure they can smell his constant worrying and he feels awful for being such a pain but he doesn’t know what he’s meant to do and his fingers itch for a lute but he doesn’t want to annoy anyone by asking for one.

“I’m okay,” he promises, knowing that it’s a broken one even as it leaves his lips.

‘cause i’m coming to take you

It’s a month before Geralt clocks on to the problem and risks leaving, returning just before dawn with a lute that he places on the table beside Jaskier’s bed.

It’s another week before music fills the building.

It's two more everyone finds themselves humming or singing along every time they hear the lute being played. And another before Geralt finds Jaskier waiting for him where he usually trains, a hesitant smile on his face. “Thank you.”

Geralt nods. “It was the least I could do.”

Jaskier frowns, slowly shaking his head and shuffling his feet. “It’s far more than that. Music, it- it’s almost everything to me, I can't explain it...”

Geralt exhales softly. “But I can understand it because, Jaskier, you’re almost everything to me.”

hold on to your heart

A childhood filled with recklessly throwing around his heart meant that Jaskier became more careful with who he truly trusted over time.

Not careful enough, but still too careful to forgive and forget.

But Geralt is patient and kind and more affectionate than Jaskier has ever seen him and he can’t help falling in love all over again, not that he’d climbed out of it in the first place.

He wants to let go of the dragon hunt, he really does, but Geralt’s words still sting and they, along with his mother’s and father’s and countless fleeting lovers’, flash in his mind every time he thinks about surrendering his heart once again.

And he’s scared, he’s oh so scared that Geralt will get bored of him, sick of him, fed up with him again.

‘cause i’m coming to break you

Geralt waits until summer is waving goodbye before telling Jaskier.

He can feel Jaskier’s doubt rising, he can feel the way he’s not sure whether he’ll be invited to stay for winter or not - he will, of course, because he has become one of their own and it would be foolish if he wasn’t.

But when a week goes by without even the faintest echo of a lute, he and Ciri gather up the prettiest flowers they can find and after their evening meal, he offers them to Jaskier.

“I love you,” he admits softly.

Jaskier is still for all of a few seconds before he starts crying.

And Geralt’s whole body is telling him to run because he hates to see tears in his favourite blue eyes but he resists that urge and slowly, carefully wraps his arms around the bard instead.

“I think I’ve loved you for a long time, Jaskier, and I don’t think I could ever not.”

Jaskier doesn’t reply, but he falls asleep in Geralt’s embrace and finally lets his guard down, and that’s answer enough for anyone.

hold on

The war rages on but Jaskier finally finds peace.

Nothing about their life is particularly easy but he has never been more at ease because as much as Geralt had hurt him, he’d also helped him to heal far more than anybody else ever has.

“You have my heart,” he confesses one morning, after waking up to Geralt’s rare but increasingly more common smiles.

“You can keep it to yourself, your love is enough for me,” Geralt murmurs.

Jaskier blinks slowly, suddenly overcome with the urge to cry. He doesn’t, but he does curse softly. “When did you become so poetic, my dear witcher?”

Geralt chuckles, pulling him impossibly close and leaning right beside his ear to reply, “When you taught me how, my dear bard.”

It takes a matter of seconds for Jaskier to decide that he wants to get married.

hold on

Geralt says very little the day they lawfully commit to spending the rest of their lives together.

He says very little as Yennefer and Ciri craft their rings and loop them into matching chains. He says very little as Eskel and Lambert place their bets on who’s going to cry first - they’re both idiots, it’s obviously Jaskier - or who’s going to remain dry-eyed. And he says very little as Vesemir gives them his blessing.

But when they return to their room, Jaskier places his hands on either side of Geralt’s face and smiles softly. “Geralt, my love, will you tell me what’s wrong? You’ve barely said a word.”

And finally, Geralt cracks. “We vowed to stay with each other until we die, right?”

Jaskier raises an eyebrow. “Of course, but I would have done that with or without the ceremony, you know that.”

“Witchers live for a long time, Jaskier. I-”

Jaskier places a finger on Geralt’s lips, grinning. “You beautiful fool of a witcher, do I look like the kind of bard that’s going to die any time soon?”

When Geralt really looks, it’s obvious that he doesn’t.

And so, with that one sentence, everything changes again.

For the better this time.

-

it's not particularly original, i know, but i really love this song and kind of let this write itself, and i have too many WIPs to have spent any longer trying to make this better :p hope it was okay anyway <3

-

thanks for reading! masterlist | witcher sideblog: @itsjaskier

[corpse--diem]

Suspension of Disbelief | solo

TIMING: Current LOCATION: Nichols’ Funeral Home SUMMARY:  With the weeks drawing closer to the funeral home’s grand reopening, Erin reconciles with her past and reaches her limit. CONTENT WARNINGS: none

While Erin had floated in and out of the funeral home during reconstruction, this was the first time she stood alone in the house in nearly six months. No hammers, no drills, no chatter of the crew off in the distance. They were done, nearly. Some coats of paint still needed to go up in the living quarters and there were a few doors ready to be installed sitting in the hallways, but outside of small finishing touches--it was done. Her entire morning had been spent in her office, organizing the files that had been salvaged from the fire and preparing for what she still needed to replace. It was the most finished room in the large home outside of the basement and for the first time in months, she recognized a glimpse of a life that had been long out of her grasp. Even the mountain of paperwork overtaking her desk garnered a small, wispy smile. This was normal. This was hers.

Her hands touched over a large vanilla envelope and she perked up even further at the sender. The Maine Board of Funeral Services had finally sent over a new copy of her license. She jumped up, grabbing the empty picture frame she’d set aside. The office’s final touch. Her grin grew as she tore the envelope open. The paper inside wasn’t what she was expecting. Flimsy, thin, and much unlike the higher weighted paper that a certificate typically bore.

It wasn’t a certificate. It was a letter.

The words were there. She read them clearly. She read them again. And again.

...Until a proper investigation regarding the alleged organ trafficking operation within the Nichols’ Funeral Home has taken place, the board has agreed to suspend the license of the funeral director until further notice. All funeral services are to cease immediately...

And again. Each time, it said the same thing. Her gaze became lost in the black shapes of each letter, then to the sea of white surrounding them. She couldn’t understand the words. Black ate at the edge of her vision. Everything was loud. Even the light was loud. It buzzed in her ear and grew more intense the longer she stood, frozen to her spot, the letter in one hand and the frame in the other. All she could focus on was the impossibly loud buzzing in her ear but she couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe.

All at once, it stopped.

“Oh, isn’t that just perfect?”

Erin closed her eyes and shook her head, dropping the frame and letter back onto her desk. If she didn’t acknowledge the voice or the low laughter that followed, it wasn’t real.

“I know you can hear me, Nichols.”

The smell of cigar smoke hit her nose and she tensed, squeezing her eyes shut. No. No. This wasn’t happening. None of this was happening. Quiet settled around her once more and she took a deep breath in and back out again. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. She’d open her eyes and--

“I’m still here,” the voice chimed in smugly.

Erin’s eyes snapped open.

Roy Chamber’s sharp smile greeted her with all the malice it’d bore in life. He was leaning in the doorway to her office, a cigar dangling from his lips. “Atta girl. There were go,” he exclaimed excitedly between puffs. “Miss me?”

This wasn’t real. He wasn’t real. Roy was dead. Just a husk of bone and long-rotten flesh that had been tossed into the bay months ago. The knife had slipped into the softness of his temple with some effort but no--it’d done the trick. Roy Chambers, in no uncertain terms, was dead.

“No. No,” she managed between grit teeth. She closed her eyes once more, shaking her head furiously, almost laughing at the absurdity of this moment. “You are not here. You’re--no. No.”

“Oh, yes,” Roy corrected her, boisterous and sure. But he was right. He was here, stepping into her office like none of the events of the warehouse ever happened. Like it’d been a bad dream, a nightmare, one she was about to relive. Was she dead? Was there a hell after all?

He reached for the letter on her desk and all she could do was watch. She wasn’t afraid, she realized. She should have been, she knew that too, but it wasn’t fear that gripped her. It was anger. That hard, dark anger she had been working so hard to quiet. It wasn’t quiet now. He chuckled as he looked over the words on the paper and it flared brightly within her like an angry star. “Nice to see you too, toots. Long time coming, don’t you think?” He mused, glancing around the desk for an ashtray, then up at her when he found none. “Not a smoker? I don’t know why I thought you might be. It’s because you’re always so stressed, I think. Stressed people have the worst vices. But good for you--this stuff’ll kill you.”

He leaned forward and upended it in her coffee mug before turning his attention to the frame. “Anyway--won’t take up much of your time. I know you’re busy with getting things ready for the reopening.” He nodded at the letter with a knowing grin, clearly tickled. “Told you this wasn’t going to end well for you. Remember? Because I do. Very clearly. Maybe you didn’t want to believe me or just didn’t want to hear it, but either way it’s pretty clearly you forgot. And I get that. I was dead, you won, I lost.” He dragged his finger from one end of his throat to another and flashed a grimace at her. “Point made. A dead man can admit defeat when it gets pierced through his cranium. I gotta ask though...” he paused for a long moment, unhooking the metal backings of the frame one by one, the side of his mouth turning upward into a punchable grin. She balled her fists instead.

Even now, this guy droned on. Couldn’t even stay dead without making a grand gesture. There wasn’t an ounce of patience left in her for this. “What?” She shot back.

“Was it worth it?”

The question struck Erin like a bullet between the eyes. Left her stunned, silent, wholly unprepared for the blow. He slipped the suspension notice into the frame and began closing the back up and raised a brow a her. “Really? Nothing? Not one quitty retort? Not even a ‘Fuck you’? Disappointing.” He grimaced and stepped back from the desk, framed letter in hand. “Let’s review. Maybe it’ll jog your memory, get your blood flowing, wake up that fighting spirit that got you here. We’ll circle back to that and see how you feel then, hm?”

Erin followed his gaze to the wall beside them. Small, framed portraits hung where empty wall space had been moments before. Her eyes grew and her throat tightened.

“Exhibit A!” Dale’s shit eating grin stared at her, a trail of dried blood trickling from the top of his head, down his neck, soaking into his shirt. Like a screenshot of a memory that was still burned into her memory. “Always hated that guy. Can’t say I was too upset to see him and his Hawaiian shirts say Aloha. Pretty creative with that kill though, getting that mara to do the dirty work for you.” He nodded at her. “I meant it when I said I was impressed.”

He took another step back, moving onto the next photo like he was at the beginning of a presentation. He tapped the glass of the next one. A news article. “Multiple victims were found dead following the explosion that destroyed an abandoned manufacturing warehouse at the docks on Amity Road early Friday morning.” Roy raised his eyebrows at her excitedly. “That was you.” He let out a bellowing laugh and shook his head and quickly pointed to the photo directly beside it. Another article. “Three more dead at Pat’s and dozens hospitalized. That was you too! Say, didn’t you have some friends there that day?”

Erin’s fingernails dug into the palm of her hand. “That was you,” she snapped back.

Roy raised a hand, shaking a finger at her. “Uh-uh. This,” he pointed to the Pat’s article, “Only happened because of this.” His finger jabbed at the Ring article once more before bouncing back and forth between the two. “Cause and effect. Makes the world go round. Try and keep up, Nichols. Am I losing you already here?”

Maybe if she closed her eyes and counted to ten he’d disappear and leave her alone. Had she fallen asleep? She didn’t remember laying down but it was possible. Wouldn’t have been the first time her body had given up on her the second she found a comfortable couch. He laughed again, loud and joyfully, and her entire body sagged when she opened her eyes. Still here. This time he stood in front of her mugshot, giggling like an idiot. “I’m sorry--well, no. I’m not. Not at all. This is beautiful.”

He gathered himself and took a deep breath before moving on, moving faster now as he gestured towards the next few photos: Detective Wu’s car being pulled from Dark Score Lake, a snapshot of the fire from the funeral home lighting up the night sky, Sgt. Roland Hill’s obituary, the memory of Marley lying motionless on that warehouse floor. Erin couldn’t look anymore. Roy noticed. He pressed on, loud and clear. “Death, after death, after death. Strangers and friends alike.” A photo of her and Alain doting over Betty came next. “No wonder that little French friend of yours hightailed it out of the country without even a word after you got his leg lobbed off.”

“Stop it,” she hissed. It felt like she was being crushed. Like every picture, every word, added another ton of pressure directly on top of her. Her breaths quickened and her heart pounded dangerously fast between her ribs. “Stop it.”

“Not until you answer the question, Erin.” He barked back, harsh edges replacing the humor from before. The next photo shook on the wall when he pressed a finger against the glass. “Remember them? The witches of the coven you failed to inform about a fext in town? The ones I sucked dry? Because of you. Cause and effect, actions and consequences, Erin. It all comes back around. These people suffered and died because you couldn’t leave well enough alone. Because your freedom was worth more than any of their lives.”

Roy’s smile was gone. Dark eyes stared back at her. The last spot on the wall was empty, a single nail marking the spot. He set the framed letter in place, making sure it was perfectly straight. “There,” he said calmly, stepping back to admire the small gallery before them. That sick smile returned and he craned his neck to look at Erin again. “Can’t ignore this forever, Nichols. This is your handiwork. A trail of accomplishments that brought you back home and to this place you built on their blood, sweat and tears. All for them to--” Laughter spilled from his throat, his sheer glee interrupting his own words. “All for them to suspend your license. You can’t even work.”

It took more than a few moments for his laughter to settle into a humored chuckle. Erin’s cheeks flushed with shame. Tears burned at the back of her eyes. He didn’t notice and didn’t care, pulling another cigar from his suit pocket. “Indulge a dead guy and bask in it with me for a few minutes, will you?”

But she couldn’t. She couldn’t look. Not at him and not at the wall in front of her. Her hands shook furiously and she couldn’t breathe. “Get out,” she managed, but it wasn’t more than a harsh, choked whisper and she tried it again with more vigor. “Get. Out.”

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

She was going to be sick. This was a nightmare. This had to be a nightmare. Her hands rushed up to cover her face, rubbing her eyes, pulling at tufts of hair her hair as her fingers glided through them.

“Please. Please. Stop. Just stop.” Erin was nearly begging now. She could feel his gaze boring a hole into her but he wasn’t letting this go. Not until she answered. Not until she looked at the wall.

“Was it worth it?”

CRASH!

Across the room, a vase of fresh flowers lay shattered on the ground where Roy had been seconds ago. She wasn’t at her desk. She was standing in front of the framed letter on the wall. The room was starkly silent outside of that. Roy was gone and the frames on the wall with him. Minutes passed before she realized she hadn’t thrown the vase across the room but knocked it off the stand near the framed letter. Did she do that?

Roy was dead. Roy wasn’t here. She’d imagined it. It’d been his voice, his image, but her words playing back at her. Her hands shook. Was it worth it? The question cycled on an endless loop, tormenting her more than the ‘No’ that screamed for attention at the back of her mind.

She ripped the letter from the wall, locking onto the words again. One word. Suspended. She gave in to the despair and rage that filled every pocket of her soul and didn’t stop until the frame was just a shattered afterthought on the ground. Didn’t stop until every book, every trinket, every photo was thrown onto the floor with it. Her screams tore through her and tears poured down her face like a monsoon that’d finally ripped through and shattered the ceiling of the safe house she’d been hiding in. What did it matter anymore? It didn’t. She’d been beaten. Roy’s last move came late and without warning, destroying the last shred of stability she had left. She couldn’t hold it together anymore. Six months of tightly wound emotions exploded without any sign of stopping. Her neatly piled paperwork filled the floor around her. Coffee covered the walls. Glass crunched under her feet.

It wasn’t worth it.

[downwiththeficness]

The Usurper-Chapter Five

Summary: Lilah McNamara stole things for a living. It was tedious work and often dangerous, which made it just exciting enough to keep her interested. After botching a routine job, Lilah finds herself standing amid monsters. Wholly unprepared for the horror of living under Amaru’s reign, Lilah decides to use her well honed skills to thwart the queen’s plans and prevent the end of the world.

Word Count: ~2, 800

Disclaimer: I do not consent to this work being copied or posted to other sites of blogs.

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“You’re angry.”

Lilah crossed her arms and looked away. Angry was the least of her emotions, at the moment. Anger was overtaken by fear and a sense of impending doom. Not only was she well and truly caught, the person who caught her wasn’t even human. Brasa was right, though. She was angry.

Lilah was angry at herself. She was angry that she dismissed so many fucking red flags that were waving directly in her face. The body language. The clothes. The fucking name. She just rolled right along with it while treating Brasa like he was actually Antonio. How could she be so blind? So stupid?

“If you want to know the truth, you’ll need to at least look at me.”

They were riding in the back of an SUV driven by a kid that looked no older than sixteen. Lilah sat as far away from Brasa as she could, but it still wasn’t far enough. She knew that throwing herself out of a moving vehicle barreling down the highway would hurt, but was willing to do it. A quick test of the handle proved that Brasa was, once again, a step ahead of her—the child lock was engaged. She sucked her teeth and contemplated whether or not she could break the window.

“You’re angry,” he repeated. “That’s understandable. I wasn’t in a position to tell you the truth before. I’ll happily tell you everything now.”

Lilah cut him a look, “As if I’d trust the word of a vampire.”

Brasa laughed, and she hated how it made her chest constrict, “I am not a vampire. Although, I credit you for being so bold.” He paused, then, “I am Xibalban.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Yes. A large difference.”

Lilah sighed and turned her head to look out at the world flying past her. Regulating her emotions was taking nearly all her energy. She didn’t have anything left over to question him about what he was or where he’d come from. Once she got away from the insanity of the situation she’d found herself in, she could do a little research. Until then, Lilah’s priority was to escape at the earliest opportunity. She wasn’t going to end up like Antonio. Sucked out of her own body and replaced with something hungry and terrible.

“Most of what I told you was true,” he said. She heard Brasa sigh, then, “I...omitted a few details so that I didn’t scare you.”

Her lip curled, “Details aren’t going to scare me. Killing Raul—that scared me.” She would never forget the look on Raul’s face or the way the light faded from his eyes. Not in a million years. Not ever.

Heat wafted from his direction, warming the car by several degrees, “I regret scaring you. It was necessary. He was threatening you.”

Lilah’s head swiveled around, “The fuck do you care about threatening me?” Followed by, “I had him under control.”

Brasa leveled a look at her that was focused and firm, “You did not.”

“I did,” she countered, “You don’t know what you walked in on.”

He took a breath and his lips pulled back a little from very, very sharp teeth, “Do you know what a shotgun can do to a body—a human body.”

“Not my first rodeo,” Lilah snipped with marked ire and not a little bit of bravado. She’d never seen anyone blown through with one, but had seen enough movies to guess at what it would look like.

“His finger was on the trigger,” Brasa said. He leaned forward, “The barrel was aimed at your head.”

Lilah, too, leaned forward. She held his gaze and replied, “He wouldn’t have gone through with it. Raul didn’t have it in him to kill someone.”

At this, Brasa rolled his eyes, “I’ve seen lesser men kill.”

“I’m sure you have.” Lilah couldn’t help the ice in her tone. Nor could she help the way her voice dripped with disdain. All the anger she felt towards herself was easily pushed in his direction. It momentarily relieved her of taking responsibility for her bad choices the last few days.

“You have questions,” Brasa said eventually. “Ask them.”

Lilah sniffed, “I’m good. No questions.”

His eyes narrowed, “Liar.”

She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from taking the bait. Lilah had loads of questions, but she needed time to think. The SUV pulled off the highway and was driving through the desert off-road. The lights of the city faded away, leaving nothing but the moon and what was lit by the headlights. The further they got away from town, the harder it would be for Lilah to get back. She was in decent shape, but hadn’t had to run for her life in a long time. Adrenaline and fear would only get her so far. If she was going to act, it had to be soon.

The hair on her arms rose as she recalled the story Brasa crafted for her that night at dinner. They took him into the desert, and then into a cave. They left him for dead, but he wasn’t alone. There was something else in the cave with him. Lilah clenched her jaw against a fresh wave of fear. The thing in the cave with him was sitting right next to her. It had eaten Antonio and taken his body.

Brasa seemed to sense it, “I’m not going to hurt you. No one is, if I have anything to do with it.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“It means,” he said patiently, “exactly what I said. I’m not driving you out here to die. You are safe when you are with me.”

Lilah stared at him, working hard to reconcile two directly opposing truths. One: Brasa was inhuman and thought nothing of killing. Two: He had killed Raul (so he said) to protect her and he was offering continued protection. But, why? “I have to reiterate my previous question.”

He slumped back in the seat and his eyes lifted to the roof of the car, as if she were the one being difficult. “I didn’t have to return to that silly little church, Lilah. I came back for you.”

Lilah continued to stare at him, wishing that she’d just kept her mouth shut. Every word from his lips made her more confused, She didn’t like to be confused. Confusion meant danger—this level of confusion might mean death.

Brasa’s head rolled to the side and his gaze was soft when he said, “I couldn’t have done anything different. I didn’t have a choice. I saw you through his eyes and knew…”

“Knew what?”

“That you were my bondmate. That something I thought was impossible was...reality.”

Lilah didn’t know what a bondmate was or why it guaranteed her protection. It sounded like a made up word. Something to placate her while he backed her into a corner. She blinked at him for a long time while the SUV kept barreling forward towards an unknown destination. “Bullshit,” was all she said.

He laughed, eyes crinkling, “I thought the same thing. But, when you walked up to me in the church, I knew it was true.”

Lilah turned her gaze to the window and stared absently at the scenery as it flew past, “I think that’s enough. I think I’m done hearing the truth.”

“Fair enough.”

She leaned over against the door and kept watching the landscape as it rolled beneath the SUV. Ahead, there was a large rock formation that was steadily growing larger. They were going to the caves. Lilah closed her eyes and tried to center herself. She was absolutely not taking Brasa at his word. Anything could be waiting for her when the car came to a stop and she needed to be prepared. Her hands curled around a purse that contained a cell phone and Antonio’s keys. No weapon. Nothing to defend herself with. She was glad she’d decided against heels. It would make running that much easier.

The SUV pulled to a stop in front of the rock formation, just as she expected. What she didn’t expect was a line of cars parked along with them. Ten, maybe fifteen. All different makes and models. They were scattered across the dusty ground like picked clean skeletons. Remnants of the many people who’d been brought here before her.

Brasa got out and walked around to open her door. She ignored the hand he offered to help her out. He didn’t looked the least bit surprised, just closed the door behind her and walked towards the open mouth of the cave as if she’d follow along. Lilah glared at his back and remained in place. This was where she had to make her stand. If she went into that cave, Lilah was going to die.

The kid driver put the SUV in reverse and swung away from her in a move that was meant more for flash than function. She flipped him the bird before turning back to Brasa. He was watching her with a vaguely amused look on his face. Lilah had to think twice before she flipped him the bird, too.

Brasa held up his hand towards the cave in invitation. Lilah stood her ground. His arm dropped and he took a step forward, “We’re in the middle of nowhere. Where do you think you are going to go?”

Lilah scoffed, “We’re maybe thirty miles from town. All I have to do is put this big ass rock at my back and walk.”

She almost couldn’t see his smile in the moonlight, “You know, I’m tempted to let you try, just to see how far you get.”

Lilah’s answering hum was touched with challenge, “I think you’re underestimating how spiteful I am.”

Brasa was suddenly standing directly in front of her. Lilah hadn’t even seen him move. One second he was standing near the entrance of the cave and the next he was less than a foot from her. She stumbled with a startled yelp and fell right on her ass. A sharp pain lanced through her palm. Lilah held it up to her face, realizing with dread that blood was dripping from a small cut in her palm.

Leather wrapped gently around her wrist. Lilah’s jaw dropped when he lifted her hand to his mouth and licked the blood from her skin. It was bone deep instinct to yank her wrist free and scramble away. Brasa watched her carefully for a moment, then said, “I apologize. I didn’t ask if I could do that.”

Holding her hand close to her chest, Lilah eased to standing. She didn’t like that he actually looked like he was sorry. Didn’t like that she wanted to believe in his apology.

“You can walk, if it will make you feel better. But, I’ll be behind you.” He paused, then, “My patience isn’t endless, Lilah. When it runs out, we’ll end out right here.”

Lilah lifted her shoulders and tried to project confidence, “Why?”

“Why?”

She nodded, “Why? Why here? Why the cave?”

“Ah,” Brasa breathed, “Its the shortest way.”

“To where?”

“To return to my place, where I should have been these last few days.”

Lilah closed her eyes, briefly. Then, “And, where is your place?”

“With the queen.”

“Which queen?”

“Amaru.”

“Right.” She tilted her head back and look up at the moon. It was the same moon that had been there her whole life. Lilah was standing on the same earth that she’d always walked on—except, now, she knew that not-a-vampire vampires existed and they had a monarchy system.

Cool.

Cool, cool, cool.

“I don’t want to meet your queen. Brasa.”

He scoffed, “You won’t. I don’t have any plans to introduce you.”

“Somehow, that doesn’t make me feel better.”

Brasa shrugged, “She’s...volatile. And, not fond of humans. You’re just food to her.”

“Wow, thanks,” Lilah drawled in a voice heavy with sarcasm.

“Lilah,” he said, “Amaru is an ancient Xibalban blood queen. Everyone she meets, she either kills or enslaves. Gods have knelt before her. Forgive me if I don’t think you’ll be any different.”

“You might be underestimating me again.”

“You might be stalling for time,” Brasa countered. Lilah could hear the humor in his voice and it rankled her. “Come with me. I’ll take you to a place where you can rest. You can plot your escape there.” A pause, “Or, you can plot while you walk yourself to exhaustion. And then, I’ll just pick your stubborn ass up and carry you back.” Another pause while he considered that option, “You know, I might enjoy that more.”

Was he flirting with her? It sounded a lot like he was flirting with her. Lilah was undecided on how she felt about that, but was she was decided on was that she wasn’t going to give him the pleasure. She clenched her jaw and approached the entrance of the cave, “Well?” she muttered irritably, “Lead the way.”

Lilah made it about half a minute before she regretted her decision. The moonlight faded quickly, leaving her in perfect blackness. She couldn’t see Brasa in front of her. Couldn’t see anything, really. Her feet stopped moving and her eyes blinked rapidly as if she could clear her vision.

The scrape of a foot against stone, “Why have you stopped?”

“I can’t see.”

“Right,” he replied. “I forgot about that.”

“You sure fucking did.”

Brasa took her hand carefully and laid it atop his shoulder, “Keep this here. I’ll guide you.”

He moved slowly, giving her directions along the way. Right turn in three, two, one. Bit of an overhang, better duck. The ground dips, here. They walked like this as the cave wound steadily downward and then back up again. Lilah was so used to unending darkness that, at first, she didn’t realize that there was actual light up ahead.

The cave opened up to a landscape a little bit like the place they’d left. Desert and moonlight. Except there was a town visible in the distance. Lilah could see the high tower of a sign advertising gas prices. Beside it was a long building that was probably a motel. Not far from there was definitely a diner.

“Where are we?”

Brasa stared ahead with something like displeasure tilting his mouth downward, “A place to rest. Temporarily.”

“I’m sorry,” she began, “your, uh, reigning queen is shacking up at a motel?”

“We are traveling.”

“To where?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why?”

“To find something.”

“What?”

Brasa inhaled sharply and started walking forward, “We can talk about that later.”

Lilah stood there for a second or two, then sighed deeply and made to follow. They walked right up to the motel and Brasa let himself into one of the rooms. Lilah had stayed in worse places. And, with the highway nearby, she had ample room to wiggle out of this mess. She just had to wait for the opportunity.

Brasa stood near the door, watching her, “I need to check in with Amaru. Get some rest. We won’t be here long.”

Lilah was suddenly alone. He was gone so fast that she barely registered the door closing between them. She took a single step backwards and dropped onto the mattress of the bed. It squeaked beneath her weight. Just for fun, she bounced a few times to hear the squeak again. The amusement was short lived. Lilah was left in a silent room with nothing but her thoughts. They moved like molasses in her brain, circling around the central fact that her entire worldview was changed. She couldn’t believe it. Could. Not. Believe. It.

Lilah refused to lie to herself about the instability of her situation. About how urgently she needed to get the fuck out of it. She rose and went to the window. “Figures,” she grumbled.

There was someone standing outside of her door. He was an older man. Short in stature. Gray hair. Dressed immaculately in a beige cotton suit. His gaze was focused away from her. A bodyguard, if she’d ever seen one.

“What the hell,” she said while she opened the door, “Hello, there. Are you with Brasa?”

The man turned, eyes dancing, “I am.”

“Right,” she replied. “I’m guessing you’re here to make sure I don’t leave.”

He smiled, “You guess right.”

“Any chance I could bribe you to...look the other way for, like, ten minutes?”

His smile widened to a grin, “I’m afraid not.”

“Great,” Lilah muttered. “Alright. Bye, then.”

His answering ‘goodbye’ was lost while Lilah closed the door and trudged back to the bed. She sat and leaned her elbows on her knees so that she could think. Lilah went moment by moment all the way back to when Brasa walked into the church. She analyzed it for clues—anything that might point to Brasa’s weaknesses.

Somewhere along the way, she had an awful realization.

He called me Lilah.

[ravenforce]

Manhattan 2

Word Count: 3583

Warning/s: None. (Would you believe that? Lol.)

A/N: Thank you so much for everyone who likes, and follows this story. You guys are amazing. Please leave your reactions, bloody or otherwise, on the comment section. My inbox is open too if you’d like to pop by. Oh, and please note the ff:

1. If there are any grammatical mistakes I’ve still overlooked, I apologize.

2. Since you’re already reading this part. Please, be careful out there. Protect yourself from NCOV. Wear a mask if you’re going outside. Wash your hand regularly, and bring alcohol everywhere you go. Take your vitamin C seriously, and stay hydrated. If you feel flu-like symptoms, get yourself checked by experts. Don’t self-medicate. The world is a better place because you’re here. Stay with me. Xx

Manhattan Parts: 1 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8  | 9

*** 

The Morning After - Lou’s POV

Lou can faintly see that the sun is already up and peaking through her curtains. Rather than get up, she shut her eyes tighter, the events of the night prior rushing to the forefront of her brain. She sighed happily as she remembers how soft you were against her hands, how obedient you were, and how beautiful you sound begging her to go faster, harder, and most especially when you screamed her name. She groaned when she remembered how you moaned as you come undone in her mouth and hands. She rolled on her back like she’s been struck by lightning when she remembers how you look in her bed, sated and peaceful.

She was disappointed when she found your spot on the bed empty. She sighed, no one leaves her in bed. It is her that always leave, and the other party begging her to stay but she never does. She sat up, she decided she’s not gonna wallow and think that you leaving is some sort of karma for every girl she left satisfied, yet heartbroken. She decided she’s going to shower because you both did plenty of dirty stuff last night, and then she’s gonna come downstairs to find her brothers and their merry gang of beautiful misfits and have breakfast with them.

Dressed in a crisp white button-up shirt, dark jeans, and black boots, Lou barged into the service kitchen where she knew everyone was holing after a night of partying.

“Good morning, children,” she greeted happily. Amidst being disappointed about your departure, she’s still positively lighter. 

The soft morning conversation came to a stop. It took a minute for everyone to process her presence, that Lou, their big sister is home for once. She’s rarely home ever since she opened the art gallery, The Heist, in Manhattan with Debbie, Daphne, and the crew.

“Sestra,” Loki greeted when Lou rounded the corner towards the coffee machine. “Your after-sex-glow can be seen from outer space.”

The Avengers choked on their breakfast items, Loki and Lou started laughing. 

“Loki!” Thor admonished after successfully gulping down his french toasts. 

“What? She looks great!”

“You could have gone with that,” Tony complained, blushing profusely and pointedly not looking at Lou. They’ve all been close to her, growing up with the boys but they still don’t like being privy to Lou’s sexual affairs.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Loki, ever the sassiest, said. 

Thor watched his big sister for a minute, and the three of them have been closed enough to know that Loki’s right. Lou’s definitely glowing. 

“Please tell me you didn’t pick up a random college girl from the party last night,” Thor said warned jokingly. 

Lou smirked and intentionally didn’t answer the question as she makes her coffee.

“Lou?” Thor asked, squinting his eyes at his sister’s back. 

Lou turned around to look at her blonde sibling with an infuriating smile on her face. 

“Well,” she started, intentionally pausing a beat or three to annoy her brother. “I didn’t actively look for her. She stumbled on my lair, what am I supposed to do?”

Loki and the rest of the gang laughed, while Thor continued mumbling and complaining about having to look at the poor girl sulking at school because the legendary Lou Odinson won’t pick up their calls.

”Besides, how am I supposed to walk away from her? She’s breathtaking,” Lou said with genuine fondness. 

***

Heavy Breakfast - Your POV

Before everyone can grill Lou on who she slept with, you barged in the service kitchen looking slightly dishevelled and with a deep frown on your face. The conversation dropped, while the tension rises. Everyone looked surprised that you’re on-site, their collective gaze fell on Nat and Carol in an instant. The two looked terrified and wholly unprepared for your arrival. They still haven’t quite polished exactly what they wanted to stay, even though they’ve been trying to reach you since the sun started to rise.

“God, Odinsons’ your house is insane,” you said dramatically.

“I went outside to make a phone call, and I got lost on the way back,” you ranted before looking up from your phone and quickly looked at your friends. 

Your perfectly constructed poker face nearly slipped when you saw Lou standing behind Tony and Maria by the coffee maker. She looked mildly surprised but more entertained at the idea of being in the same room as you and the two women she helped you forget - temporarily - last night. You held back the urge to roll her eyes at her. 

“You’re not the first to complain about that,” Lou quipped. “I told the boys to put up signs but I guess they’re both lazy idiots.”

You cracked a smile remembering how she called her brothers that last night before threatening to beat them up, assuming they made you cry. Tony and Maria caught the smile, no matter how small it was and quirked an eyebrow.

“Putting up signs around the house is ridiculous,” Thor complained as you walk towards the coffee machine. 

“Not to mention tasteless,” Loki backed his big brother up. 

Lou handed you her mug of coffee before starting a fresh brew. Thor and Loki stopped talking in an instant, as everyone watches you drink from Lou’s cup. You let out an ungodly moan as you let Lou’s perfectly brewed black coffee with two sugars wash over you, and warm you inside out. Your friends are watching the two of you like hawks. You can hear the cogs in their heads turning, piecing every action and reaction together.

Any minute now, you thought.

“You look good in my shirt,” Lou commented, full-on grinning now. 

“Holy shit,” Tony exclaimed. 

“What?!” Thor yelled as he stumbles out of his stool. 

You just shrugged before turning to your friends. You don’t care much that they know. You’ll tell them eventually, anyway. You just worry that you sleeping with Lou will change your dynamics with Thor and Loki. Wanda looked surprised while Maria looks worried for a second, she knows you best. So, she knows you slept with Lou as a coping mechanism.

Loki and Tony look impressed while Thor looks like he’s still processing but he doesn’t look angry. Nat and Carol looked pissed as hell.

“You slept with Lou?” Nat asked, voice clearly on edge. You frowned, not liking the tone she’s using. “Why?”

“Because I can,” you answered simply, voice neutral. “And I wanted to. Last time I checked I’m free to do whatever and whoever I want.”

“We know we fucked up last night,” Carol started to say. “But this retribution is brutal.”

You can feel your blood starting boil at that. You wanted to yell that you didn’t sleep with Lou as revenge for them kissing Steve and Val, you did it for you. You did it to forget, sure but you did it also because you’re attracted to the woman for fuck sake. You wanted to scream so many things, some of them probably spiteful but you weren’t able to as Lou’s warm, soft hand landed purposely on the small of your back. Everyone caught the action, Nat and Carol’s frown dipped deeper as they watch all your anger dissipate. 

“I can’t do this right now,” you sighed before putting Lou’s mug on the sink next to you. 

Lou just nodded at you before stepping away from her. You walked towards Maria and Wanda before planting a soft kiss on both their cheeks with a soft promise that you’ll explain everything soon enough. You walked towards the Odinson boys next, pulling them both out of the kitchen and into the hallway. Once out of everyone’s prying eyes, you tugged the boys into a hug which they immediately reciprocated, sandwiching you between them.

“I’m sorry about all of this,” you whispered. Thor’s hand landed on the small of your back, while Loki placed his around your shoulder. “I hope we’re cool?”

The boys can hear the worry and hesitation on your voice. Loki smiled at you, before tucking a loose hair behind your ear. “I’m cool with whatever you and Lou are up to. I ship it.”

You smiled at the raven-haired boy before turning towards Thor.

“I don’t understand it but it’s not my business. I just hope you understand what you’re getting into,” Thor said, worry lacing his voice.

The truth is, he secretly ships it as well but he knows her sister’s reputation in New York. She’s been living in Manhattan for a couple of years now, and never had Lou ever dated anyone seriously. He knows her sister’s not the relationship type. She beds girls that caught her interest for a small amount of time until she gets bored or until the girls started developing real feelings for her; then Lou bolts.

She doesn’t care how long the arrangement has gone, if romantic feelings are involved, she’s out. She doesn’t care much if it hurts. For their sister, it’ll hurt worse if she pretends she can give them something she couldn’t. For their sister, it’ll only hurt worst in the long run because what she gives won’t be enough. Lou has been leaving a trail of broken hearts everywhere she goes that’s why Thor worries about you.

You sighed happily. All things considered, you know you’re gonna be okay now that you’ve secured your friendship with the Odinson boys. You were about to leave when the door opened revealing Nat and Carol.

“Wait, Y/N. Please stay,” Nat pleaded. 

“Let us explain,” Carol added. “Let us try and fix this, please.”

You wanted to ignore both of them but the sadness in their voice stopped you on your track. You turned towards them and saw the two woman you truly adore nearly in tears. 

“I can’t,” you started. Nat and Carol visibly deflated. “Not right now. I need to go home and get ready. I have an interview for the internship program. We’ll talk after, I promise.”

“Okay,” they answered smiling softly at each other.

At that moment, you decided that there’s no point holding on the hurt and anger. No matter what, you still love Nat and Carol but you decided you’re not gonna be a player in their game anymore. When you met the two, you knew they still have feelings for each other but they’re too stubborn to admit it, yet you still willingly played. You decided though that if you can’t be with them, you’ll help them get who they deserve.

No more running away. No more mind games, no more using other people to make each other jealous. No one else is gonna get hurt, just because Nat and Carol can’t be honest with each other but that’ll have to wait after your interview. 

***

The Heist - Lou’s POV

“You’re late,” Daphne stated the obvious as Lou walked in leisurely in the conference room two hours after she’s supposed to be in.

Debbie noted the soft smile on her best friends face but said nothing. Lou just shrugged as she plopped down on her designated chair beside Debbie.

“I’m sorry,” Lou said but didn’t offer any other explanation.

She didn’t really have to explain how she stayed up all night just to make you come undone. She didn’t really have to explain how she offered to drive you home as an excuse to spend more time with you. She didn’t feel like sharing how she drove leisurely back to Manhattan because a part of her wants to stay in Ithaca, and risked being teased by her friends for immediately having a soft spot for a girl she barely knew.

9Ball looked up from her laptop to regard Lou for a moment, then every one to check if they’re seeing exactly what she’s seeing.

“At least one of us had a good weekend,” 9ball said with a smirk.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with an after-sex-glow, like ever,” Tammy said making everyone laugh and Lou to roll her eyes playfully.

“Agreed,” Debbie seconded.

“See, even Debbie agrees,” Constance said, “So who’s the lucky girl?”

“There’s no girl,” Lou lied. She knows that Debbie can tell she’s lying but she doesn’t care. She’s not ready to share you with her vulture friends yet.

Before anyone can call her out on her bullshit, the gallery secretary, Charlie poked her head in the conference room.

“She’s here,” she said looking at Debbie.

“Saved by the bell,” Amita teased, prompting everyone to start giggling again. Debbie shushed them after a minute. Charlie who has been working in the gallery since it opened didn’t bat an eye on her bosses weird antics. She just waits patiently for instructions.

“Send her in,” Debbie instructed before Charlie nodded and scurried away to get the last interviewee for the gallery intern position. Whoever gets the job will join her, and the second gallery assistant, Kurt at the bottom of the corporate ladder.

Lou looked at her best friend with a silent question but before she can answer, the door opened and the applicant walked in.

***

The Interview - Your POV

You stopped dead on your tracks when you saw Lou, while the other paled a little.

Holy shit, you thought to yourself.

When Lou said she’s a businesswoman, it didn’t occur to you that she might be the owner of the art gallery you’re applying for an internship. You internally cursed the alcohol you consumed the night before for missing dead giveaways that Lou owns the Heist, like the number of artworks and art pieces in her home office, or the magazines on her coffee table featuring her and her crew. 

You were pulled away from your internal musing when 9Ball jumped out of her chair to tackle you softly in a hug. 

“Y/N!!” 9Ball exclaimed as she rubs her pretty face on the side of yours. Lou frowned at the action.

“You know each other?” Lou asked carefully keeping her voice neutral. 

9Ball extricated herself from your person before dragging you to the table. “This is Y/N Y/L/N, she’s my friend from MIT. She’s eighteen when we graduated uni,” 9Ball bragged. 

“We know, nine. We read her file” Rose said smiling.

Lou frowned because she doesn’t know, she forgot to read your file. She meant to do it yesterday but well, she met you instead. Though she knows things about you, it would be inappropriate for her to divulge them in this interview. She had to bite her lips to stop herself from smiling, thinking about all the tiny details she knows about that isn’t in your resume. Daphne caught her though but decided it’s not the time to discuss what’s going on. 

“Y/N you’ve been vouched by Nine, and your credentials are spot on,” Debbie started to say, using her CEO voice. “So I’m wondering why you still want to do this interview rather than just get the job?”

You smiled up at your potentially new boss. You can easily see that Debbie is the level-headed one in their group. 

“I work great with Nine. You all work great with Nine but that doesn’t mean you will work great with me,” you said softly, confusing everyone some more. 

“I need you to assess me as a person, not just my credentials.” You paused to let that information sink in. 9Ball looks at you with pride in her eyes. 

“I’m great in the paper, sure. I possess the technical qualities to perform an excellent job, but I believe all of it is to go to waste if you find my personality doesn’t match yours.”

Smart. Debbie noted on your resume without breaking eye contact. She smiled at you, clearly impressed. She looked around the table to assess her team’s reaction, and by the happy look on their faces, she knew they liked you as well. Everyone was enamoured by you if their attempts to engage you in a conversation all at the same time is to go by. 

“What do you think?” she whispered towards Lou. 

Lou didn’t take her eyes off you as she answers. “I think she’s perfect…for the job,” Lou caught her slipped up early on but by the look on Debbie’s face, she knew she caught it.

Debbie cleared her throat to draw everyone’s attention back to her. She looked at you intensely, the pregnant pause is giving you anxiety. “Y/N, when do you think you can start the job?”

You heaved a great sigh of relief. “Can you give me until next week to find an apartment, move, and get settled?”

Debbie nodded before standing up, walking to you and shaking your hand.“Welcome to the Heist,” she said smiling. Then everyone came over to congratulate you and give you hugs, except Lou.

***

You were standing at the side of the gallery entrance, texting Maria the good news when someone stood toe-to-toe with you. You’ve seen that boots this morning but you opted to finish your text with Maria before looking up at Lou.

“Would you prefer if I turn down the job?” you asked tentatively. You’re a little worried that she didn’t come over to congratulate you awhile ago.

“What?! No! Unless you don’t think you can’t work with me,” she teased. You laughed softly.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Ms Odinson.”

“Miller,” she said. You tilted your head confused. “I don’t use Odinson here. It attracts too much-unwanted attention.”

You wanted to make a joke about how such a face would attract a lot of attention but the seriousness in her voice prompted you to let it go.

“Well don’t flatter yourself, Ms Miller,” you corrected yourself, trying to imitate the way she talks. Lou laughs at your antics. You’re such a child but instead of running for the hills, she’s craving you more and more.

“Anyway, do you have plans tonight? Thought maybe since you’re here, we can celebrate.” Lou wanted to smack herself for being unable to resist vomiting her words. She doesn’t do nervous but something about asking you out, platonic or otherwise, feels daunting to her.

“I can’t tonight. I promised Maria and Wanda I’ll be home for dinner,” you said with a frown. “And you know I promised Natasha and Carol we’ll talk too.”

Lou mirrored your frown. Something about you, and Nat, and Carol in one sentence ruin her good mood. “Okay. Some other time, maybe?”

“Now, who can’t get enough of who?” you teased, effectively eradicating the frown on the blonde woman’s face.

“Shut up.”

You laughed. She started laughing too while hailing a cab for you. When the famous yellow car pulled up on the curb next to you, you bid her farewell. You stopped before entering the vehicle to look at her.

“Maybe you can help me warm my new apartment soon.”

It wasn’t a question. It’s an offer, and Lou knows it.

She smiled broadly at you.

“It’s a date,” she said before the yellow taxi rolled you away.

Taglist:  @kaytoopio​​​ @marvelfansince08love​​​ @marvelb00kwolf​​​ @shycucumbersandwich​​​ @subject7creed​​ @inkstainedhandsofgold​

[onebatch2batch]

kastle + “Do you even own a shirt?” please!!

Thank you so much for the prompt, this was really fun to write!!

–

The worst part about finding a new roommate, Karen finds, is the staggering amount of bullshit to wade through just to find someone who isn’t going to kill her. Or smell her hair in her sleep. Or something equally as horrifying. The first person to answer her ad in the newspaper had been a small, mousy girl that wore cat ears and cried when Karen asked about it. The second person had been a man a few years her junior who reeked of weed and waggled his eyebrows when he asked if they’d be sharing the room and the rent. The next blunty told her he was only interested in the room as a rendezvous point for his mistress.

And so on.

Karen likes to think she’s not picky. She’s honestly, truly not picky. She’d been living with Foggy for three years before he and Marcie got engaged, prompting them to get a place together uptown. Foggy had been a good roommate—never late on rent, easy to spend time with, non combative about sharing a bathroom and chores. He also never took out the trash and was a serial dish-breaker. But everyone has their quirks, and she’s prepared for some level of weird. Just not as weird as the people she’s met with today.

So when the sixth person knocks on her door, Karen is less than optimistic. According to their brief phone call earlier in the day, his name is Frank Castle. He’s an ex-Marine, fresh out of service in need of a place in the city. He’d been polite and cursory on the phone, giving nothing else away–so when she opens the door to a handsome man with a clean shaven face and a charming smile, she’s a little shocked. And when he takes off his jacket during the tour to reveal thick, corded arms and a shirt drawn tight across his chest, she very nearly gives him the room on eye candy potential alone.

Common sense overrules her–if she really does give Frank the room, it would be a living nightmare to hook up with him. What if they sleep together and then have a falling out? She would still have to see him every day. She’ll have to vet him just like everyone else and make a decision fairly. Part of her hopes that he has a pet tarantula or something. Any reason to turn him down.

Unfortunately, the universe doesn’t work that way.

“I’m clean,” he tells her as he casts an eye over the vacant room. She watches the back of his head, enraptured by the low timbre of his voice. “And I’m quiet–I do play guitar sometimes. If that’s alright.”

Because of course the stupidly hot, charming man asking to live with her plays guitar. Of course.

“Do you work?” she asks him, leaning on the doorframe as he opens the closet door to look inside.

“Uh huh. I work construction. Sometimes I work odd jobs on the weekends.” He flashes her a quick smile. “And I promise to keep the parties down to a minimum.”

She offers him the room.

–

Two months after Frank moves in, they’ve settled into a rhythm. Admittedly, not the kind of rhythm that Karen thinks about when she’s alone at night and with him just across the hall but–

–yeah, they have a rhythm.

After a brief period of awkwardness and some time spent learning each other’s little quirks, Karen finds that she really enjoys Frank’s company. He’s funny in a very subtle, deadpan kind of way. He’s respectful of her space and privacy, and just like he said before–he’s quiet. Most nights find them at separate ends of the couch, Karen typing up an article for the paper she works at while he reads or strums his guitar. Sometimes he’ll cook them both dinner, pulling some old family italian recipe out of nowhere, table set by the time she gets home. She’s pleased to find he’s as clean as he claimed, and that sharing a bathroom isn’t as terrible as it could be. It seems neither of them have a very active social life, which suits her (and her growing crush) just fine.

Four months in, Karen decides that Frank is trying to kill her. She knows that he is a disciplined man; he starts every day the same way. He wakes up long before her. She knows this because the coffee pot is always nearly done brewing by the time she drags herself out of bed around 6am. In fact by the time she’s done pouring them both a cup–his black, hers with cream–his keys jingle in the door like clockwork. Frank spends every morning, seven days a week, running five miles before the sun even decides it’s going to rise. And then he walks in like it’s nothing, and Karen sits in her bathrobe and makes small talk and pretends not to notice the sweat glistening on his skin.

It really sinks in that Frank’s trying to kill her on a humid June morning. Even in the apartment with the AC circulating she feels the wetness of the air, and she lounges at the kitchen island with her coffee and watches the door. Frank’s keys sound a moment later, and then he walks in and nearly has her falling out of her chair.

Of course she’s seen him shirtless once or twice, but it’s always a brief flash between the bathroom and his bedroom door after a shower. It still leaves her wholly unprepared for the sight of Frank Castle’s chiseled abs, sculpted chest and thick, sinewy arms at half past six in the morning. She’s suddenly very awake.

“Mornin’,” Frank tells her easily, picking up his mug with a quick nod of thanks. He heads down the hall towards the bathroom and Karen takes a sip of her coffee, heart thundering in her chest. The image of him half naked, sweating for a whole different reason, fills her head. She thinks about him balanced above her, moisture beading on his forehead as he bruises her hips with his own. She thinks of what would happen if she made his heart race without even leaving the apartment–and if she even could.

The shower turns on and Karen groans, snapping out of her daydreams. She’s fucked.

–

She suffers through this newest form of torture in silent agony. Day after day, morning after morning, she considers staying in her bed until the shower switches on. And then day after day she pulls herself out of bed, far too eager for someone who can’t afford to have this big a crush on someone she’ll be splitting rent with indefinitely.

It’s seventeen shirtless morning later–not that she’s counting–when she finally cracks.

Frank strolls in before she can even take her first sip of coffee. As soon as she sees him, a flush rises on her cheeks. He’s got a nice, even tan over his skin that seems to glow under the lights of her kitchen. His hair is a little shaggier than normal, which means it’s about time for a trim. It gives him a softer look. There’s a sheen of sweat on him that she’s not embarrassed to say she finds ridiculously hot. When he directs one warm, wide, post-exercise smile at her she feels her insides turn to mush.

“Mornin’, Karen,” he greets, picking up his mug.

“Good morning.” By some small miracle, she only sounds a little strained.

Regardless, Frank raises a brow at her, leaning against the counter. “You alright?”

“Mhm.” She searches for a safe topic, one that will steer him away from looking at her like that when she knows she must be flushed red. All she can come up with is: “Do you even own a shirt?”

Frank blinks once. And then once more, for good measure. He glances down and then back up at her with a sudden clarity. The slow, shit-eatening grin that spreads across his face makes her palms sweat.

“Am I makin’ you uncomfortable?” he asks with a lilt in his voice that tells her he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Not at all,” Karen mumbles, watching through lowered lashes as he makes his way around the kitchen island. “Just…you know. Um. It’s not really fair.”

“Yeah? What’s not?”

Frank’s close now. He smells of sweat and sunshine, and he should smell gross so why she’s suddenly getting poetic about it gives her pause. Enough of a pause for him to huff out a laugh.

Karen’s eyes lower unwittingly to the sharp jut of his jaw and the slopes of his collarbone. She traces it down, over nipples pebbled in the cool apartment air, past the uneven ridges of his abs, and then back up into his amused gaze. She panics. “I can’t walk around without a shirt,” she tries, grappling at something–anything–other than it’s not fair because I want to see you take your shirt off after you take off mine. And then I want it to stay off, and I want to–

“You could take your shirt off.”

Karen gapes at him. “What?”

“I wouldn’t be complainin’.” Frank fixes her with a wide eyed look that she thinks is supposed to mimic innocence.

This is it. This is how I die. Frank Castle is the world hottest roommate and we shouldn’t be flirting. But we definitely are. I think. And he’s–he’s–

–he’s walking away.

“I’ll put a shirt on after my shower,” he tells her, tossing her a grin over his shoulder. The bathroom door closes softly.

—

Now…now he’s just doing it on purpose.

One day Karen sits on the couch and types an article. At soft footsteps she glances up only to meet the wide plane of Frank’s bare chest as he casually traverses the carpet towards the kitchen.

Or another day, late afternoon on a Sunday, she walks into the apartment and he’s doing shirtless push ups in the middle of the living room.

Or another day she comes home from work and he’s cooking dinner in gray sweatpants and her apron—the one that says “whisk it real good” that she got for her birthday from Foggy last year–is far too small on him. Karen stares as her face flames, knowing how the next time she wears it she’ll only think of him.

And then the day that she snaps:

Karen comes home late. It’s nearly eight o clock by the time she manages to get her key in the lock, and she can think of nothing but bed, wine and food. And not particularly in that order.

“Frank,” she calls. “I’m home.”

There’s a scuffle from his room, and then the closing of a door before he appears in the hall. He has a guilty look on his face that almost distracts her from his shirtlessness. Almost.  

“What?”

“i got somethin’ to show ya.” He pauses. “Don’t be mad.”

Karen sets her bag down, eyeing him with trepidation. “O…kay…”

With a gesture, Frank leads her back to his bedroom. She’s only been inside it once or twice–she knows it’s sparsely decorated, neatly kept, and the bed is always made. In any other instance she’d be excited that he’s bringing her into his space. Now, with the tautness of his shoulders and stiff, awkward smile–she’s just nervous. He puts a hand on the doorknob and then pauses, looking back at her.

“It’s nothing bad,” he starts, and then opens the door before she can reply.

A large ball of fur comes barrelling towards her and careens into her legs. Karen yelps, stumbling forward into the room. Her hip bumps his dresser but she doesn’t pay it any heed.

“Frank–”

“Aw, come on, Kare–” Frank leans down to scoop the excitable, yipping puppy into his arms. It’s young with that blueish grey sheen of a pitbull and wide blue eyes. It wiggles in his arms in an attempt to escape, snout sniffing in her direction.

Karen crosses her arms, trying and failing miserably to be upset with this new development. She certainly doesn’t have time to take care of a puppy, but if Frank wants to she knows she’ll be unable to say no. He takes in her failing stern expression as he wrestles with the writhing mass of fur in his arms.

“She’s just a puppy,” he says in a rush. “I found her out behind the buildin’. She was diggin’ through trash, Karen. I figured I would bring her in and get her cleaned up and then if you don’t want her in the apartment then I’d–…”

He doesn’t finish, trailing off. It’s obvious he didn’t have a plan for her rejecting the dog. Frank peers at her over the puppy’s head, and the image is too much for her to handle. The puppy, the imploring stare he is directing at her, his half-naked state, being in his room with his masculine, earthy smell in the air–Karen huffs and smiles in defeat. “What’s her name?”

Frank’s eyes widen, and then his grin nearly knocks her over. He steps closer and hoists the puppy up, holding her so that Karen can pet her. The dog nearly falls out of his arms with excitement when Karen starts to stroke her soft fur. Karen laughs. Frank watches her, smile gentling.

“I liked Blue.” He meets her gaze with a touch of shyness. “Unless you can think of somethin’ better.”

He’s standing close enough that she can feel the heat of him on her skin. At this distance, she sees the five o'clock shadow across his face. He smells of laundry and cologne and a little bit of wet dog, but that doesn’t stop her from stepping close. “I like Blue. We can keep her.”

His expression perks up, and then quickly shifts to cautious hope. He ducks his head slightly, hiding a smile. “We?”

Something tells her that if she were to inch closer, lean close and brush her lips over his, he wouldn’t mind. That instinct is right because before she can muster up the courage, Frank beats her to it. His kiss is brief and chaste. He pulls away to gauge her reaction but Karen pulls him back impatiently, slotting her mouth over his in a kiss that he reciprocates gladly. It would almost be perfect except for–

“Blue,” Karen sighs, pulling away as the dog clambors out of Frank’s arms into her own. The puppy whines excitedly, licking at Karen’s cheek until she laughs and pulls away. “Okay, okay. You’re lucky you’re cute–I’ve been waiting on that forever.”

Frank chuckles, reaching over to scratch under Blue’s chin. When Karen meets his gaze, it’s warm and pleased. She feels it all the way to her toes.

“She’s not sleeping in the bed with us,” she tells him, fighting a smile.

Frank’s eyebrows raise. He huffs. “Try tellin’ her that.”

But she wont–she’ll let the dog sleep in the bed every night as long as Frank’s there too.

[spam-monster]

Helsaweek free space

(I missed a bunch this year because virus-stress has worn down my brain. Might try to write for all the prompts I missed sometime, but for now, have this.)

Words

- One of them standard “soulmate au’s” where whatever your soulmate writes on their arm shows up on yours + two very secretive people who have their own reasons to not want to find their soulmate + hiding your identity because surely you’re not going to just run into them one day without knowing who they are = some very terrible, awkward situations. 

- Refrences to Frozen Fever and Frozen 2

- Elsa writing is in italics, Hans writing is bold italics

-----

If he was not a Prince of the Southern Isles, Hans would have been using the words to try and find his soulmate. But the Westergard family discourages, even forbids, royals from marrying their soulmates; they say those feeling only make you weak and vulnerable.

Luckily, the girl whose messages appear on his arm is not offended by this.

It’s not safe for anyone to be around me, she writes. I can’t control it. I’ve hurt people I care about. I don’t want to hurt you, too.

She won’t tell him what “it” is, and he doesn’t push it.

In that case…maybe we can just be friends? Hans writes her, the pen scratching against his arm. My brothers don’t pay a lot of attention to me. It would be nice to have someone to talk to at least.

I guess that’s okay.

What’s your name?

I

Don’t know if I should tell you

I don’t want you to look for me.

Okay

But I need to call you something

What if you make up a name? Like authors do?

She takes a few minutes to respond.

Isa.

Okay Isa.

And you can call me John.

John.

Maybe someday

When

If I ever get this under control

I’ll tell you my real name

 (Hans will wish he had kept asking. At the time, he hadn’t seen a reason to argue with her. After all, the world was a big place, and it was unlikely he would ever run into his soulmate by accident.)

(And if he did…he would know, right?)

---

Isa wrote him about her lessons, missing being able to go outside without fear, worries about her little sister (Isa had nicknamed her “Joan”, after a portrait of Joan of Arc she seemed to like talking to). Hans wrote her about his brother’s cruel pranks, his countries dismal atmosphere, the young foal he had been gifted named Sitron. Isa listened to his complaints even when they felt silly. Hans encouraged Isa in her battle against whatever was tormenting her.

It was nice, for a while.

Then his family found out that he still kept in touch with his soulmate.

“Unless she’s someone we can manipulate, there’s no reason to bother with her.”

“Like Hans would be soulmates with anyone destined for power!”

“But I’m not going to try and marry her! I don’t even know her name!”

In the end, he had to swear to not speak with her anymore.

(But since Hans technically had never been speaking with her anyway…)

I can’t write you as much as I used to, or they’ll notice. We can still keep in touch, okay?

---

Without a constant confidant to keep him distracted from neglect, his heart hardened.

Sometimes, they didn’t talk for weeks.

(One time, they didn’t talk for months. My parents…Isa had written, and refused to say any more.

I’m sorry, he wrote back.)

But still, she was always there, in the back of his mind.

*When I become a hero* he thought to himself *I’ll find her and save her from whatever thing has been haunting her all these years*

---

I’m nervous she had written him, the night before he arrived in Arendelle.

So am I he had written back. I’m meeting someone important tomorrow. I have it all planned out. If all goes well, I might finally be able to escape from my family.

I wish I could escape.

If I mess up tomorrow

Whatever is happening, you’ll be fine.

Tomorrow night, I’ll be telling you all about my brilliant plan’s success and you’ll be telling me about how you were able to control yourself just fine.

(He couldn’t tell her he was planning to get engaged to someone else. Even if they had agreed long ago that they weren’t going to marry each other, it would’ve felt awkward.)

And maybe actually be able to talk to your sister for once.

Okay. Right.

Thank you, John.

 ---

(The next night, Hans was too busy dealing with a kingdom full of panicked citizens and a summer blizzard to write anything to his soulmate.

She didn’t write to him either.

He should have noticed.)

---

John!

I’m sorry, I should have written to you sooner!

Things have been so hectic the last few days

I told her

I told her everything

Everyone knows and it’s okay

I was so scared

I thought I had lost Anna forever

But I finally figured out how to control it

Anna?

My sister

Her real name is Anna

(More words appeared. Hans didn’t process any of them.)

Elsa?

You know who I am

Were you at the coronation?

John?

Hans refused to look at his arm for a week.

---

Of course.

Of course it was her.

The one good thing in his life, and he had almost-

---

Are you afraid of me?

Please John

Just

Answer me

---

He should tell her to stop.

Never speak to her again.

It was torture.

If she found out who her soulmate really was…

---

Don’t stop

John?

Don’t stop talking to me

Please.

Keep writing

I don’t know if I can

I might not write you back

For a long time

And it’s not you

It’s not because of

Your powers or anything

Just please don’t stop

---

It was a self-inflicted punishment, and one he fully deserved.

---

He did write a bit, after that. Mostly just short comments on her stories or funny doodles when he was bored.

She never pushed him for an answer.

Now that he knew, she was a lot more open about everything. She told him her parent’s real names, what had really happened that had made her push Anna and everyone else away, about her creations, about Arendelle and its people, about Anna’s finding her own soulmate, about being a good queen.

(The one good thing about being an official disgrace was that none of his family bothered to try and stop him from reading her words anymore.)

---

I got hit by a snowball today.

Out of nowhere.

I almost though you had found me for a second.

oh

I might have sneezed.

Into a bugel horn.

But you don’t even live in Arendelle

I assumed

I don’t

How

That’s what I’d like to know

---

I’ve been hearing things.

A voice.

---

Arendelle is in danger.

We’re going to the woods.

I don’t know

When we’ll be back

Good luck

With that.

---

Hans was sitting in the stables, trying to read, when his arm started feeling a bit numb.

Then it turned cold.

Then…

Hans watched in horror as faint outlines of snowflakes started to appear.

Elsa

Elsa?

What’s happening?

---

A few hours later, he had scratched his arm open from writing so much and was desperately trying to talk himself out of stealing away to Arendelle’s mythical forest himself when the cold faded away as suddenly as it had appeared.

---

John?

It’s a long story

---

You died?!

---

You’re leaving.

---

You’re running away again, Elsa.

I’m not running away!

The forest needs me.

Anna needs you.

Anna is strong.

She’ll be fine without me.

But does she want to be without you?

---

Hans could care less about family, about “true love”, about soulmates.

So why did he keep arguing with her?

Now Elsa was the one sending curt replies, while he was the one who couldn’t stop writing to her.

How could he have everything he ever wanted, and just throw it all away like that?

How dare she.

---

*Anna didn’t jump in front of my sword for you to just abandon her again* he thought, but did not write.

---

You won’t even tell me who you really are! Why should I listen to you?

You don’t want to know who I am.

You can’t know that!

Believe me, I do.

You would hate yourself. You already hate me.

Yes, I’m mad at you right now

But I don’t hate you

You do

You really do

And you have every reason to after what I

John.

Have we met.

At the coronation.

There’s only one person i

John

How many older brothers did you say you have

---

12

And he said no more.

---

Look to the North.

It was the first time she had written him in three days.

There was a strange light in the sky, glittering like a fresh snowfall.

He took Sitron and followed it.

---

Surely she wouldn’t be foolish enough to come all the way here.

---

She was.

Hans almost didn’t recognize her at first. Her hair was down, her gown glowing white against the night skies and dark cliffs. A horse stood at her side, its colors shifting strangely. There were no ships anywhere in sight.

“It is you.” She said quietly.

“How did you…?”

“I rode.” She gestured to the horse, which on closer inspection was made of water.

(A Nokk, he remembered from her messages.)

“You rode across the ocean?!”

She shrugged, a bit awkwardly. “I didn’t want to take a ship. I didn’t want Anna asking questions and finding out about…” she gestured.

“…Yeah. This.”

He dismounted. Sighed. He was wholly unprepared to have this conversation.

“Okay. We should…do you want to sit down? This is probably going to take a while.”

---

Why did you…

Why didn’t you…

I should have known…

I should have figured it out, but I was so stupid and blinded and desperate…

I should have reached out to you, I knew you were hurting, I should have tried to help you…

---

“It’s getting late.” He finally said. “Or…early, I guess.” They had talked all night, and the sky was already lightening. “I should go back before anyone notices I’m gone. Which might take a while, but still-“

“Wait.” She said.

He waited. She looked him over, considering. Sighed. Stared up into his eyes.

“Hans. Come back with me.”

“What? …You can’t mean…are you crazy?! After everything I…I almost killed you!”

“You said…that you had though about saving me someday, but you never thought you were strong enough to do it. Well, I thought the same thing. About saving you, I mean. Finding a way to bring you to Arendelle, away from your family, but…I was scared of letting you get too close to me. That if we met, we wouldn’t be able to stay away from each other.”

He snorted at that, clenching his fists to try to hide the trembling in his hands.

“Hans…I’m not scared anymore. Of myself, or of you. Please. I want to make this right.” She reached out to him.

And he knew he shouldn’t, could think of a million reasons why (*not good enough not strong enough weak worthless only going to hurt yourself only going to hurt her can’t trust can’t believe in anyone*), but…he was just so tired of it all, and she wasn’t a liar like them, and he wanted.

He took her hand. Something settled, deep inside him.

“Okay. Just one question.”

“Yes?”

He gestured to Sitron. “How do we get a horse to ride a horse across the ocean?”

Her laugh was exactly as adorable as he had always imagined it being.

-----

(And he convinced her to spend more time in Arendelle, and she convinced him that the woods weren’t so bad, and they built a nice little cottage right on the border so they could divide their time equally between the town and the forest, and lived happily ever after the end.)

[ibijau]

Burn it down AU // on AO3 // extras on AO3

extra: During the Sunshot Campaign, Lan Xichen has a conversation with his uncle that doesn’t go how he planned.

warning for canon typical levels of homophobia and, like a lot of bad emotions because in book canon LXC is 19-20 when the war starts and that’s a lot of stuff for a young man that age to go through :D

It is near impossible for Lan Xichen to focus on the conversation with his uncle as they discuss the campaign in his office. Although he knows how important it is, how many lives are stake, he simply cannot keep his mind on the war. His thoughts keep going back to the handful of hours he just spent holding Nie Huaisang and kissing him, how his eyes shone with happiness, the softness of his hair, the taste of his tongue, the warmth of his skin, the… 

"Xichen, are you even listening?" 

"Apologies, uncle," he quickly mumbles. "It has been a long day." 

"And that day would be over already if you hadn't lost so much time with that Nie boy. I asked how you obtained that information about Nightless City's defences." 

Lan Xichen hesitates. It is wrong to keep secrets. It is wrong to deny his uncle's request. But surely it would be more wrong to say anything that might put dear Meng Yao in greater danger than he already is? 

Being a sect leader is nothing but a series of compromises, and it is so difficult to know right from wrong. 

"When the time is right, I will reveal it. For now, I can only say that I trust the source of this information. But these are dark times, uncle, and it is better if I remain the only one to know certain things." 

To Lan Xichen's surprise, his uncle nods. 

"The Wens have come here once, they could come here again. Keep the secret for now if you feel it is needed." 

"Thank you, uncle." 

"Hm. I think we've talked about everything urgent. You may retire for the night, anything less pressing can wait." 

That, of course, is the chance that Lan Xichen has been waiting for since he joined his uncle in his office. He takes a deep breath, and steels himself. 

"Uncle, if you do not mind… There is one more thing I would like to talk about. It does not concern the campaign, but it is important nonetheless. Would you let me have a little more of your time?" 

Lan Qiren, who had started standing up, sits down again and gestures for his nephew to go on. Lan Xichen takes another deep breath, and hurriedly wonders how to breach the matter. 

In spite of how long he has loved Nie Huaisang, Lan Xichen finds himself wholly unprepared for this situation. After all, while they had a certain friendship going on, Nie Huaisang had never given any sign that he held some preference for his brother's friend. He has always been cheerful and open and teasing with Lan Xichen, but since he is like that with everyone, it didn't seem to mean much. 

And yet, there's no doubt possible now. Nie Huaisang cares, perhaps just as strongly as Lan Xichen does. 

"Well? What was it?" his uncle asks, getting impatient. 

"Uncle, there is… It is not easy to say. But for some time now, I have felt very strongly for another boy, and it has recently been revealed to me that this boy too…" 

He is interrupted by his uncle slamming his hand on his desk, his face dark with anger. 

"You will forget about this boy," Lan Qiren orders. "I do not want to hear another word of such nonsense." 

"The rules of our sect dictate we must look for our true match, a dual cultivation partner that fits us," Lan Xichen meekly objects, half surprised by his own daring. "How is it nonsense for me to do so?" 

His uncle glares at him for what he must perceive at insolence. At a normal time, this would be enough for Lan Xichen to fall in line, years of discipline having nearly broken what rebellion ever existed in him. 

But this is not a normal time. Today his lips still tingle from being kissed by the person he loves, and to get more of that, Lan Xichen is ready to fight even the uncle who half terrifies him. 

"Uncle, this is not something I say lightly," he insists. "I truly love him, I wish to spend my life with him, and I believe he will be exactly the partner I need, not only in private but also in public." 

He means that. Nie Huaisang, after all, is so clever when he wants. Much smarter than people give him credit for, certainly. Lan Xichen has seen him discreetly defuse tense situations at times when Nie Mingjue was provoked into anger. He has also seen how, when they were guest disciples, Nie Huaisang often found ways to distract Wei Wuxian and Jiang Wanying whenever Jin Zixuan would do or say something that upset them. It is certainly a great skill for a sect leader's husband to have. 

And as for the private aspect… Aside from having just been revealed as a wonderful kisser, Nie Huaisang is simply someone who has always made Lan Xichen happy. He has never treated him with the distant politeness that everyone gave him as heir to such a major sect. Nie Huaisang, from their very first meeting, has called him Xichen-gege and teased him with the same carefree attitude he had with Nie Mingjue. Sometimes, Lan Xichen thinks that he fell in love on that first day, even if the realisation of it only came later. 

"Love has no place in a sect leader's life," his uncle snaps. "Look what good it did your father!" 

The attack is not unexpected, but Lan Xichen still feels the sting of it. 

"It is different. Unlike father, my feelings are returned." 

"Returned or not, it makes no difference. When you marry, it will be to help us secure an alliance…" 

"His family is a prominent one," Lan Xichen weakly interjects. 

"It will be to secure an alliance and an heir," Lan Qiren claims. "Can that boy of yours carry a child for you? Or was I lied to about what you are, and you can actually bear another man's child?" 

"I cannot," his nephew admits, clenching his fists. "Neither can he. But uncle…" 

"Everything you have, everything you are, you owe it to the position you were born in. In return, your duty is to serve your sect and your clan. When the time is right, I will find you a dutiful wife. Until then, I do not want to ever hear you talk about this again. You are dismissed."

Lan Xichen clenches his fists. He feels something wet fall on his cheeks and wonders, idly, when he cried for the last time. His mother's death probably. It was not allowed after that. A future sect leader had to be trained out of expressing emotions in such an obvious way, and Lan Xichen always was a good student. 

The tears are not solely for being denied the right to his true love, though after so many months of horror, it is the last drop. He has lost so much, several of his people died when the Cloud Recesses were burned, his sect history is nearly entirely lost save what he could take with him when he ran, his brother was almost lost to a monster, his father passed away while he was running for his life, and there's a war now, so many people depend on him, many of which have perished already because this is a war and he's not ready for this and… 

Lan Xichen could bear with all this. It is his duty. He just wants one comfort, one good thing. He wants to be allowed one selfish desire. 

He wants Nie Huaisang. 

When his uncle starts getting up, Lan Xichen grabs his sleeve like the capricious child he knows he must look like. 

"Uncle, I beg you, I will do anything you ask if you allow me to court him. Let me have this. I am serious about this, I am sincere, I promise you will not regret it if you let me have him. It is not some fanciful passion, I love him, I have loved him so long. Uncle, please, when have I ever asked for a favour?"

Lan Qiren glares at him. Lan Xichen's tears double as he realises this is a fight he cannot win, but he maintains his hold on his uncle's sleeve. The moment he lets go, Nie Huaisang is lost to him. He cannot let go. He cannot lose this as well. 

"If you get what you want, Wangji cannot," Lan Qiren says, in the patient yet condescending tone he uses on his students. "You know your brother as well as I do. Can you imagine him marrying a woman, even to give the clan an heir?" 

That's his problem, not mine, Lan Xichen wants to scream, only for crippling guilt to immediately devour him. He remembers their mother, slowly dying of a disease never explained to them, asking him to take care of his little brother. Someone has to make sure A-Zhan smiles, she'd told him many times. When I'm gone, make sure he still gets to smile. 

Lan Xichen sobs, his fingers clenching on his uncle's sleeve. 

It is true that Lan Wangji has always shown a clear preference for other boys and no interest whatsoever in girls. It is equally clear that Wangji is in love, and for three months scoured the country with Jiang Cheng, desperately trying to find out what happened to the boy he adores. And though they have their arguments, Wei Wuxian is the only person who can make Land Wangji smile, now that their mother is dead. 

It is true also that, in general, Lan Xichen has never felt any strong preference between men and women. Marrying someone who will bear an heir for the clan is not something that fills him with disgust the way it might Lan Wangji. He can do this, if it comes to that. 

He doesn't want it to come to that. He doesn't want a man or a woman. He wants Nie Huaisang who smiles like a fox and moves like a bird. Nie Huaisang who cried because he thought him dead, and kissed him. Nie Huaisang who made such sweet noises as they chased pleasure together, then laughed so softly, as if nothing in the world could be better than to be in Lan Xichen's arms. Nie Huaisang whom he loves, who is so perfect for him in every aspect. Nie Huaisang who should be his, but never will be. 

"But I love him," Lan Xichen whimpers, defeated. "Uncle, I really love him, what am going to do?"

Lan Qiren kneels next to him. Through the tears, Lan Xichen thinks he can see pity on his stern uncle's face, and that might be worse than his earlier anger. He nearly flinches when Lan Qiren awkwardly pats his shoulder, neither of them used to this. 

"Avoid his company," Lan Qiren orders. "Avoid his conversation. If you can, avoid looking at him even. Meditate when you are tempted to seek him out. If your will is strong enough, you will easily get over this fancy of yours."

“Uncle, I cannot…”

“You must. You will. Or are you so weak that you can’t overcome the failings of your body and heart? You are a sect leader now, Xichen. Do not follow in your father's footsteps by letting your passions conquer you." 

With one last desperate sob, Lan Xichen finally lets go of his uncle's sleeve and tries to collect himself. All of Gusu Lan has suffered from his father's decisions, he reminds himself, taking one shaky breath after the other. His uncle has paid the price of Qingheng-Jun's choice, forced to bear the weight of their sect when inclination and birth should have allowed him to dedicate himself to his studies. 

Lan Xichen will be a better sect leader, a better brother. 

"Thank you for your time and advice, uncle" he says in a voice he cannot stop from shaking. "I will do my best to live up to your expectations." 

"I know you will," Lan Qiren replies, squeezing his shoulder before quickly letting go. "You may go." 

Lan Xichen doesn't need to be told twice. He springs to his feet and rushes back to the Hanshi, as fast as he can without running. His head hurts from crying, and there is an uncomfortable dampness between his legs. Earlier he was half happy with that sticky sensation, a reminder that he did not dream what happened. Now it makes him want to tear his own skin away. As soon as he is inside his home, he sheds his clothes, dropping them on the floor without care. Using a towel and water, Lan Xichen scrubs his legs and groin until they are red and sore, trying to erase any trace of those stolen moments he needs to forget. 

When he is satisfied with his work, he goes to sleep and quickly passes out, exhausted by a day that promised so much and delivered so little. 

In the morning, Lan Xichen sees Nie Huaisang at breakfast. The other boy spots him as well and smiles so brightly that it is nearly blinding. It takes all of Lan Xichen’s willpower not to join him. Instead he goes to sit with his uncle, and leaves again as soon as he is done eating. 

Busy as he is, Lan Xichen finds that the day passes quickly. The elders who remain in the Cloud Recesses commend his dedication when he skips lunch, but force him to have a servant bring him something when he makes it clear he wants to avoid dinner as well. Lan Xichen reluctantly agrees, and eats alone in the Hanshi with some reports in front of him. If he handles things well, he can leave for the front in a day or two.

There is so much to organise, and Lan Xichen does not want to stay in the Cloud Recesses a moment more than necessary. He will have to avoid his own home until the war is won and Nie Huaisang can return to Qinghe.