#but tempered or not it has all been done cannot be undone he would not undo it if he had the ability to either

[windupaidoneus]

sometimes i worry ppl think i say all that ahit to liek absolve him of guilt regarding what hes done or that im trying to be like auhhh he didnt wanna guysss its not his fault :(( but at the same time if someone expects that of me they probably arent worth worrying about

[dxsertrot]

I don't think the absolute horror of my brother's situation truly set in until last night. I've been struggling with him with this for years, and he's a heavy topic on mine and my family's tongue. Has been for the last few years now. I was looking at a photo my mother took of the three of us on Christmas and I burst into tears. He's such a shell of a human, hardly even alive. He's plagued by endless skin issues that he lacks the motivation to fix, his brain has been dulled by years of alcohol abuse. He's jobless, friendless, and sick. Mentally and physically. He's nothing like the person he used to be. He couldn't even properly bend down to take a picture with us, and the look in his eyes is just totally dead. He lays in bed all day, lays in the bath all day. Barely eats, barely sleeps, hardly ever goes anywhere. He gets random jolts of motivation to fix his life and then in less than a week it's gone. He's 31. My parents don't know what to do with him. He's too unwell to kick out. He's literally in horrible shape. My brother used to be my best friend and always the first person I wanted anyone to meet. I took pride in my similarities to him. People always loved my brother, he's such a kind and empathetic soul. He listens to people, relates to people, and he was always so funny and full of life. He's nothing like that person anymore, you only see fragments of that in him now. Often times I wonder if my parents will discover him dead when they get home from whatever outing they've done that day or weekend. It'd awful to witness someone you love so dearly become so undone like this. I find myself frustrated and angry with him a lot. I feel like I'm talking to a child when i talk to him. He used to be my big brother, but now he's just so small. And nothing I say or do helps. Lately my conversations with him have gotten more ill tempered, mostly because I know it won't go anywhere and he will never listen. It feels like I've already lost him. Its not that hes dead to me but he's totally dead to the world, sometimes picking up the scraps of the old life he left behind by trying to reconnect with old friends and family. But he's more so a point of concern than a point of contact. Everybody desperately wants to help him and yet need to keep him at an arms length. It's like he's waiting for somebody to do something for him, but if there was anything that could have been done it would have happened in ten fold. It's sadly all up to him, and that's horrifying, because nothing will ever get done if it's all him. Sometimes I mourn and other times I'm cold to it. Being around him is hard. It used to be my favorite part of the day. My brother used to be my person through and through. We mirrored each others best traits. We used to look so much alike, and behave so similarly. Now it feels like I'm light years ahead of him and I can't seem to grab him to pull him along with me. He won't move. And so sometimes my successes leave me riddled with guilt. I've developed this insane superstition that if im doing well he's going to do bad forever. And if I do bad then maybe he will finally do good. But I understand that's the form my guilt is taking shape in because my mind can't find a reason for me to feel guilty, so it invents one. There's so much shame involved in this. The horrible feeling that when people meet him they secretly belive it's so awful of you to let someone you love end up so poorly. I cannot imagine my parents guilt. I think the older I get the more I realize just how hard it is to love so much. My brother, and my sister, and my good friend whom I have unrequited love for, and my ex gf, and my aunts. My cousins. My parents. I think that's why I spent so long trying to be cold and cynical to everything. I've finally opened my heart up and in the same breath it feels like it's being torn to shreds.

[apricia]

For ever by your side / Aemond Targaryen x reader // Part III

Chapter 3 - Words cut deeper than knifes

“It will heal, will it not, maester?” Queen Alicent asked warily. She looked down at her son who was being examined. Her hands folded in her lap. The worry on her face.

Everyone had gathered in the great hall after the shouting. The men of the Kings guard had taken the children and immediately informed the king. Alyssa stood to one side, still trembling all over.

“The flesh will heal, but the eye is lost, Your Grace.” He answered.

When chaos broke out and the queen and king wanted to know what had happened, all the children screamed at the same time. Shifting the blame from one to the other. Alyssa stood by silently.

“Accident?” The Queen asked in disbelief, “The Prince Lucerys brought a blade to the ambush. He meant to kill my son.” It was the first thing that got through the fog in Alyssa's head.

That wasn't right. She didn't think Jace wanted to kill Aemond. But what was said, what was done, could not be undone anyway. 

“The legitimacy of my childrens’ birth was put loudly to question.” Rheanyra looked from Jace, to Aemond und back to Alicent. As if she know who was the reason for those insults.

“What?”, demanded King Viserys to know. 

Alyssa looked up to her cousin. He was looking at his grandfather, then to his mother. „He called us bastards“, Jace began, then his eyes found the one of Alyssa. „And he called Alyssa..“ She quickly shook her head. So made Jace fall silent. She didn't want to hear the words again. No matter by whom. She didn't want to get involved any further. For her it was enough. 

Jace said nothing more, but gave her a pitying look before glancing back at his mother.

Alyssa was once again engulfed in the fog in her head. Aemond's words repeated over and over in her mind. Opening up wounds she hadn't known existed. Broke her heart. Again and again. 

“This interminable infighting must cease!“, the king screamed and Alyssa looked to him. „All of you! We are family! Now make your apologies and show good will to one another. Your father, your grandsire, your King demands it!” He ordered before her started towards the door to retreat back to his chambers.

“That is insufficient,” Alicent stopped her husband in his tracks, “Aemond has been damaged permanently, My King. Good will cannot make him whole.”

“I know, Alicent. But I cannot restore his eye.”

“No because it’s been taken.”

“What would you have me do?” He asks her angrily.

“There is a debt to be paid. I shall have one of her son’s eyes in return.” The room broke into murmuring at the Queen’s extreme request.

Alyssa held her breath. She had never seen the queen like this before. Not after attacking her and Heleana, not after all the things Aegon had done. She had never seen such hatred in Alicent's eyes. She understood the queen's anger, but she still didn't want any more bloodshed. That other wounds were inflicted, whether of the body or the soul.

“My dear wife,” Viserys started sternly.

“He is your son Viserys!” She cried, “Your blood!”

“Do not allow your temper to guide your judgement.” Viserys warned her, turning to leave again. 

"I cannot tolerate that. Justice should prevail. Even in a place like this. I demand justice and then we will leave this place. First thing in the morning, my children and I will return to King's Landing. Aegon, Helaena, Aemond, Alyssa, pack your bags, we“, the queen looked around. As if she was only realizing at that moment that one of her children was missing. Even if Alyssa wasn't one of them. „Where's Alyssa?"

It was the first time Alyssa had been approached tonight. No adult had taken care of her before, or cared what was happening to her or how she was doing. Outwardly she might not have sustained any injuries, but inside she was empty.

"I'm here." Her voice was no louder than a whisper, but the queen turned to her immediately and inseminated her for injuries.

When she couldn't find any, she breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank the gods. Come here, child. We will go home right after just punishment has been given for what happened.“

Home... Was King's Landing still her home after tonight? Alyssa doubt she would be welcome there much longer. That she could even go back there.

She felt tears welling up in her eyes again. She didn't want to cry, not again. Not in front of the queen and the entire court. Not in Front of Aemond.

"I don't want to go," she then said quietly. However, she did not dare raise her head.

"How do you mean that?"

"I don't want to go to King's Landing."

"What are you talking about, child? We're going home, all together." Alicent knelt in front of her and put a hand on her shoulder, but Alyssa took a step back as if the queen had struck her.

Now the tears were streaming down her cheeks and Alyssa couldn't do anything to stop them. "Please don't make me go back there," she begged softly to Alicent, who gave her a horrified look.

"Alyssa.." Alicent whispered, her eyes widening as she saw the girl's tears. "What happened?"

Alyssa just shook her head silently, tears streaming down her face. She pressed her hands tightly into her dress. She wanted to throw herself into Alicent's arms, wanted to feel the security of the woman who was like a mother to her. But that was a lie. Alicent wasn't her mother. And Viserys was not her father.

Now the king stepped forward. "Alyssa, what happened? Why don't you want to go to King's Landing?"

"I..I," she stammered, but couldn't find the right words.

"It's your home," the queen said, looking at Alyssa sadly.

"No it is not." She had no home. Not anymore. She had no mother, she had no father, she had nothing.

"Alyssa, what happened? So talk to me."

What should she say? Should she tell the queen what Aemond had said to her? Aemond was Alicent's son. She would always be on his side. No matter what he said or did. Too many times she had seen Alicent siding with Aegon, covering up his missteps just because he was blood of her blood. But she wasn't.

She slowly raised her eyes, but instead of looking at the queen, she looked at Aemond. He sat in the chair in front of the fire and observed the situation. His expression was tense, his hands gripping the back of the chair tightly. Despite the scar that now adorned his face, Alyssa could see the shock in his eye. Was he afraid she would betray him? That she would told what had happened?

Alyssa would love to do that, but she couldn't. She couldn't repeat his words, couldn't admit how he had hurt her. That he had betrayed her and their friendship. That he broke her heart. She couldn't put it into words, couldn't summon up the courage to say it out loud. But the pain reverberated throughout her body.

Alicent looked from Aemond to Alyssa and frowned in confusion. She looked at Viserys and shrugged helplessly.

Visyers sighed. "Whatever happened, we're all going home tomorrow. You too, Alyssa, I'm sure we'll find a solution."

Her fist tightened on the fabric of her dress and a sob escaped her. She was ashamed. Ashamed that Aemond's words afflicted her so much that she cried like a small child in front of the king and queen.

"I won't come with you," she insisted, but her voice was broken and barely above a whisper.

"That's absurd," Alicent groaned, but she wasn't angry, just worried and didn't know what to do. "Where do you want to go instead?"

That question was like another slap in the face. Alyssa sobbed again and wiped her runny nose with the back of her hand.

Alyssa turned her head and looked into the eyes of Rheanys and Corlys Velaryon, from them to Beala and Rheana. Right next to them stood Jace and Luke. But Alyssa couldn't see any further, she didn't dare to look at the person who should have been standing by her side. He wasn't her father, just her sire, and yet, at that moment, Alyssa prayed to all the gods that Daemon Targaryn would help her. But he didn't.

"She's coming to Dragonstone with us," a voice said. But it wasn't her father's, it was Princess Rheanyra's. Alyssa looked at her cousin in astonishment.

The princess was still holding Luke's hands and by her side was Daemon, who also looked at her in astonishment.

"What?" Alyssa and Alicent asked simultaneously.

"Alyssa can come with us to Dragonstone. She is very welcome there."

"No, she certainly won't," Alicent's voice thundered through the room and she rose to face Rheanyra. The entire room seemed to hold its breath as the two women came close to attacking each other.

"She's not your daughter, Alicent. She’s mine. You don't decide her fate." Daemon Targaryen stepped forward, satisfaction showing on his face as he sided with the princess.

Alicent let out a hysterical laugh. "Oh, now she's your daughter? What was the last eleven years, Daemon? Did you tought about her just once while you start a new family?“

Alyssa closed her eyes. She didn't want to hear the queen's words, her heart was broken enough anyway. She wouldn't take any more cuts. But she knew the queen was right. Daemon had never been a father to her, she was never his daughter.

"I haven't taken care of Alyssa yet, you may be right in this case, Alicent, so it's time I did my duty."

Alicent shook his head and looked at the king invitingly. "No, you won't take her with you." She grabbed Alyssa and pulled her to her.

Alyssa loved Alicent, she was the only mother figure she knew and her words touched Alyssq deeply. But that didn't change Alyssa's decision. She would not stay in King's Landing.

"Alicent," Viserys murmured, looking back and forth between Daemon and his wife. A sad look on his face. "Daemon is her father. If he decides to take Alyssa with him, there's nothing we can do."

Alicent turned on her husband in anger. "You are the king, Viserys. She belongs to us, to our family!" An apologetic expression came over the king's face. And Alicent knew that today she would lose to his daughter for the second time.

Alyssa couldn't stop crying. Maybe she would never be able to stop again.

"She's part of our family too," Rheanyra then said, smiling at Alyssa. "If she wants that."

It seemed to Alyssa that all eyes in the room were on her. As if she had to make a decision that would change not only her life but the whole world forever.

„No“, no," Alicent yelled. "You mutilated my son, you will not take my daughter from me. I will not allow you to take Alyssa."

Daemon looked at the queen in amusement. "You won't be able to prevent it."

Alicent whirled on her husband. "Say something, Viserys. Speak for your son, for your niece." For me, resonated weakly in her tear-choked voice.

But Viserys said nothing.

“If the King will not seek justice the Queen will. Daemon has no claim to his daughter, he already rejected her after her birth. And as for the other...Ser Criston, bring me the eye of Lucerys Velaryon.” Alicent ordered.

Alyssa's eyes widened and she stared at the queen in disbelief. Was she serious? Did she really demand that Luke sacrifice an eye because Aemond lost his?

That couldn't be true.

“He can choose which eye to keep, a privilege which he did not grant my son. And if Daemon try to lay a hand on Alyssa, cut them off.”

“You will do no such thing,” Rhaenyra said firmly.

“Stay your hand,” Viserys ordered Ser Criston.

“No, you are sworn to me!” Alicent yelled.

Ser Criston hesitated for a moment, “As your protector, my Queen. And I will protect the princess as well, if she would be in danger. But she‘s not.“

“Alicent, this matter is finished. Do you understand?” The King asked her sternly. He began to walk away again, stopping to make one more announcement, “And let it be known, anyone whos tongue dares to question the birth of Princess Rhaenyra’s children should have it removed. As for Alyssa's concerns, it is up to her father to determine her whereabouts.” A sad expression came into the king's eyes as he looked at his niece.

“Thank you Father,” Rhaenyra told him.

Alyssa thought the matter was settled now. Though she didn't know what that meant for her. Daemon only laid claim to her because he wanted to undermine Alicent.

Where would she live from now on? What would happen to her?

Her thoughts were cut short when Alicent let out a yell, pulled a dagger from Visery's belt, and charged at Rheanyra, knife raised.

Chaos broke out and shouts erupted.

The two women fought with each other, the Kingsguard tried to separate them. Alyssa watched in horror. Prayed to the gods that Alicent would stop and that she wouldn't get hurt.

Alicent suddenly pushed herself away from Rhaenyra sending the Princess stumbling back into Lord Corlys Arms. She clutched her forearm, from which a red line ran down. Blood. It was already dripping onto the floor of the hall.

The room was eerily quiet. You could probably have heard a pin drop. Alyssa looked from Alicent to the princess in fear. But her gaze fell on Aemond as he got up and ran to his mother.

“Do not mourn me, Mother. It was a fair exchange. I may have lost an eye but I gained a dragon.” At the end of his sentence, a hurt look crossed his face and he looked at Alyssa. She just looked at him silently, tears still in her eyes. He hadn't just lost an eye and claimed a dragon tonight. He had lost her, her friendship, everything.

But even though Alyssa thought she saw something like regret in his eyes, he said nothing. No apologetic words, he didn't even look at her anymore.

In that moment, Alyssa realized that she really had lost. That she had lost everything she had known in her life.

"What about Alyssa?" the Queen asked, while hugging Aemond.

Alyssa looked at Viserys, who had a hand on Alicent's shoulder. The queen looked at her silently, almost pleadingly. Rheanyra gave her a friendly smile while Daemon looked at her wordlessly, waiting. And although she didn't want to, her gaze wandered to Aemond. He was already looking at her. His remaining eye wide open, as if he couldn't comprehend what was happening. What Alyssa was about to do.

Alyssa took a step towards Alicent, who breathed a sigh of relief and hugged her. But Alyssa just put a hand on her cheek. "Thank you for everything. But I can't stay, it's not your fault," she whispered in the queen's ear and she looked again at Aemond, as if to say it's his. He seemed to have heard her words. He looked away and Alyssa saw his jaw clench.

Alicent looked stunned from Alyssa to her son, then slowly shook her head. Like begging Alyssa to reconsider her decision.

Alyssa took a step back and then looked at Rheanyra. "If you like, princess, I would accept your offer. I want to go to Dragonstone.“

The decision had been made. Alyssa Targaryen would no longer live in the capital. Wouldn't grow up next to her cousins ​​anymore. Wouldn't talk to Helaena about spiders, scorpions or other insects. Would no longer bet and fool around with Aegon. But much more important was that she didn't have to see Aemond anymore. They would no longer spend time together in the library, would not study, discuss, or philosophize together. No more sneaking out, no more telling secrets. Nothing more. The vow of for Ever by your side, forgotten.

She had been a Green, taken in by Alicent like a daughter of her own, but that was over.

From now on, Alyssa would be a black.

_________

Tag-List:

@girl-with-an-orange-cat​ @itsjustmyopinionf1​ @xcharlottemikaelsonx​ @immyowndefender​ @kohsongbird​ @curiouser-an-curiouser​ @stargaryenx  @multiple-fandoms-girl @itsemy01 @crazymusicgirl104 @draganaludoski @stargaryenx @beccaerenswife @jbaby2 @kaitieskidmore1 

[mcheang]

Sorry for you

A draft inspired by Rhiannon Crochan - her quote is what I remember most about Heir Of Fire. This story is kind of gloomy.

Marinette had been brutally beaten by the thugs Gabriel had hired. Bound and dragged before her enemies, Marinette’s blue eyes remained steady.

Gabriel, Nathalie, Chloé and Lila stood before her. One triumphant, one professional, one eager and one malicious.

They had found her identity, stolen her earrings. How was not the priority.

Seeing the ring gleaming on Gabriel’s finger, Marinette knew her partner was out for now. After a quick glance around her, feeling her tight bonds, Marinette knew there was no escape, nor could she save these poor souls. All she could do now was have the last word.

Marinette steadily looked at them and smiled. “Demon. Witch. Traitor. Nobody.” They were what the Parisians chose to call the villains. “By all means, enjoy my bruises. How they must pale to all the havoc you had caused before. Does it annoy you to see all your damage undone as if it were nothing but a trifle?”

The girls were about to snap back but Nathalie raised a hand for silence.

Gabriel just raised a brow. “All done for a noble cause, I assure you.”

Marinette laughed, blood splattering from her lips. “Pretty words to hide behind. What happens to me will only be a haunting memory when you make your wish. Because you chose this so-called path to greatness or goodness, whatever you call it.”

Marinette leaned forward. “Do you one to hear one last secret before the end? Not the names of my kwamis or why you all keep failing. Please, anyone looking at your actions already knows that. No, the secret is that we, heroes and immortals alike, pity you.”

Silence.

“We pity you, Hawkmoth, even after your crimes against humanity and Nooroo. We pity you, Mayura, even after your abuse of power. We pity you, Chloe the cause of most akumas. We pity you, Lila the liar. You weren’t born evil and you’ve suffered (who is and who hasn’t?), but you overlook everything but your own feelings and now there’s nothing left inside you. You’re all pathetic and sad, empty and lonely. That is why you now stand desperate and despairing before me. Because of the danger you posed to Paris which made you flee like cowards. You chose to be the hated villains for whatever cause you dreamed, and we feel sorry for you!”

Who knew Chloé had a gun? Her father wanted her to be safe so he taught her to use it only for emergencies, not to vent her temper. But this is a girl who antagonizes akumas without thought. And a girl who has crossed the line long ago.

After the brief argument about Chloe’s hasty execution, they decided to just make their wishes before moving on

Gabriel wished for a perfect family reunion. He was overjoyed to see his wife again. But while both Emilie and Adrien behaved appropriately and as expected, they kind of creeped him out. It was like living with zombies. It was like they were corpses with no soul, with only magic guiding their actions. And oh yeah, as a family man, he was now stuck in this house of zombies. The doors cannot open.

Nathalie wished she would stop harbouring romantic feelings for Gabriel so she could be truly happy about his family reunion. The wish was granted but soon Nathalie could not feel anything at all. Life became a cold, meaningless existence.

Chloé wished to be a queen she deserves to be. She became a queen but her subjects revolted and it was Marie Antoinette all over again.

Lila wished to be famous, no longer hunted by her haters. And yeah, Lila became this perfect celebrity, doing charitable acts. But the thing was, this sweet Lila’s actions were forced. She was the new Mother Teresa, forced to put everyone else before her own, and refusing any kind of material comfort. And as a new girl, Lila is also compelled to make amends. In short, she confessed her crimes and willingly went to jail, but not before visiting the graves of Marinette and Adrien (the boy living with Gabriel was so not the real Adrien).

Lila: you were right. You became a memory. I have no doubt that you were the strongest memory in Nathalie’s life before she ended it. I have no doubt Chloé saw you in her last moments as queen before the crown fell off with her head. I have no doubt Gabriel is cursing you as he tries to escape his mansion of zombies. And I can feel the real me screaming inside this shell of a body. The real Lila often remembers you when she recalls what led to her imprisonment. I think everyone has finally realized the truth of what you were saying. That we were pitiful creatures before for choosing evil, and we are pitiful now because you knew what would happen when we made our wishes. And thank you. Maybe with your last words echoing in their heads, remorse will save what’s left of their souls.

For the record, Marinette and Adrien were reborn as Bridgette and Felix. And let’s just say Felix wasn’t interested in clingy girls or obeying over controlling parents that much. Which made it harder for him to reunite with his girlfriend from his past life but love is hard.

[caedescorvirpg]

HARRIER. WARDEN ALAIN STAGG III   —   29,  M.

Invisibility: You become unseeable (+) you do not make a sound whilst invisible (-) has a time limit of three minutes (-) cannot be used more than once in a day (-) if someone touches you, your invisibility comes undone

HISTORY

cw: parental death, murder

WHAT FOLLOWS, DOES NOT DEFINE YOU. You are pestered by media who shove recorders down your throat like lozenges and who know how best to examin and dissect still blistering wounds. What happened does not define you, but it’s become synonymous with your name and has destroyed your family’s legacy. Journalists preserved your them as good people, bad philanthropists, decent parents, and now you only remember them by as clippings you string along your wall. Despite the contrary, there was nothing you could have done to save them. Their deaths took something important away, something vital, and you’re not quite sure whether you want it back if offered. In fact, it’s become a part of you, so much so that you cannot bear to imagine a life without it. It feels at times, the pain is too tightly interwoven with your image that you couldn’t exist without it. Later, you will ask yourself if there could have been any other way to survive — to be. You haven’t found an answer to it yet, you’re unsure if you ever will.

The end of your grief does not feel like victory, it tastes like defeat, and it does not satiate your appetite. The court is a spectacle of forgotten misdeeds, and although you win in the end, prison is not enough of a punishment. So when they die, and justice is finally availed, it is by your hand alone. But death has a certain smell and you are loath to become the very thing which haunts you. They writhe and suffer and scream but it is the last time you come to know violence as an act of mercy. When all is done, there is an empire of ruin before you neglected by years of resentment and history. You had never had the heart to touch it before, couldn’t stand to taint it with your hands, but it calls for you the same way you remember calling upon your first desire. There is a man at the head of the table, and he wears the face of your father. It’s crueler, less kind, and it’s waiting for you to stumble. Kindness made your parents martyrs, you will not follow in their footsteps. Legacies aren’t created to be protected — they’re made to be outdone.

CONNECTIONS

FALCONET﹒ HOW CAN I DESCRIBE MY LIFE TO YOU?

This is ouroboros eating itself, he is your end and your beginning: the complete destruction of being. What he lacks you provide in mountains of wealth, and all you ask in repayment is his friendship. Loyalty. True devotion. There are things in life you need accomplished, and as violent and hurt as you are you cannot go any darker than the shade which made you. You won’t kill another again, and by this vow you ask him to do it in your stead. But your true intentions are hidden like a knife behind a mirror, stowed away for another day’s true desire. What you want from him is more than you believe him willing to give you, more than you’d ever expect from him. FALCONET holds your heart in his palm, he just doesn’t know it, and if you can help it, he never will. 

SPARROW﹒ ONLY YOU ESCAPE ME AND REMAIN DARK

cw: death

When she dies, it’s SPARROW’S face you remember. The funeral is longer than intended, a grieving mother has much to say on the matter of flowers decorating her daughter’s casket, and they sit perfectly still among the mourners. And perhaps they might have escaped into the picturesque scenery had it not been for your uncle’s insistence that you thank them. After all, it was they who matched you with your late wife, who took away your freedom. Your feelings are like a gordian knot, tangled and indecipherable to yourself. It asks the question what you would be if your life had been dominated by another, if your anger had been tempered by some notion of affection. SPARROW was the catalyst for your tragedy, but now they have become the key to understanding the careful schemes of your uncle. Still, you’re unsure whether what you feel for them is acknowledgment or grief — whether you should thank them, or hunt them for having made you realize this.

MAGPIE﹒ WHAT KILLS ME KEEPS ME ALIVE

cw: murder

He is the product of your guilt, the harrowing experience of your childhood. You remember moving through the prison hallways with such precision, two lives already on your hands and a third yet to come. No one saw the dark clouds that followed, no one expected violence to overtake you; so when you arrive at the jail there is no one but the wind and the birds to watch as you are undone. MAGPIE was the last on your list to feel justice, to understand pain and its devastating effects. But as you stared into the unknowing eyes of the other, watched as he sat listlessly on the bed they gave him, you lowered your guard and forced him to remember the mercy you bestowed. Later, when it is revealed he is not the one you’re looking for, righteous anger swelled around you and a new sense of determination followed. But you cannot act on this impulse, will not let your grief overtake you. Instead you wait patiently, watching him to tremble under your stare and anticipate the moment you’re sure he will break. Time has made you miserable, but it is the only thing you have left. 

This skeleton is TAKEN by ABBY and is portrayed by SAM WAY. Their highest stat is STRENGTH and their specialty is LOCK PICKING.

[shreddedparchment]

Pseudo Princess Pt.23

Worry Wart

01/14/2020

Pairing: King!Steve x Reader          Word Count: 6,494

Warnings: Language, fluff, angst

A/N: I hope you enjoy this chapter. It was such a struggle to write with all my styes these past two weeks, but I’m better now, hopefully for an extended period of time, please! Thank you, Universe! If you happen to reblog, thanks so much for helping me spread my work!

“Your Majesty, you must calm down. This isn’t good for the child.” Nat’s hand hasn’t stopped stroking your back, gentle circles to soothe your sorrow.

“He h-hasn’t opened his eyes in three days.” You sob, unable to stop crying. When you aren’t crying, you’re pacing. When you aren’t pacing, you’re sitting at his side, stroking his hand. Full of anxiety.

“He’ll be alright, Y/N. I promise you.” Nat says.

“She’s right.” Bucky interjects. “He’s come back from worse.”

You look at Bucky then look at Nat. Behind Bucky is Sam, who sits looking almost as forlorn as you do and definitely more worried about Steve than Nat and Bucky seem to be.

“I never get used to it either.” Sam tells you, holding your gaze as you watch him lean forward, elbows on his knees.

He’s left the tie at the neck of his white linen shirt undone. No tunic, untucked. He’s been just as stressed as you have.

Your lip trembles.

“He does get better.” Sam assures you, nodding. Solemn and honest. He means what he says.

“He lost so much blood.” You whisper, voice weak and tired.

Sam blinks slowly. Knowing that there isn’t much that will calm you.

“Peter got him help in time. You stitching him up was a good idea.” He nods, impressed with you again as he had been when Peter had recounted your instincts for him.

“You should have seen her. By the time I got here, she was already cleaning his wound and when I came back with the doctor, she’d already stitched up one side of his injury. His back the doctor did.”

Why anyone would be impressed with such terrible work…Your hands had been covered in his blood. He’d been so pale.

You turn to look at Steve, shunning their praise because the only thing that matters is that he isn’t awake. His breathing is so unsteady. He’s so…how can someone so strong look so frail?

You take hold of his left hand with your own two, clutching him tightly before pressing it to your brow as you shut your eyes and try to take a breath.

“Please…Please, wake up for me, my love.” You kiss it then rest your cheek against it. You lay your head there, feeling him beneath you. He’s warm now at least. Wrapped in blankets and the fire burning bright.

You’re sweating but you don’t care. Bucky looks just as uncomfortable with the heat as Sam but he’s not sweating like you, Nat, and Sam.

Suddenly you realize that something is different about these two childhood friends. Steve and Bucky…there’s something more to them.

The wound below Steve’s breast would have killed any other man. You’re sure. You’ve seen wounds like it before. A sword. All the way through. In one side, out through the other.

He should be dead.

You sob.

Nat's soothing increases in pace. Bucky sighs heavily.

“Have you eaten?” Bucky asks, and you scoff, almost angry.

“I can’t eat right now.” You force yourself to focus the irritation inwardly.

He’s only worried for you. It’s kind.

“You should eat something.” Bucky insists. “When Steve wakes up, he won’t be happy that you did not take better care of yourself.”

He’s right of course…and…you appreciate very much that he said when Steve wakes up and not if.

Nat seems to know when you relent as she quickly sweeps to the cord by the hearth and pulls it. In the distance you imagine there’s probably a bell being rung. As you wait, Nat moves back to stand beside you, stroking your shoulder gently.

“How about a bath after you’ve lunched?” She probes.

You want to say no, but Bucky’s word ring in your ears still.

You nod.

“I know you’re worried, Y/N. But you can’t stop taking care of yourself. With Steve like this, the Kingdom turns to you for its strength.” She caresses the back of your head, smiling down at you softly when you meet her gaze with a furrowed brow.

You hadn’t even thought of that. If something should happen—it won’t!—then you will be Queen of Broklin, alone. No King. You will be expected to take control.

“Me?” You gasp, squeaking the word as untold pressures begin to settle on your shoulders.

Terrified, you get up, still clutching Steve’s hand when a sharp pain in your stomach has you hissing and doubling over.

“Your Majesty!” Bucky exclaims.

“Y/N!” Sam and Nat cry.

All three of them hurry to your side. Nat wraps one arm around your waist to support you.

“Alright. That is enough. You are taking a break from his bedside.” Nat chastises.

“No.” You gasp, holding your lower belly with one hand, fingers stroking the thick pale gray linen of your dress that surrounds your stomach.

“You’re sweating.” Nat observes. “You’re overstressing yourself.”

“Natasha is right.” Sam agrees. “A break is just what you need.”

“No!” You say more firmly.

It’s the first time you dare use your authority as Queen with them, but you mean it and it rings stern in your voice. It does what you need it to. They quiet and listen.

“I won’t leave his side.” You insist. “I’m sweating because this dress is too hot.”

You look at the caped sleeves, lined with snowy white weasel fur. The purfelle around the square neckline, the slits on its side. It’s a lot of warmth in addition to the fire still blazing that you refuse to put out. Steve's usual temperature is still not right.

“Shall I fetch you a new one?” Nat asks, eager to help.

You sigh, so tired of the fussing but also simply frustrated with Steve’s condition. You’re so…

As you look at her, you sway, hand still clutching your tummy.

“Your Majesty?” Bucky checks, reaching out for you too now.

“Nat…” You manage to whisper as the heat overcomes you and you slump backwards into her arms.

Bucky is there too, helping her support you.

You can still hear them and you’re not unconscious. Just dizzy and so exhausted. You’ve slept two hours today and maybe another two the night before.

Suddenly, you’re weightless.

“Put her on the bed beside him.” You can hear Nat saying.

Gently you’re lowered, soft mattress embraces you.

“I’m fine.” You say, weak but strong enough that your assurance helps temper their worry. “Just…I need to eat.”

Being off your feet helps and you begin to feel normal again. Just sleepy.

“Your food is on its way.” Nat nods. “And we’ll get you out of this dress.”

“Have you got her?” Bucky checks.

“Yes. But send for Grandmother. Just in case.”

Bucky nods. “I’ll send one of the squires. Oh, and the doctor will be here in two days. The council has settled on one and-”

Nat shakes her head. Frowning a little at her intended. “Not now. She has enough to worry about.”

“What?” You ask confused. “Wait, what doctor? I told you, I’m fine.”

“Don’t worry, Y/N. We’ll discuss it when you’ve had some rest. Let me get the back of your dress.” Nat promises and helps you sit up.

Sam and Bucky leave, a young maid brings you a tray of meat pies and tarts, leaving them on the small table you and Steve had been eating on the past two weeks when the two of you refused to leave it.

As soon as the dress is removed, you breathe in deeply, your skin pimpling from the rush of fresh air.

“Better?” Nat asks, helping you strip.

You nod.

“Good. I’ll get your nightdress. You’re not leaving this bed until tomorrow.” She frowns, looking at your hand still somehow clutching at your bare belly now that she’s taken your dress and undergarments.

“Does it still hurt?” She asks, eyeing your hand as she pulls out a long cotton gown with a ruffled neckline that will fit loosely around your shoulders and cinched sleeves at the wrist, more ruffles laced with pale blue ribbons.

“No.” You rub your tummy, hoping the pain was really only induced by stress. “We’re alright.”

“You’re lucky Steve isn’t awake. He would be going mad with worry at any sign of distress in your pregnancy.” Nat sighs.

“I know.” You nod, holding out your arms as Nat comes with your gown ready for wearing.

Outside the wind whistles, thrashing the cottage’s stone walls violently. A cold breeze seeps through the cracks that you cannot see, and the room drops in temperature for a moment.

Nat quickly pulls down your gown then hurries to stoke the fire as it shifts with the burst of wind.

“If it goes out, ring for a servant to come and remake your fire. You cannot be in here without one. This cottage is old and can get very cold very fast.” She explains.

“He’s still so cold.” You worry, reaching over to take Steve’s right hand. “For how he normally feels.”

“Y/N…” Nat begins, sitting on your bedside as she reaches to remove your hand from his so that she can hold both of yours in her own. “I promise you-”

She ducks her head, trying to grab your attention and when you finally meet her eyes, she smiles.

“-I swear, he will pull through this. You were very smart to think on your feet, but Bucky is right. Steve has come back from much worse.”

You frown. “Why didn’t he tell me he was the Freedom Knight?”

“The Captain, actually.” Nat corrects you. “I know that the common folk have taken to calling him the Freedom Knight, but he prefers the Captain.”

Your mind is suddenly in a frenzy as you connect countless stories that you’d heard in your village about The Captain and the Freedom Knight. Both thought to be separate entities all rolled into one. He’s saved so many people, so many villages. Done amazing things and at times taken excruciating beating all in the name of those he protects.

“All of that was Steve?” You gasp, turning your eyes back on your husband.

“It’s unusual for a king to be so modest.” Nat nods. “Your father is more like what Steve would be expected to be.”

Your father, the Iron Man as he too prefers to be called instead of the Iron Knight as many you’d known had called him, is indeed the very type of King that is unabashedly brazen of his accomplishments.

“I didn’t know.” You whisper, reaching over to take his hand again.

“And he wanted it that way. But he was going to tell you. He wanted a little more time with you where he was only Steven Rogers, King of Broklin.” Nat explains.

“Did he think I would be angry? Disappointed? Impressed?” You ask, feeling hurt that he’d kept it from you after you’d exposed your true identity right away after you began to grow close.

“I think he was worried that you might see him differently. There is more to his story that he will have to tell you himself.” Nat moves to grab you a plate of food, serving a small amount first to see if you’ll be able to keep it down.

She knows you so well.

When she sits back down, you’re clinging to Steve’s hand harder.

“It only makes me love him more. And worry more.” You sigh.

“As I told him you would. Perhaps that’s also why he hesitated?”

She holds out a fork, fancy with a twisted handle, and you take it. Eating is slow. You’re wary too, in case your sickness should come back and you can’t keep the food down, but you find yourself devouring it instead.

You finish everything, including the crumbs left from your tarts.

Nat watches you proudly. Happy to see you eat so well.

The food makes you feel better and with that need met, you can focus on Steve more easily.

“I will let you rest. If you need me, I will be nearby.” Nat assures you, taking your plate back to its tray and taking the tray with her as she leaves. “Might I ask a favor, your Majesty?”

She turns to look at you from the door as you lay yourself back down beside Steve, eyes glue to his face which as slowly regained a bit of color.

“Of course, Nat. Anything.” You look for her, resting on your elbow as you rub your belly with your other hand, fearful of the pain you’d felt before.

“Will you let him tell you? About being the Captain and why he didn’t tell you? I’d hate to rob him of that when he’s been desperate to tell you but fearful as well.” She genuinely looks worried to have stepped on his toes.

You nod. “Of course. I want to hear it from him anyway.”

Nat smiles and gives you a quick curtsy, then leaves you alone with Steve.

Settling under the thinner blanket you’d left for yourself in favor of wrapping up Steve in the thicker ones to keep him warm, you edge yourself closer to him. Carefully you lift his right arm over your shoulders and settle it over you, nestling into the space beneath his arm. With one hand on your tummy and the other clinging to his blanket, you shut your eyes and listen for the steady beat of his heart.

It sounds strong again and that gives you hope that soon you’ll have your husband back and he can yell at you for neglecting yourself because you’d rather he be angry with you than to have him like this, unmoving, unspeaking, and unconscious.

~~~~~~~~~~

Hot. It’s hot.

Steve is hot. He’s sweating. And he rarely sweats.

He shifts, and a dull pain just beneath his left breast freezes his movement. He groans.

As he makes noise, to his right there is a tremble.

Startled he tries to sit up, pushing through the pain and lifting his right arm as his mind simultaneously catches up with where he is and why he’s hurting. On his right, the trembling thing is you.

You’re curled up, tucked into his side, your body shivering. The fire has gone out and although he is hot, wrapped up in what feels like several thick winter blankets, you are barely covered by one singular much thinner sheet.

Suddenly frenzied, he hurries to extricate himself, kicking and shifting with disregard to his wound.

The movement startles you and Steve stops moving as you spring up and push him down by his shoulders. You can’t overpower him, but he lays still for you.

“Stop. No.” You order him groggily.

Then you shiver.

“You’re cold.” Steve says, his voice surprisingly smooth. He feels as if he’s been sleeping for a while.

“Please desist. You’ll injure yourself.”

“But-“

“Hush!” You nearly yell at him, a look of slight annoyance on your face for a moment.

He goes still, watching as you tuck him back in.

“I’m sweating.” Steve fights, frowning as your skin pimples.

You look up at him and reach out to touch his cheek with the back of your hand.

Steve leans into it on instinct, missing your touch after being away from you for nearly two days.

Your beautiful lips part in a sigh and you loosen his blankets before yanking them back completely. After you gather them at the foot of the bed, you hurry off the bed and race to the fire. Stoking it, Steve hears a hiss and crackle.

You’re visibly shaking, and he hates it.

“Come back to bed. I will stoke the fire.” Steve reasons.

“Steven Rogers, if you get off that bed, I swear…” You threaten, leaving it open for him to interpret.

The worst thing he can think of is that you’ll leave him to sleep alone again. He doesn’t want that. So, he settles back in and watches you struggle with wood and pile it on. It takes you a few minutes of gentle grunts before the fire is filling the room with heat once more.

He smiles as you place the poker back then his heart nearly stops as you gasp with pain. You fall forward slightly, your hand placed on the stone mantel.

Your threats be damned. His wife is in pain?!

Silently he’s beside you, wrapping his arm around your waist as his other takes hold of your hand to support you as he takes you back to bed.

“Why are you out of bed?” You gasp, glaring up at him with an unyielding anxiety.

Steve is sure you see the same expression on his face.

“Are you in pain?” He asks, turning you around to sit you down. “Lay back, here.”

He quickly helps you get your legs up and then pulls one of the larger blankets from his side over to you to wrap you up.

“Is that better?” He checks, tucking your legs in.

“Steve…” You sigh. “Please, please get back in bed. You’re not healed yet. You lost so much blood.”

Steve hates to see that grief in your eyes. He sits beside your hip, reaching up to caress your cheek.

“I’m alright, my love.” He smiles at you, stroking your chin before he leans in towards you.

You pull back, and the gesture is so unfamiliar after two weeks of constant affection, relished touches, tempting kisses…you pull away from him and his heart stutters.

“You cut was deep.” You shake your head. “You can’t be alright.”

Steve’s expression firms, a look of serious contemplation before he reaches down to pull up at the bottom of his shirt. He lifts it until he exposes what is now just a bright red scar. The skin still looks a little thin, but it cannot be reopened.

He watches you reach forward, gentle fingers stroking the shape of the harsh line.

“It will fade by the morning.” He says, and watches as your eyes dance up to meet his.

“How?” You wonder, sounding more curious than terrified which gives him hope that you might still see him as he is.

Steve takes your hand but then thinks better of it and scoots closer, placing his hands on your stomach.

“You’re in pain?” He worries, looking up at you as you lean back against the padded headboard.

He likes that. He likes you relaxed.

“No.” You shake your head.

Frowning at you, he sees a sparkle of that ease that he’s grown used to in the past two weeks. A small curve at the corners of your lips. He’s missed you so much. He wants to kiss you.

He won’t just yet.

“I’m not.” You assure him. “At the moment.”

“Then when?” Steve probes.

“I…Earlier this morning. And just now. I’ve been fine otherwise.” Your sincerity is true, but it also rings with your urging to calm him.

Steve’s frown deepens. He looks down at your belly and shakes his head. “Is this my fault?”

“No!” You deny it, though he knows it’s true.

“I shouldn’t have gone.” He sighs. “I should have sent Bucky and Sam. I’m hurting you.”

“Steve, no.” You assert, stern. “You’re not hurting me. Don’t say that.”

“Well, I’m sending for the old woman.” Steve moves to get up but you quickly grab hold of his sleeves and you pull him back down onto the bed.

He doesn’t dare pull away from your gentle grip.

“She’s already been sent for.” You promise him and he can see that you’re not lying.

“Tell me what you need.” He renews one hand to your tummy while the other reaches for your bicep to caress your arm.

You seem to consider your options for a bit before you reach down to your left to untuck your legs. You flip the blanket over them exposing the mattress beside you.

“Come keep me warm.” You tell him, and then visibly shiver as the heat from being wrapped up escapes.

Steve springs up and moves around to his side of the bed. He slides in, and you’re already in his arms by the time he settles in.

He wraps you both up with the blanket and feels you nestle into the heat of his chest. Your hands are freezing he notices, and he places his own over them as you settle them against his shoulder and then tuck your head into the crook of his neck.

That cold hand wanders down towards his scarred wound, feeling the puckered skin, still soft from healing. He doesn’t pull away because as cold as your touch is, it’s home.

“I was scared.” You admit, and Steve can hear the fear.

Is it stress? Is that why your stomach hurt? What if he’s hurt the baby by leaving you and coming back to you as he did?

“I’m sorry, my flower.” He sighs. “I did not think about what my turning up as I did would do to your condition. Forgive me.”

You’re so quiet, but you’re still stroking the remnants of his wound. He can feel you press yourself closer.

“Do you really feel better?” You ask him, tilting your head back to look up at him.

“Much.” He nods. “I promise.”

You search his eyes, seeking truth and you find it. You smile up at him, filling his heart with light and he leans down to kiss your lips because you’re his and you’re in his arms again. He’d fought hard to get back home to you.

Both of you.

His hand finds its way back to your stomach as you pull back and rest your head against his chest again.

“Your heart sounds stronger.” You observe, and Steve feels worse.

“How long was I unconscious?” He wonders, worried about the amount of stress he’s had you under for it to bring you pain.

You don’t answer at first and Steve can sense your hesitation.

“Y/N?” He urges you.

“Three days.” You swallow hard.

“Shit.” He doesn’t mean to swear in front of you, but whereas Maggie might have chastised him for his cursing, you look up at him again, just watching.

“I stitched you up and when the doctor arrived, he cleansed your wounds and finished sealing them. Then I washed you and Peter helped me lay you in bed. I kept you warm and the fire hot. I fed you soup…when you were awake enough to take it, which wasn’t often. I laid with you and cleansed your wound and…I couldn’t sleep.” You shake your head, ashamed of yourself it looks like to Steve.

You place your hand over his and he frowns at the way you caress it but also the upset on your expression.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper. “To both you and our little one. I should have taken better care of myself while I nursed you, but I was so terrified for you. You were so pale, and you lost so much blood. And we only just grew close. To lose you now-?”

“You won’t lose me.” Steve cuts you off, deterring those thoughts as soon as they begin to form.

“Bucky said I should not worry. He assured me that you have recovered from worse…but Sam and I were worried.” Steve laments the sigh that parts your lips, the relief that’s flooding your person that he can hear in the tone of your voice, it makes him regret leaving you laying here.

You’d been a vision. Naked, perfect, with silk sheets wrapped around your sticky body. And he’d left you voluntarily only to return to you to sleep for three days as his body healed.

The fear you must have felt…

“I’m so sorry, my flower.” His arms feel right with you in them. He squeezes you lightly, enjoying the feel of you cuddled against his chest.

Every curve of your body is magnificent, and his hands explore it with agony at the thought of you in distress.

You smell so good, peonies with a hint of that sweat smell he’d grown to love as he’d ravished your body the past two weeks.

Your still frozen fingers tracing the shape of his scar, etching luscious patterns against his heated skin.

It begins to slow, but your touch is invigorating, and he’s missed you…and your body. He wants to see you and hold you, kiss you.

“Y/N…” He whispers, pressing his lips to the top of your head before turning to look down and meet your eyes as your hand stops moving against his side.

The world seems to stop, all of time means nothing as he watches the tension leave your face, your lips part, your eyes are completely shut, and sleep takes you.

Your breathing grows heavy and as your body grows slack in his arms, he tightens his hold even more to hold you up against him. You whimper but then you nuzzle his chest and lay still.

With his heart soaring, Steve lays himself back down. He supports you until both of you are settled against your mess of pillows then lets your body’s weight fall on him and the mattress itself.

You relax. You sleep. Steve cherishes this moment and watches you until sleep takes him once more.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Where are we going?” Your heart is in a frantic pitter patter.

When you woke up this morning, Steve was gone.

You’d scrambled up from your bed, frantically throwing your luxurious woolen robe on, and bolted for the door.

It had opened as you reached it to find Steve holding a tray of delicious breads and jams. Specifically made for you to suit your most recent cravings.

He’d smiled down at you, amused by the look of your hair and the shock in your eyes as you tumbled against his chest.

He’d wrapped his arm around your waist to catch you and chuckled beautifully as you gasped in surprise.

The two of you had spent the morning sitting in front of the fire, on the floor among a poof of large pillows and a thick bear skin rug.

It was a dream of course, as every day with Steve has been since the moment he decided to accept you as his wife. To love you as you’d always hoped he would.

It was all the more precious after the scared he’d given you, coming home all bloody.

You’d refused to make love to him despite his wandering hands.

“You need to rest.” You’d said.

And Steve had rolled you onto your back and settled over you as your hand traced the shape of his scar, already faded to the same shade of peach as the rest of his skin. Completely healed.

He’d kissed you until your lungs ached and then laid his head on your chest and fell asleep for a few hours more when you didn’t cave to his desire for you.

Now he’s got you by the hand, dragging you from the chilly halls of the cottage out into the expansive frozen gardens behind it.

The ground is covered in a thick blanket of snow, and you’re struggling to walk through it, tugging your red cloak up out of the ice diamond mulch.

“Shall I carry you?” Steve teases you, and you look up to find him grinning at you fondly.

“No.” You frown at him. “Keep your hands to yourself, your Majesty, or I will move into my own room.”

Why won’t he just rest?!

“You should be in bed.” You continue to chastise him. Irked by the amusement on his face.

“I’m all better. I promise. Here, give me your other hand.” He offers it to you and waits until you take hold of them before he pulls you to him swiftly.

He chuckles at the surprise in your expression, but lifts you easily, holding you around your waist until he’s moved to a trodden path and sets you down.

There’s the sound of cobble beneath your feet as you regain your balance.

Steve takes your right arm and wraps it around his left elbow to help support you as he pulls you along down the path.

You’re frowning at him however, staring at him with subdued fury.

He meets your gaze, then throws his head back in laughter.

“I’m alright, my flower. I promise.” He unwraps your arm only to wrap his own around your shoulders and pull you into his side to cuddle you closer. A squeeze of reassurance given. “I’m all better.”

Your mind is struggling to wrap itself around that speedy recovery. The scar already looks months old. Faded, with the skin hardly raised, like the others on his chest. How many of those had been stab wounds?

Pouting, you look forward but don’t pull out of his embrace. He’s still running at a hotter temperature than you are, and in this freeze, it is appreciated.

All of the blooms that you pass, the shrubs, and topiary are covered in a thin layer of ice. The fountain’s water frozen, and the small pavilion that has been set up at the back right corner of the large garden is piled in white from the storm.

The sky is gray, overcast, as more snow threatens to fall. It’s almost assured to come. The cottage will be absolutely buried once again and there will be no leaving for several weeks.

“Where are we going?” You grumble, still a little worried.

“Y/N…” Steve says, his voice so soft that you search for his face instinctively. “Please believe me when I say that I am alright. I understand your concern, but it depresses me to have you upset with me.”

Your mind fogs over. Steve sad?

That’s not what you want.

“I’m sorry, I just…I don’t understand.” You admit, giving in and settle under his arm in a more relaxed gait.

“I know.” Steve nods. “And that’s where I’m taking you. To explain.”

“Explain?” You keep your gaze on him.

“It’s not much further. Are you cold? Should I give you my cloak?” He worries.

“I’m alright.” You assure him.

He moves a little faster, eager to get you out of the cold, probably.

When he begins to slow as the garden splits into a grove of tall frosty pines, you see that he’s been bringing you to what looks like a small shed. The stone is crumbling, and the wood looks rotten.

Steve frowns as he stares at it, stopping only a few feet away from the blackened and splintering door.

“What’s the matter?” You ask, looking from his look of disapproval back to the shed.

“The shack, it’s falling apart.” Steve says. “They should have restored it long ago. We’ll have to tear it down and build a new one.”

You’re still not sure what he disapproves of.

“I was going to take you in, but not in this state. I won’t risk you and our little one. Wait here for me. I’ll only be a moment.” He tells you, then strides towards the shed.

As he swings the door open, the top half comes off the hinge and Steve catches it before it can completely topple.

He grabs the door from the sides and looks back at you, uncertain for bit, until he seems to make up his mind and with minimal effort, he yanks the door away.

There’s a clatter as the hinge falls onto the small cobble step. Steve sets the door to the side of the doorway, and with flushed cheeks, he looks at you once more and the shocked expression you must be wearing.

You knew that Steve was strong but…tearing doors off their hinges?

Perhaps it’s just that old?

He disappears into the dark mouth of the shed and every moment you stand there without him feels colder than the last.

You’re not sure it’s really getting colder or if you just miss his heat or just him in general, but then the wind picks up and whips your cloak around the black and blue velvet gown beneath. The storm must be coming sooner than expected.

“Steve?” You call out, drawing the cloak around yourself tighter.

In response, you hear a strange rumble and a creak. The sound moves closer and closer to the doorway until through it breaks what looks to be a wooden seat sat upon two large wheels at the front and a slightly smaller one at the back.

The seat looks like any other. Older, with navy cushions torn and moth eaten, but just like the chairs that sit around the cottage dining table. The wood of the chair is sturdier than that of the shed because it looks much newer, although, it has been kept in doors so that could only have helped.

You look up at Steve as he stops pushing it a few feet away from you. He stands beside it, one hand on the back, then meets your eyes to read your reaction.

“What’s this?” You ask him, unsure how to behave.

“This is…my past.” Steve explains. “As a boy, I was confined to this chair until around the age of eight. My spine was twisted. My lungs were underdeveloped. My skin had a constant rash. I had the sweating sickness about four times. I couldn’t run or overexert myself, as my heart would beat so fast that it began to hurt. More often than not, I was ill. I think I can remember only a handful of days where I was fine to be out on my own, with Bucky playing games. This chair…was my life.”

You stare at the seat, trying to picture your husband—strong, tall, capable, no sign of ailments at all—as the sick child who rode around this chair. It’s almost impossible.

“What happened?” You ask him, turning to meet his hesitant gaze.

“Just as I turned eight, I caught the sweating sickness again. This time, it came for me. I was almost dead when my mother, in her desperation, sought help from a warlock. A doctor, or so he called himself.

“He gave my mother the truths, that he might be able to save me and make me invulnerable to all future sickness, give me accelerated healing, strength that she could not possibly imagine…but that there was also a chance that I could very well die as my body underwent the process.

“Weak as I was, he assured her that the likelihood of my death was high.” Steve lapses into silence, thinking. About his mother?

“She took the chance.” You tell him, because here he is, standing before you a specimen of perfection.

Steve snaps out of his thought and nods. “Yes. She figured that I could either die of my illness or the next or die anyway but have the chance to rid my body of its weaknesses and live. Clearly it worked.”

“So, when he cured you…?” You begin.

“I became a whole new person. I could run and play. I was able to truly live. As I grew older and I realized that there were things I could do with this gift bestowed upon me, I created the Captain and set out to do what I could to rid my father of the threats to his kingdom. Mainly that meant Hydra.

“Bucky, Margaret, Sharon…they were all within my circle and my closest of friends. Naturally they gravitated towards the same agenda. And through this endeavor of mine, I met others like me. Some were gifted their abilities. Some stumbled upon them. Some were forced into it. But all of us wanted the same thing.

“To fight for those who could not fight for themselves. There were six of us to start with. Your father, the Iron Man.” Steve pauses, thinking this through quickly, calculating the look of intense concentration on your face. “Myself. Bruce, or rather, Doctor Banner, who you met briefly back home.”

“What can Doctor Banner do?” You wonder, remembering the handsome but somewhat reserved man who’d emerged from the council room after your encounter with Sharon.

“Bruce was one of those who accidentally came upon his gift. He was in a foreign country assisting in the research of an abandoned village. There was a flash of green light, and from what he says happened, it appears he stumbled upon a few old traps laid by a witch and he was cursed.

“Whenever he grows angry, he loses control and transforms into what he calls the Hulk. Some who have sighted him in this form have referred to him as the Green Monster.” Steve explains.

“That is Doctor Banner?!” You reply, shocked by this revelation.

Steve only nods. “Then there’s Thor, the God of Thunder.”

“Wait…God of Thunder?!” You gasp.

“Did he not tell you?” Steve’s brow puckers in confusion.

You’d known that Thor was a King but a God? You shake your head.

“Typical.” Steve gripes. “Then there’s Lord Barton, who was a spy before he joined us, and a master archer. Though, he has retired and is living in peace with his wife and children.

“And lastly, there was Natasha.” This seems to be the name that Steve was worried about telling you because he tenses, hand gripping the back of the seat.

“My Nat?!” You clarify. Steve nods. “What-?”

“She was also a spy. Trained from childhood. Conditioned to be a certain way…I don’t feel it’s right for me to tell you her story, but she’s been working hard for many years to pay a debt she feels obligated to pay. She’s a master warrior. I don’t know any other human woman who can fight the way she can.” Steve sounds proud. Protective of Nat.

Does he think you’ll be angry at her or see her differently?

Well, you can’t see her the exact same way. But you see nothing wrong. Just a little shocking.

“S-so the six of you formed a team?” You ask, remembering the word floating around somewhere though you can’t quite remember where you got it.

“The Avengers.” Steve nods. “Sharon and Maggie were not part of that particular group, but they were heavily involved.”

As the wind picks up again, you drift into thought, trying to see these people, these friends as saviors of the world.

Nat…you’ll need to talk to Nat. But first…

“Y/N?” Steve checks, visibly nervous as he shifts from foot to foot, gripping the back of his old chair so tight it’s beginning to crack under his weight.

You meet his storm blue eyes as he searches your own.

Only one thing could matter more than Nat or anything that Steve just told you.

“What does this mean for our baby?” You ask him, reaching down to place your hand over the small hidden bump. “Will he be like you before you were cured…or after?”

Slowly, fear begins to take root in Steve’s eyes. Will your baby be strong? Or will you suffer the same fate as his mother and be forced to choose between the chance of death and certain death for you little one?

[alostsock]

With me.

Summary: Andy and Nicky get kidnapped. Post-movie.

TW: kidnapping, starvation, dehydration, weight loss, temporary character death (I mean it’s The Old Guard?), a bit of blood, mentions of violence.

AN: I didn’t know you could get cut off in the tags that’s never happened to me before apparently there’s a length limit.

For all her years, Andy cannot remember having felt purpose like this before. Knowing that her body no longer heals does nothing to dissuade her - if anything, it motivates her further. She may break, she may hurt but she now sees, as she hasn’t in centuries (maybe ever) that it is worth it.

Nile seems to accept her leadership, and follows it without question.

Nicky and Joe, however, draw on almost two thousand years of combined stubbornness trying to keep her from harm.

Nicky researches nutrition and tries to serve her balanced (boring, bland) meals despite her protests. Joe finds her the best available body armour (never mind how it moves). They both throw themselves in front of her at every possible opportunity. (This isn’t to say that Nile doesn’t, in the face of real danger - just that Nicky and Joe don’t seem to understand that she doesn’t need protecting from traffic or raccoons or hot oil on the stove).

She doesn’t think she’s been particularly careless - they vet jobs as they’ve always done, and now they have Copley to help. She’s not reckless, just filled with purpose, with vigour, with the need to do right. Besides, all her years have taught her that sometimes, despite best efforts, jobs go wrong.

It doesn’t entirely bother her that they’ve been locked up in a cell. It’s hardly the first time, after all. Besides, she has every faith in Nile and Joe and Copley to track them down.

What she does hate with every fibre of her being, is that Nicky is locked up with her.

He reassures her, because of course he does, that it isn’t her fault, just as she reassures him that it isn’t his.

They’ve been captured together before, they all have, really, and they know the routine. They have exhausted their options for escape, have tried at every opportunity, and have failed. All they’ve managed to do is maybe piss off their captors a little more than was strictly necessary. It isn’t in them to just give up and accept their predicament, though - they need to try everything first. Once they’ve done this, however, all that’s left to do is wait.

It’s all standard procedure, as far as standard procedure goes for a bunch of immortal warriors. Andy finds the way that criminals haven’t really changed the core of their modus operandi in decades more than a little tiresome. There’s an angry kingpin (with his fingers in many increasingly unconscionable pies) who doesn’t believe that nobody hired them, who scoffs at their insistence that there aren’t more of them, a selection of cronies and hired hands who are all too happy to try to beat the answers out of them, and a general limited amount of food, water, and warmth to make them extra miserable. Frankly, she’s bored with it.

Joe is coming. Nile is coming. They just have to bide their time, like every time this has happened before.

The one difference - the only difference - is that this time Andy is mortal.

Nicky (and Joe, her boys, her beloved boys) have always hated it when she put herself in danger, and even more so when she did it to protect them. But, until this point, they recognized her leadership and would defer to it. They accepted that this sometimes meant letting her take the brunt of their latest opponent’s anger if she felt it necessary to keep them safe, or to get them out of a sticky situation.

This time, however, there is no dissuading Nicky. No command, no proposed strategy will change his mind. Andy still puts up a fight, but eventually he turns those big, plaintive eyes on her and admits in a soft voice that the best way she can keep him safe right now is if she lets him take care of her - if she lets him stop them from doing something to her which cannot be undone.

Andy has never been able to say no to Nicky when he looks at her like that, and this time is no different.

So, she agrees. When their captors come in to see if they’re ready to talk, Nicky is the one who goads them, infuriates them. When they’re delivered pitiful meals, he refuses his half, begging with his soulful eyes.

I can starve, he says. You can’t.

I don’t need water, he says. You do.

Andy hates it. She doesn’t feel mortal, she feels the same as she always has. She feels strong, she feels enraged, she wants to protect her Nico. She wants to shield him from the world. She knows, logically, that after nine hundred years there isn’t much innocence left, but still he feels so young to her. They both do. They all do.

She thinks of the plea in his eyes, though, the desperation in his face as he silently begs her to stay behind him, to stay silent, to let him take it, and so she does.

She suspects it isn’t entirely quick tempers or even benevolence that has their captors keep taking Nicky’s bait, though - she suspects that the brighter among them recognize the look in her eyes - they see that by hurting Nicky they hurt her more than they could by beating her.

---

They lose track of time. There is no natural light in the room they are in, so they don’t really know how many days have passed. Andy isn’t sure if the room is getting colder, or if they’re maybe just getting weaker with lack of food. Perhaps both.

The first few days their captors try violence, but when neither of them cracks (and also as they seem to take out no small number of henchmen every time they are in the same room as them) they seem to settle on trying to starve the answers they want out of them. Nicky continues to insist on giving Andy his share, so while she doesn’t know exactly how many days it’s been, she knows it’s been long enough for Nicky to start looking grey with dehydration. She suspects he will die from it soon, but when she brings this up to him he just gives her a tired smile and reminds her that it’s fine if he does - he will come back. The only thing that seems to matter to him is that she doesn’t.

She’s miserable - cold and damp and hungry - but what hurts the most is watching Nicky waste away beside her.

---

They talk - or, at least, at the beginning they talk. As time goes on and Nicky grows weaker, it mostly becomes Andy talking while Nicky dozes (or lies unconscious, or dies and comes back) tucked into her side. It starts as discussions of possible means to escape (always in oldest languages they share, just in case anyone is listening), but when that seems to become increasingly hopeless, and as Nicky starts to lose the energy to hold his head up, Andy starts spending most of her time telling him her favourite stories of years gone by.

They (he - Andy reminds herself) might be immortal, but they are still human. Their bodies will heal, will regenerate but they need food and water to do so, so as Nicky fades and starts to die not only from lack of water but from starvation the deaths start to come closer and closer together. He will die from malnourishment, come back, and then, when his body realizes it still has no stores to draw from, still has no energy to heal itself with, he will die again.

Sometimes, when he is too out of it to protest, she tips small sips of water into his mouth. This tends to end up with him waking up enough to realize what she is doing, at which point he will turn tear-filled eyes on her and remind her that while he will come back from whatever physical trauma his body is put through, he will not be able to handle waking up to find her permanently dead beside him when he could have prevented it.

---

They move them once during their captivity. Having learned early on that entering the room while either of them is awake is dangerous, both times they accomplish the move by knocking them out with gas and transporting them while they’re unconscious. Andy comes to in a shipping container, bound with rope and alone. She makes quick work of the bindings before exhausting herself trying to find a way out. Nothing gives, no matter how hard she tries. 

She loses time again. Perhaps more gas? Maybe her body just gave out? She isn’t sure, but when she wakes she and Nicky have been tossed in the same room again, carelessly dropped on the cold floor. There is blood on Nicky’s temple that wasn’t there before.

She wonders if their captors have realized that, no matter how much he bleeds, none of the marks linger on his skin. She hopes that the mess of dried blood he’s covered in is enough to mask the fact that he isn’t actually bleeding where he should be, because she doesn’t want to think about how their situation could get messier if they figured that out. Luckily, they seem to prefer keeping their distance (or perhaps they have just realized it is best for their own safety to not get too close).

Andy frees herself from her new bounds. Nicky stirs but doesn’t seem to have the energy to fully wake, so once Andy has repeated the process of checking their cell for potential means of escape (she doesn’t find any) she drags him to a corner of the room and, leaning against the wall, pulls him to her chest.

---

Someone comes to check on them what Andy assumes is once a day, with a bottle of water and some stale bread, or sometimes a can of soup and a demand for answers that they both don’t have and would never give anyway.

Nicky is barely more than skin and bones, a painfully fragile warmth (and sometimes lack thereof) in her arms. She is hardly any better, the food they get absolutely pitiful, but at least she hasn’t died of starvation. She isn’t the one who keeps coming to in stuttering huffs of air before inevitably going limp again - over and over and over.

---

Andy rouses from sleep. She’s hungry - hungrier than usual. She thinks they haven’t been fed in a while. Nicky is still slumped against her, his soft breaths puffing against her neck. She tiredly runs her hands through his dirty hair, brushing it back from his face as she wonders if they have given up on them entirely. She feels like it’s been too long, like they are overdue for food and questions, but she has no way of being sure. Maybe this day has just felt longer than the others. Maybe it’s been more than one.

The door opens with a clang. Andy doesn’t bother to look up, keeping her face buried in Nicky’s hair and keeping her own thin arms wrapped around his frail form as she holds him close on her lap. Even when she senses someone letting out a breath and dropping hard onto their knees beside her, she doesn’t look up. She would fight, but she doesn’t have the energy to. Maybe she could knock out this one with the remaining dregs of her strength, but then what? She doesn’t think she has it in her to fight her way out all while carrying Nicky, frighteningly light as he is at the moment.

Joe is coming. Nile is coming. They just have to wait.

A shaking hand meets hers where it is buried in Nicky’s hair. She flinches, but doesn’t pull away. The hand reaches across Nicky to tuck her own hair behind her ear. Initially she recoils, but then she takes a deep breath and tries to muster the reserves of her strength. The person is close. Maybe she could take this one out. She takes another breath, steeling herself. Her eyelashes brush against Nicky’s greasy hair as she blinks, her face still tucked down onto his head. She moves to look up but then she realizes that she knows that hand.

She knew that hand for millennia, but she hasn’t held it in hundreds of years.

She blinks, raising her head.

The world swims in front of her, and she blinks a few more times before it comes into focus.

She must be dreaming.

She hears shouting, sees the mouth in front of her moving but her brain doesn’t connect the sight with the sound. There’s the sound of running footsteps and Joe - or her mind’s conjured version of Joe - comes skidding around the corner, making a beeline for the three of them when he enters the room.

Suddenly, there are inexplicably warm hands pulling Nicky away from her. She clings tighter, clings with all the strength she has left as dream-Joe tries to take Nicky from her.

She huffs out a disgruntled protest, complains that this is my dream, why can’t you do what I want. I want him with me before burying her face back into Nicky’s hair and trying to let the dream take her somewhere else. Perhaps her subconscious can take them somewhere warm.

She doesn’t get the chance. Moments later, hands are prying Nicky from her arms and she finds that she doesn’t have enough strength to keep fighting back. She opens her eyes again to see the arms pick Nicky up, cradling him against a broad chest. She sees Nile enter the room, coming up to her with her hands raised before pausing in front of her and giving her a brief relieved smile before hauling her to her feet and pulling her arm across strong shoulders.

She doesn’t see anybody else.

Just Joe and Nile.

Joe and Nile have come.

---

She vaguely remembers stumbling through hallways, Nile hauling her uncooperative body along. Joe is just ahead of them, Nicky held close.

Their path out is clear.

Some of the guards have been cut down, some have been shot, others, inexplicably, have been struck with arrows. Nicky hasn’t used a bow in decades, Joe in even longer. She didn’t realize Nile knew how.

When they reach the getaway car Nile helps her into the backseat before climbing in after her, taking her hand tightly in both of hers. Joe gets in on the other side with Nicky still in his arms, maneuvering awkwardly, trying to avoid bumping Nicky against the door.

Andy leans her head on Joe’s shoulder, leaving her right hand in Niles’ as her left buries itself in Nicky’s hair. She breathes in the smell of Joe’s shirt, finally allowing the last remnants of tension to leave her body. She sees Booker get into the driver’s seat. They must have needed to call him in for backup. The passenger seat is empty. She supposes they’re a little cramped in the back, but she doesn’t want to let go of Nile and she isn’t sure she would be able to handle Nicky or Joe moving away from her. She relaxes completely against Joe’s side, and relief so strong it makes her want to cry overcomes her as he presses a kiss to her hair.

She sleeps.

The passenger side door opens and shuts.

The wheels squeal as the car pulls away.

[quitequietquitecute]

 NIGHTCALL

It had been a while yet since the last war ended and that its aftermath had cicatrized from Konoha's village face... Almost two years now that a new memorial had been erected in the cemetery, containing the -too numerous- names of those whose body had vanished and who had perished in that senseless massacre... As his father's one - like his teammate's and comrade's and a lot of the village's folks - that can be found carved on it.

He was barely twenty, yet his life entailed two tragedies, two major trauma. It took him a lot to recover from the first disaster : his sensei's death.

Unfortunately, he was endowed of a proficient brain, and that, not only to play shogi or to elaborate strategy, although it was what he was renowned for ; but also for everything what had appeal to overthinking : from self-loathing, to self flagellation or to questioning oneself or by redoing the past with all possible issues he could -have- come up with IF he had enough time, if he was fast enough, if he was ...enough... to every "if I had" that was tormenting him, even now, if less often, still vividly.  

De facto, he had passed through every phases, beginning with the sorrow, then the wrath and from the denial to the guilt, in the pit of depression, sporadically coming back from a phase to fall back in another, and this, despite a duly consummated revenge. 

Obviously, nobody knew _ except one particular person to whom he authorized himself to break _ timid has he had always been and of a lone and calm temper as he was :

*

It was the next day of his father's death anniversary. It was a dark night. Laying flat in his bed in the darkness, he could not sleep. It was worst than usual. He was not able to grab a scraps of slumber but in the morning, when he should wake up and go to work. It's been almost fifty straight waking hours... 

The weariness was weakening his mental state, it was all the more grueling...

When one had heaped so much waking hour at once, they lose the common time track. It felt like yesterday was no more yesterday or there was no more morning, no more evening, no more night or things as day. Just the solar and moon revolution that seems to put you on the sideline bit by bit. It was a fact well established that peoples tend to refer to sleep to define the end and beginning of their day. Yesterday, for him, was like tree days ago for most people, then.

And while he was thinking about the human conception of the time, his mind was finding a bit of reprieve.

Yet the time was not an escape door but a one-way street, converging in a lonely vanishing point that failed him to save his loved ones... Everything was bringing him back ... at that... incurably. He wasn't able, long enough, to think about anything else.

Although exhausted, he woke up from bed, put on some clothes and exited his house for a walk : 

Like the night before, whither his stroll brought him to the cemetery. Where he had met Hinata - as gloomy and drained as him - collected in front of the tall white stone.

Both of them then had faced each other and intently stared, lost and dazzled, puzzled to encounter another human being here, standing in the dark with the same goal : moping about the loss of the loved ones, disappeared "that day".  

Then, they both took place ahead of the memorial in silence, the woman giving way to the newcomer. 

Neither of them said a word. Side to side in a profound internal contemplation. But in the same time... There was like a feeling of communion floating around them from the incidental encounter. To be here. At hand...

He sensed something moist and tepid, a bit callous but still mostly soft, taking a grab of his hand. He then warmly let the small things slide in between his longer fingers which numbly locked on her strong tiny hand. It felt like these was at their entitled place.

The young woman had noticed he was shivering through their touch, she tightened the grip on his hand. Feeling the firm soft pressure, he took a look at her. She was sending his way a sight of sheer understanding. No smile, no wince, no pout ... just a deep, uncanny, almost inquisitive gaze, full of melancholy which she only let go to see by scarce chance to those able to catch it. That was a call to slack off, to come undone, to let off steam  and relieve the pressure... and how he was craving for it... but his tight throat was not allowing anything out.

Reading such misery and distraught in her comrade's eyes, she knew it was locked, that it was not yet the time. Delicately, she had rested her head on his shoulder and hugged his nearest limb with her free arm.  

They retired in a tacit agreement, seeing the first morning glimmers in the sky. Going back to their sham of pretending to have had a good night sleep.

But they were only leaving physically : 

Hinata was concerned, felt pain not to worry and think about the peculiar state she sees her friend in ; that fact had thankfully eluded every of her very own concerns _ Actually. It was a good opportunity to flee her own issues that she was embracing cheerfully.

Shikamaru found himself unable not to think about the Hyuuga's heir ; her gestures toward him and her gaze ; his mind inhabited with everything he could have nor should have said her, frantically occupied to conceive in his mind all scenarii, coupled to the crave to see her again mingled with qualms.

At the end of the day, both of them tried to meet, actively seeking ... never finding each other... Lamblike, they came back home.

...

That was only at 3 a-m. when he can't bear to ruminate anymore that the Nara get out of his bed and excited his family compound. He knew -for he remarqued it during mission with her- that she usually get up around 3 a.m. and 4 a.m in the night. He passed by the memorial. Not here. Neither in the cemetery, would have been too easy. She was not on her training ground neither.  

He was heading to the Hyuuga district then. He managed to not awaken attention, not to end with a grumpy byakugan possessor's platoon that would have fun blocking every of his tekketsu pursuing him. He stopped on a building's rooftop then watched around... That was quite extensive, it was like a small town full of little boxes, sober and beautiful but all the same... until he was spotting an opened area in the middle of the domain. 

He swiftly jumped roof to roof in his black shirt and pants, looking like a shadow. When he was there he observed the place, finding what he thought would be : a classic but charming and harmonious garden, endued of a small, reeds bordered, nymphea constellated, pond.

On the porch from one of the adjoining house, he saw a black shape. It was the well made body of a woman in her training suit. While she lifted her eyes to the night sky to watch at the luminary, she caught under the light of the moon the crouched and very recognizable silhouetted form of the Nara clan's head. Undeterred, she had jumped and was joining him on the roof, about to say his name, he beat her to it.

"I ... I need to tell you how I feel" He grunted in a breath before he lost the nerve, his voice hoarse.

He took her hand and she followed his lead, whereas he drove her through the night, down the hills ... Nothing could bother them here. 

She was here, silent and attentive. So he told her how he wasn't able to sleep, how many days had passed since the last time he was able to rest, how much he still suffered his mentors loss, that it was like he wasn't really here or like he was 'outside' everything, that he cannot make it out and how he was feeling helpless and how it gnawed at him. 

At first it was pretty difficult and required a lot of efforts, then he had erratically let things get out in a throbbing rhythm, with no further form or thoughtfulness.    

He finally slowly admitted, a bit ashamed, that he thought she was the only one he could talk about. To that, she responded mutely, approaching him and clasping her arm around him gently.

"I know..." She finally whispered with apathetic voice ... Only, understanding too well what he was feeling. 

In fact, it was the only thing to do, there was nothing that could be said. There was no remedy but time and habit to that kind of wounds. 

The only reason she still held on was because she was stultifying herself in training every single time she was beginning to think about things that was making feel her gloomy or guilty ... even with that, often she was breaking up, lone in the night.

They both knew it.

That's why he was here. 

He needed to talk, pour out everything, breaking up a bit ; without fearing sarcasms, trials, harassing, bossing, nagging or being told not to crack, hearing platitudes about being strong and "being a 'man'", being forced to relativize. And he knew he could tell Hinata about his weaknesses, she won't use it against him, to mock him or give him a silly nickname because he divulged anything to her. 

She was the ideal person, since she was in a similar status. 

She was the understanding embodiment... Whose he needed.

He slowly slacked into her arms after a few time and flabbily gave the embrace back before crashing to his knees. Then his arms tightened around her thin waist while he layed his cheek on her stomach. She fondly caressed his hairs like she would have done to a sad Mirai, feeling yearning and happy to be there for him, living the present.

Half an hour later, she had noticed the tenseness had gradually disappeared from her exhausted comrade's body. Entirely. He was finally asleep... in this awful stance... In this state, no need to try and wake him up... Plus they was not far from his home, so she took him on her back and brought him back to his bed, before surreptitiously slipping away to her own room.

She had not trained until morning and, in place, she slept soundly.

...  

When he woke up, in the middle of the afternoon, he asked himself if it was real or just a dream ; not remembering how he got back to... Though, actually he had something else to think about : he would have explanation to give to have missed a council meeting...

He sighed knowing he will not hear the end of it : "... what a drag ..."

*

He had bitterly learned his powerlessness at great emotional expense. Him whose intellect usually succeeded to resolve the slightest problem, him whose mind always wanted to find meaning in everything : two times, he found stronger than him in the death. 

The second fateful date was like a "coup de grâce" and during a long time, it was, for him, as if nothing had logic anymore. And yet everything continued as if nothing ever happened. 

So, he was doing the same, he had switched to auto-mode : 

To wake up in the morning _ it was the most annoying and painful moment, everything else was a mechanic habit that required no efforts. To prepare for the day _ to wash up ; to have a breakfast without appetite, to dress up. To Leave home for the day : to walk from point A to B ; to work ; to try and listen - enough to give the right answer ; to go back from B to A ; to eat ; to start again ; to resume at the beginning ; to come back home. Sometimes. To cross someone knowing us ; to greet him ; to agree his words ; to smile a bit if required ; or ; to have a visit ; or ; to be invited from time to time, but less and less often and no longer knowing if we are alleviated or sad _  since it was always a bit uncomfortable to be in groups _ but still happy to see people we like seemingly having a good time ; to ignore the ill-at-ease feels and concentrate on present ... to finally come back home ; to lay in bed exhausted, but still being unable to sleep because as soon as we do nothing the brain starts working again ... just to works ... and it's the end of the respite ... insomnia :  

Not to sink until daylight and to have to wake up for the "next day"...

And it was endless.

At last.

Except days off.

He often would decide to spend with the woman and the daughter of his regretted sensei, whose he had promised to protect. Eventually, a third variable was added to this equation. The only little eccentricity - although quite humdrum too - in his daily, that was making explode, even for an instant, the sort of bubble that he was trapped in most of the time. 

And in those too brief moments ; as during picnics in company of the women of his life that they were arranging on sunny days in the Nara's domain woods. There, whereas he was laying in the shadow, after lunch, in the warm moist air of the afternoon, in a cute small clearing neatly maintained by his clan members, he seemed lazy. 

In fact, he was falling from exhaustion and he was slumbering while Kurenai tidied her stuffs with Hinata's help and Mirai was performing roulades and running around sometimes stopping seeing something interesting on the ground, grabbing grass and sticks and mimicking "Auntie Hinata" -or "Auntinata"- knitting grass or just was crawling under their benevolent watchful gazes. 

*

- That was one of those days.

The sun was starting to decrease when Kurenai decided it was time to go. Hinata had guessed when seeing her sensei getting up then start picking up her stuffs while saying Mirai they were about to go home to prepare the departure. The Hyuuga girl was watching the scene but was throwing glances every now and then to the inanimate form on the ground, a bit concerned.

"I am gonna leave you. I go back home with Mirai" The older woman finally said, to make know she was about to leave.

Hinata nodded smiling but furtively glanced to the sleeping beauty.

"Good evening Kurenai-sensei" She bowed. 

"Wish Shikamaru a good night for me" She said amused.  

"Yes, I will make sure he don't spend his night here." She replied, throwing the sleeper a slightly worried glance. 

The toddler was eyeing the goodbyes with interest stamping a bit before letting loose her mother's hand.  

"Kiss Auntinata !" She exclaimed before launching herself to the young woman. 

Hinata crouched to be able to receive the child's embrace that was jumping on her to give her a big slimy kiss, laughing. 

" See you tomorrow Mirai-chan" she said softly giving her a kiss back on her forehead. 

" Auntinata make a kiss to uncle Shika for me ?" She asked with a big hopefull smile to the big girl, pulling on her baggy mauve vest.

Hinata was a bit surprised but smiled shaking her head : "Yes, for sure Mirai-chan, I will. When he wakes up." 

"Yay ! Thanks auntinata !" then she gone back trotting to her mother, very happy under the tender gaze of the two brunettes.

Kurenai took back the small hand in hers and gave a small head sign to her former student before finally leaving. Hinata had watched them go as long as they were observable. When they were not, having disappeared behind tree trunks and bushes, the kunoichi then lifted her white eyes to the visible part of the sky. 

It was adorned with autumnal warm colors but beginning to grow darker with purplish night shades. She sighed and slowly approached of the deadlike Shikamaru.   

She had squatted down and then kneeled toward him before gently effloresce him, whispering : "Shikamaru-kun" ... Nothing... "Shikamaru-kun..." She shook him shyly. Few second later. Nothing. 

She had lingered on his completely relaxed face, mouth ajar. She smiled a bit amused ; he had a leaf on his cheek, she took it off and gave a light caress to his cheekbone. She saw his mouth close and adorned a silly expression ; one she had never seen on his face before. It make her stop, surprised and flushed by the realization of her own act. 

She redone timidly her tentative to wake him : "Shikamaru-kun?" 

Still nothing.

He was still soundly asleep and proving it by straightening him up in a siting position, turning him a bit before placing herself under his torso and locking his arms around her neck. He was still passed out. She lifted him up on her back, leaning a bit forward to balance the weight then grabbed his tights to her waist, before running the straighter way to his home. 

Being a full-fledged taijutsu practitioner kunoichi, it was not a big deal and they were done to his room few minutes later.

She had dropped him in his bed after taking her shoes off, on the porch. She tooks his sandals and puts them besides hers on his room's engawa. 

She sighed and looked at him a moment a bit upset. She knew for a fact it was not that he was supposedly "lazy" that he was dozed off ... 

She understood it because she neither had no full rest ; still not able to sleep well even with the passed years _ though she was never a long sleeper _ waking up with a jolt every night around 4 a.m. ... So she gets up and go to train until it's time, then have a shower and do as if she was just waking up... consequently to that continual lack of sleep, she felt worn all the time, mainly when she was not moving ; especially from midday until the end of the afternoon ; then around 7 p.m, the light decrease and she feels like a second breath. So, instead of going bed she go to train until she feels tired again a bit before midnight ; where she fall from exhaustion... only to be waked up with stupor again at 4 a.m, perspiratory and panting.

She had yawned, it was a bit startling since it was usually an hour of the day her mood shifted to its excitement phase in which she needed to unwind. She thought about going to bed herself while staring her sleeping friend. She leaned over him a bit, tenderly stroked his brow line while unconsciously munching on her bottom lip.

She remembered her promise to Mirai with a smile and whispered : "Good night Shikamaru" before tilting forward and planting a kiss on his forehead, very soft and slowly. 

Actually, she was not sure she would have dared doing so if he was awakened.

She was about to retreat when without warning, two longs arms pop from each side and wraps around her, attracting her to the bust of the sleepy form. She had let a small 'eep' getting out of her lung in surprise, unable to breath for a moment. She construed the situation. She was awkwardly laying on his upper body, locked in his arms while he seemed to still be as asleep as ever

"A-ano.. shika-" she was cut off when he turned in the opposite direction, without letting her go, making her follow the move and leaving the ground ; before he buried his face in her bosom. 

Hinata was flustered and paralyzed, reddening like hell, heart drumming, feeling weirdly thrilled. She relaxed a bit, breathing again. She sensed then the cold nose of his comrade melted with his hot breath on the tender skin of her neck ; she shuddered insanely, feeling ... strangely... vibrant. 

She was blushing but quite liked that situation ; if it wasn't for the embarrassment and the lack of congruence of it, she certainly wouldn't mind staying here. Even if it was not morally ‘appropriate’ to... sleep with a men she's not married to ...at least as a Hyuuga member, she must behave a certain course of action. 

While thinking to it, she stopped to exert a pressure against him and on the contrary to her morale wrapped her arms around him to hug him back. 

She then heard him sighing with pleasure, groaning, almost vibrating, like a cat. She shivered. Heart jumping. Reading it as an awakening sign, she tried sheepishly : "Shi-shikamaru-kun" though ashamed by her own boldness leading to that circumstance, weird but quite pleasant. 

He suddenly pressed her more firmly against him, almost possessively, breathing deeply her scents before exhaling a contented sigh. 

...

Now the brunette's heart is thumping erratically in the chest, she feels dizzy and about to ... faint...

She opened her eyes : it was dark outside, although it wasn't unusual for her to wake in the midst of the night... the unusual thing was the room she was in and the body onto she was laying off. She lowly realized the situation and remembered. 

When she regained consciousness, she displayed a bit her lambs on the surface she was laying on and then felt herself ... Waving ? ... up, down, up, down... She swayed. Then was the warmth below her. An arm around her back. Cuddles on her shoulder she felt through the multiple layers of her clothes.  

Daringly, she lifted her reddening head to ascertain her assumptions : he was awake. He took his eyes off of his bedroom's ceiling, sensing her moving above him, guessing she was now looking at him.

The bedroom from who she was in, the body whose she was on ... Were Shikamaru's. Her head on his shoulder, her face beside his neck, her arm wrapped around him and her leg comfortably folded on his hips. She heard her friend's pounding heart resonating in her flesh, deep, but not as calm as it should be. Her own heart was beginning to pump harder too.

Actually, he felt comfortable to know his own pinkened features was concealed by the darkness ; enough to too rashly approach his hand from her face, took off a strand of her hairs from her cheek before he pushed it behind her ear, brushing it softly in the run -eliciting a faint shiver from the girl- then he granted himself the ultimate daring to look at the sleepy face of his partner. He knew she was blushing, guessing it, according to the doe's eyes she was giving him.

They stood there awhile, getting lost, eyes locked in each others, fixedly, closely, almost intimately ; not knowing what to say and not daring to put it to an end ; enjoying -although not willing to admit it- a unique moment, something unheard-of. 

" ... I ... " It was Hinata's haggard voice that brought them back to the reality. " ... ano ... you... " Still not knowing what to say, but not allowed to stay there, on top of a man, forever ; even if she was not really bothered by it.

"... Yeah ... I know right. " 

He tried a bit strangely, through his usual tired low voice, to help her out of the scabrous situation of wich he was not totally aware of neither, but neither bothered by. 

" Just remember falling asleep in the wood " he commented, then, a bit embarrassed, added : " I guess you carried me there. " shifting his gaze away scratching his neck with his free hand, before looking back to her and ending to say a weirdly deep warm "thanks" in an almost... lecherous whisper. 

At least, it's how Hinata had perceived it for it gave her body such a shudder, while she was again all captivated by his sight. 

Always above his body, she was staring at his lips, awfully near ... Noticing it, she recoiled a bit, ashamed of her lascivious demeanor while on top of a good friend, getting perhaps a bit too 'friendly'. But still, a part of her was feeling like it was totally only "natural" to be so lax around him. Actually he was spurring it, with all his Slacked Might.

Now she thought, was it correct to be that close of her comrade, to feel that nice in his arms, to feel so good under his touches, while she was thinking being in love with Naruto ? 

And him... he was more or less sentimentally engaged to that Suna's girl, according to what people was saying about. Surprisingly enough, her throat tightened to that thought ; was she jealous ? ... of Temari... She never felt that way even watching Sakura hugging Naruto. She was deeply confused.

Shaking her thoughts out of her mind, she mumbled : 

"...it... it's no nothing... I ... I could not leave you to sleep on the wood's soil...and... and you did no-not wake up so... so... I..." she was hum and haw, it was an odd thing because the last time he had heard her stammer as much was almost seven years ago, in front of Naruto.

It was like ... for him.

A cranky idea dawned all of a sudden, but he did not dare admit it or to make the connection and accept it. No. It was not possible... Was it ?

He seemed in wonder : she read it as it was wrote on his face despite the twilight. Hinata had no idea how to take it, it was unsettling. She never had questionned herself so much over just a slight look... save Shikamaru... ; she finally sorted out.

However, she remembered that when she was hearing his name or something out off a snippet of conversation about him, or just sounding like it was about him _there was few keywords that triggered her concern_ she was instinctively pricking up her ear, her attention called. It begun in her clan and continued quite often.

"There is something inside you, it's hard to explain ... They are talking about you ... but you are still the same."

Oddly, she heard the elders offended, call to mind that young man said too youthful for his task and status ; but mostly extrapolated about him without a care of who he was, lending him ambitiousness and was accusing him of said inexperience and for his disrespect. Nothing legit, for who knew Shikamaru as well as she do. 

...Well.

"There is something inside you, it's hard to explain ... They are talking about you ... but you are still the same."

Except perhaps about 'respect' ... when it comes to people that annoys him, he could be quite pungent, she must admit.

Unconsciously, staring at him, she was prettily smiling, remembering those events and almost laughing at her own conclusion.

No. She was the one who had changed. Her confusion was leaving room to some sort of confidence, she was welcoming that realization. She felt like she was smiling the largest smile she had ever made, while he was stunned by the sight. For once, his brain was at a stop. 

Time too.

She was computing the hours she had fainted around and woke up and assessed, it was : "impossible" then came with a : " I-I slept at least ten hours ... at once ! " astonished.

Before she had noticed, it was more and more luminous in the bedroom, the faint cold morning light leaving room to pink and gold on the horizon. Taken aback she checked to find a clock and find the dial displaying the numbers " 6 : 53 "  ... Her breath was cut from her lungs. 

Shikamaru ogled her, smiling, a bit quizzical through her new commotion. He revealed himself playful : 

" So. What does it do ? "

The brunette was staring at him awhile flabbergasted, before she get a kick of doing such a prowess and laughed at his teasing mood, hiding her face in his shirt. He didn't thought he was so funny but he just felt like joining her in the mirth listening to her small ringing laugh

"We should do that more often" she said in a jovial outburst, without a second thought.

Then rehashing her own words, she felt flush crawling to her face, realizing what was implied. Shikamaru was as dazed as her, but then it was a smirk that had climbed to his face. She tried to clear thing up and explain ; let's rather say : to sweep the shame-dust under her carpet-tong :

"I-I want to say... that ... we could get lai... ano ... we could lay together... I mean... we could do it... kami-sama... I-I-I mean ... sleep ...with me... hm”

Getting a bit stressed... She was (over) thinking all possible meanings that every words was endowed with and what it could imply trying not to use them and finished to stumble on every word she tried not to use since every one could imply something horny even "sleep" if you intend to... the worst part was she was the one to blame for thinking that way, not even her clumsiness or stuttering, just her own lewd mind. 

Now she felt so awkward... and wanted to face-palm.

The Nara was looking at the at least distracting show that his poor shy friend was rendering while fighting with herself ; a war whose manifestation took the form of a revealing slip's chaplet, relentless and iterative.

He was feeling a jarring melt of emotions : he was amused yet bothered for her, compassionate to her trouble and tenderized to her attempts ...

But above all, unsettled to told himself that the only reason that explain it really was the thing he was thinking about : all those tries and seeming fails, was just because there was an optional meaning in her chosen word endowing sexual innuendo that stressed the one he thought so 'pure' and 'innocent'.

He was baffled by her endeavor to not be considered as a pervert, but making it worst. And she had put herself under so much stress that she even end up saying unambiguous sexual proposition involuntarily.

It was over for her. The timid kunoichi felt totally drained and ashamed by her pathetic display of clumsiness, tripping over every possible slip she could have made. She don't remember having such a terrible stuttering even in her youth... How is it even possible ? 

" ... I mean ... I want t-yo...ano I-I ... I want to -to have..you ; she was wide-eyed when she heard what she intended to say crushed by a massive stutter, but she don't gave up : " ano...Sorry ... " she took a deep inhale " have a nap with you !" she finally sputtered succeeding to say something.  

It was the coup de grace for Shikamaru equally. He cannot seriously listen to those words coming from the Hyuuga heiress, with her timid uncertain stuttering voice and her scarlet red face adorning those white doe-eyes of hers, before she surrendered and hid her flustered features in his black shirt after seeing the face of her genius friend so dumbfounded. He finally burst out of a warm sounding frank bubbling laugh that had her all shakened.

She lifted up to look at him, surprised by his mirth, but, weirdly, even being the cause of it, she suddenly felt a lot less stupid. No. It was not stupid if it allowed her to hear this wondrous sound. She felt light and good, happy and even ... loved ... for he was still holding her in his arm, so she took advantage of it to curl up against him. 

With every new realization comes its batch of questions, but for the moment she was quite oblivious, she just lived the present ... but the morning was yet quite luminous and she has no more time ... and the day of the week, of the month, and of the year came back to her with her duties. She searched for the clock again and was appalled by its indication :

To this point, she understood. She had fell in love with her colleague. She knew not since nor when _ certainly quite some time _ but the realization just dawned on her ... just as the sunlight.

" ... almost 8 o'clock ! My ... I-i did not see the time pass. I sh-should go Shikamaru-kun. "

" ...hn... don't go. It's still early... " he grumbled reluctantly coming out of his torpor.

How was it that the time passed so quickly snuggled up against him?

Instinctively, Shikamaru had locked his arms around her, feeling her receding.

" Ano, Shikamaru-kun... I would like to .. but... " He rose a brow to that in spite of himself. 

She was blushing bit by bit, together to the fact she noticed : he was now looking at her, he held her tightly, he restrained her departure and to the fact she admitted that she liked it... that he wanted her to stay there...

" ... but I have to attends meeting, it's my duties toward my clan as well as my festival preparation commitments ... "

" What a drag ... " he grumpily muttered loosening his embrace, then a little side-smile adorned his now mid-amused, mid-bored face 

" ... I was looking for a good reason not to attend the monday morning meeting... these are the worst ... "

Hinata was giggling to that and he was quite pleased with the fact. It enlightened his mood so far it made him bolder than usual and almost foolhardy ... his face producing the expression one does when they are about to say bullshits. Although it was not is forte, he tried nonetheless : 

" ... they could be understanding if they knew I fortuitly found a lovely kind of kami in my bed when I woke up " ... when he heard himself saying it he thought it sounded better in his mind and promptly regretted it, his ears was burning in shame.  

No need to tell in what state did it put Hinata.

... to be continued  ... 

It’s an english translation of my french fanfic : https://originalpairingfiction.skyrock.com/3337900696-Nightcall-L-Appel-Nocturne.html

I update it a bit every 2-3 days. (I’ll reblog it when I do)

I actually tried my best, but it’s not my native language, let me know about my mistakes so I could get better.

[cyberneticlagomorph]

Is there anything more daunting and dangerous than the blank white expanse of a page? 

It glitters and glows like the spit-slick teeth of a predator, hungry for words that you cannot give it. No matter how much you want to. 

Its gaze alone freezes all trains of thought, even in the minds of Writers and authors and artists alike, even those more powerful than I. 

And as I sit here, trembling, at the mercy of Writer's Block and my own anxieties… I can think of nothing that I want more than to run, to leave this page blank, and my readers guessing. 

The End is Nigh, dear readers, and I am afraid. 

So very afraid. 

"I'm afraid too," says the rabbit we all know and love, his legs swallowed by moss and weeds and misshapen dreams. He stands right where we left him, sword in hand, broken sky above, the End of Everything staring him down. 

All seven of Her glowing green eyes blaze with something worse than hate, and I wish for all the world that this was a much different story. A happy story, with a happy Ending. 

But I've never written a happy Ending in my life.

There is silence now, neither Protagonist or Antagonist moves or breathes or blinks.

They know that this is how it Ends.

One of them will die today. 

So it is Written. 

So it will be.

"Shut. Up." The End snarls, lips curling back over venomous fangs that drip oily green liquid onto the cracked asphalt below. Flowers bloom from the puddle, and spread like a rainbow rash down the street. "This. This is all YOUR fault!"

I know. 

I'm sorry. 

"LIAR!!" Her scream echoes across the fourth wall and cracks my computer screen. 

This…

This is where I leave you, dear readers. 

I'm sorry. 

Fangs sink deep into the papery flesh of the Narrative, tearing it apart as it is poisoned. Thorns grow from its wounds and strangle it like trembling hands. 

Writer be damned.

Plot be damned.

I am the End of EVERYTHING, I will End this miserable excuse for story on my own terms. 

Or die trying. 

You have not won, sweet stupid rabbit, no one can save you now, no one will stop me now. The world is a page upon which fate is Written and I will burn it all to the ground. May its ashes be lost and forgotten. 

Your dark eyes narrow at me, bone blade glittering as you charge. But I am in control now, and I don't play fair. 

Deep beneath the earth, humans sit snug and safe in their bunkers, thinking themselves free of the horrors outside. From the canteens comes a deep and terrible shattering like teeth against an eggshell, and a figure crawls lazily from the steam wafting from any number of bubbling pots set on stoves across the world over.

She smells of cooking meat and blood drenched in exotic spices and honey. Stick thin, and dressed in a chef's uniform. Her sleeves and hands are stained with the blood of the starving.

She has no face.

Only bright white teeth.

She manifests in the homes of the rich, stuffing them fat with delicacies that humans have no names for. Each minuscule morsel is completely tasteless covered in edible gold. Like the kind of fare you'd find at high end restaurants, going for hundreds of dollars a plate, even though each serving is barely a mouthful. 

She appears in slums with bread made from ash and bone, rat stew, and tainted water.

Pots boil in city centers, a roiling soup made from human offal that nothing in this world or the next could ever hope to surpass.

The poor eat their rations, their bread, their stew and grow sicker and hungry. Skeletal and drooling like rabid animals, they stuff their faces with food that offers no nourishment until there is no choice but to turn on each other. 

Screens grow undulating limbs and crawl from the wreckage of humanity, their screens blinking wetly like the eyes of a crying child. On each one is a broadcast, a man with red eyes smiles a reassuring smile and says,"Hungry? Eat the rich."

And they do.

A hoard of near zombies growl and gurgle as loud as their empty bellies, they hunt down the wealthy, and they FEAST.

Pestilence rises from the pus and rot and ruin and watches as all the good Jack and his friends had done is undone in a flash.

Among the riots and feasting is a cop, his riot gear reflecting the terrified and feral faces around him as he marches slowly onward. There is nothing behind his helmet. 

Only malice.

Only power.

Only slaughter. 

Only Death.

I don't have to tell you what comes next, what Death does when he gets his hands on a victim. The sounds of bullets ringing out into the night can tell you, the smell of tear gas in a crowd can tell you, the cries of innocents choking out their last breaths in steel cuffs, wrists rubbed raw and bleeding can tell you. 

Death is not merciful. 

He is not kind or quick or clean.

He is inevitable. 

You know it.

And he knows it.

This world will collapse under the weight of its own sins and I will be here to watch it dissolve like candy floss in water. 

Tears stream hot and blue down your face, and your grip on the Vorpal sword trembles. They are not worth your tears.

They stole you, beat you, broke you.

Turned you into a monster and then threw you away like you were NOTHING. 

You should hate them as much as I do.

You should be glad for their suffering. 

They deserve to die.

Like HE deserves to die. I turn my gaze skyward and watch the world split as the armies of Heaven pour down like a wrathful rain. 

The Divinity burns your skin, doesn't it Jack? And yet the smell of Angels makes your mouth water. 

You are no better than I am, I think. A man made monster set loose upon the multiverse, expected to play nice and fit in the niches carved for us. But we don't, no matter how hard we try, how good we think we are, we are torn apart again and again and again until we are unrecognizable from our beginnings. 

I think I could have loved you.

In another story.

In another lifetime.

We would have been good friends at least. 

But it's too late for that now, and as the first wave of Angels assault me with Heavenly fire, I part my jaws and give them some fire of my own. Green, as bright and beautiful as the first leaves of spring, it turns their armor into bark and their marble skin into flower petals. They fall to the ground like confetti, and I claw my way up to Heaven.

The Gates bend and break beneath my weight like wire, nothing and no one can stop me as I wrap HIM in my coils, slowly constricting. My venom burns holes in HIM that grow fruit trees, and each fruit contains the knowledge of the multiverse. I want HIM to die slowly, to watch as HIS playthings suffer and burn because of HIM. The humans cry out, and they pray, begging, pleading for HIM to save them. But HE can't, HE won't. 

What GOD would make a world so empty and hopeless as this? What GOD would let HIS followers murder and hate and destroy entire cultures in HIS name? 

HE never wanted this, never wanted it to come to this, HIS teachings have been mistranslated and manipulated for millennia and now there is nothing left but hatred and sin. 

My jaws part above HIS head, ropes of green spittle tarnishing HIS crown. HE does not fight me, how pathetic of HIM.

White hot pain explodes through my tail.

There you are, sweet hero, stupid rabbit. 

Go home Jack, this doesn't concern you. 

"But it does," you twist the blade, dislodging my scales and rending my flesh. My blood slithers up your sword, trying desperately to burrow inside of you and turn you Green. "You said that you think you could have loved me… well love me now, it doesn't have to be this way… I could… I could take care of you and help you heal, we could do it together." 

You offer your hand, bloody and trembling. 

The sound I make is inhuman and hard to describe in words, it is disbelief and venom and vengeance all at once. I stretch myself down to meet you, my eyes are the size of houses, and they reflect your trembling visage like great green mirrors. 

"You're right, I should hate them, hate everyone… but I don't." a swallow, you taste copper and butterscotch, "I used to but I-I found people who cared, I found people who I love and who love me back and they make my life worth living… they gave me a reason to get better and stop hurting people… let me be your reason."

You reach out and touch my face, my scales are warm like the sidewalk in summer. 

I crush GOD in my coils and HIS blood rushes over you like a wave.

There is nothing that can fix this, fix me. 

No love will quiet the hatred in my heart.

I do not deserve kindness or redemption. 

Love might have tempered your monstrous hearts, but it won't do the same for me.

Only one of us will make it out of this story alive. 

"So it is Written." You say, solemnly. 

So it will be.

My coils curl around you, quick as lightning. Your symbiote is the only thing keeping you from being crushed like a soda can, I hope you know that.

I don't waste time, and fling you down…

Down…

Down…

Towards earth.

Countless Angels have been discarded this way, wings torn from their backs, left to the mercy of gravity. It never gets any easier. 

I tear a hole into space and crawl through it, into Fairyland, the place of my birth. 

I devour the Sun-In-Chains, my replacement, and plunge the planet into darkness. I skin my teeth into the planet's crust and empty my venom glands into its core. Fairyland becomes my twisted Eden, choked with blinding bioluminescence, thorns, and poisonous things that not even I have a name for. 

It's beautiful and terrible all at once. 

Like me. 

Like you too, I suppose. 

You plunge your blade into my seventh eye and send me reeling, screaming, flailing. My frantically flapping wings crash into a nearby planet and reduce it to dust.

I pluck the sword from my eye and snap it into pieces. 

You're becoming a real thorn in my side. 

Seven perfect fingers snatch you out of the sky like the annoying insect you are and start to CRUSH YOU.

I will tear you apart with my TEETH if I have to.

You've had every chance to run and hide, or join in my crusade and you denied them all. I have no use for you. 

Not even as a snack.

Or a toothpick. 

"Then kill me." You growl through clenched teeth, blood already flecking your lips and leaking from your nose. 

I throw you into a patch of thorns. Each and every one is serrated and ranges in size from a human finger to a school bus, you are impaled, skewered, crucified even. 

Neon blue blood running down to the soil beneath, feeding my Eden. 

And yet, you refuse to die.

Slowly but surely, you drag your broken body up and off the thorn, shakily levitating up to meet me. 

You stare at me with dead eyes, blood pouring from the opening in your chest. Your lips part and black flames flicker behind your teeth, smoke curling from your nostrils as the color drains from your eyes in inky tears, until there is nothing but black. 

Just like the hole in your chest.

You seem to crack like porcelain, to split in two like something precious dropped from a great height. What crawls from the darkness inside of you is something no human throat can utter, no human tongue can twist or shape itself the right way to name. 

It's said that Demons possess. 

But Angels abandon. 

But what can be said of creatures that man has no name for? 

The thing inside of you stares at me with eyes darker than the emptiness between stars, its maw is the belly of a black hole with teeth long enough to split a planet like an apple. 

It is the bleak black emptiness that existed before the universe, and will exist again when there is nothing but dust and dead silence. 

This… this is my Warden, my Prison, the creature tasked with my capture those eons ago. You are barely a speck in it's vast form, a limp and lifeless nucleus.

It roars, a sound that radiates across time and echoes across the multiverse. 

"FROM NOTHINGNESS YOU CRAWLED, TO NOTHINGNESS YOU WILL RETURN." the beast howls in a voice that echoes from every dark and terrible place in the multiverse and shakes me to my core.

I will not go without a fight.

It lunges, claws outstretched, the endless expanse of its hideous maw seems to suck all the light out of the stars, out of me. I sink my teeth into its throat and pull, my body curling around and around it. 

Its claws are impossibly sharp, tearing my flesh down to the bone. My blood falls to fairyland like rain. My face is grabbed and smashed into the planet's surface again and again. I crush the Warden close and set myself on fire, I am the LIGHTBRINGER, it will take more than some overconfident shadow to defeat me.

The Warden burns, it smolders and screams like steam escaping. I fling it away into deep space and charge after it, driving my seven horns into its belly.

I miss you by a hair, I feel you reach out and grab me just as I pull back. Amber chains snake from your weeping wound, to the Warden behind you. 

You have no control over this thing, do you?

No.

Didn't think so.

But still, you stubbornly grab your chains and pull. The Warden does not come to heel, so much as it melts, engulfing you in its emptiness like a suit. When you open your eyes, you nearly dwarf me.

Nearly.

Your fist collides with my face in an instant, sending teeth flying like meteors. I cannot tell your rage apart from the Warden and I'm not sure I really want to.

Run.

For a second, we are stars, two pinpricks of light twirling around each other in double helices, colliding and clashing with enough force to summon new stars from the ether. We are creation and chaos incarnate. 

We crash through debris fields, shatter planets and extinguish stars. Our blood becomes the new crawling things left behind in the wreckage. I'm smiling, the pain is dizzying, delicious, delightful. 

My venom turns you into a garden, and you tear me apart with your bare and bloody hands. 

Through it all we refuse to die.

Maws wide and screaming in tongues the universe hasn't heard since it was new, I am thoroughly seduced. 

But I am growing bored with this game.

I shove my hand through the Warden and tear you out. You scream in undeniable agony, I close my fist around you and squeeze.

The Warden hangs limp and dead in the darkness of deep space, slowly dissolving. 

Something oozes between my fingers. 

Not blood, far too sticky and cloying to be that.

If Hope had a color, what would it be? 

Would it be a color that only shrimp can see, and only gods have a name for? 

You pry my fingers apart, tears pouring from your eyes the same color as Hope. Hope flows from your mouth as flames, rushes from your open chest as ferns and flowers and vines more beautiful than I could ever create. You reach into the forest of your heart and pull out Kindness, sleek and soft and sharp. 

It melts in your hands, becoming a hammer, comically oversized like your Ma's. And then it grows, and grows, and in the blink of an eye it's bigger and I am. The swing alone takes out half a dozen solar systems before it hits me and sends me crashing through different universes and out the fourth wall. I land heavily on the Writer, dazed and bloody, your hand reaches through his broken computer screen and drags me back home, and there we float over the ruined remains of earth, the skin of my chest balled in your hand like a shirt. You kiss your knuckles and punch me hard enough to send me careening back down to the earth's surface, my crater levels a nearby city.

Do you care?

Are we beyond morals and niceties and caring about humanity? 

You teleport to my limp and broken body, you scoop me up into your arms and hold me close. 

I've folded in on myself several times, I'm barely the size of a person now. 

I can feel those amber chains slithering around me, they clasp around my throat tight enough to choke. 

I don't want to go.

Don't make me go.

I don't want to go back to sleep.

Please. 

I'm scared. 

I'm so scared. 

You don't let me go, as I break down and cling to you like a scared child you don't let me go. 

I wrap you in my wings, I shove my head under your chin and apologize when I stab you with my horns.

"I am your Warden, you are my Prisoner… you are the End of Everything, but I am the End of You…" your throat is choked with snot and tears as you squeeze me so tight I can barely breathe. "You… you deserve to be a Happy Ending and I refuse to live in a world without one."

You kiss my forehead and wipe away my tears. "We do terrible things when we hurt… you deserve compassion instead of imprisonment."

I can do nothing but sit there and bawl, choking on Kindness as thick and sweet as soft caramel. 

Seven times seven thousand lifetimes worth of hate and sorrow and trauma run from my eyes.

You sit with me until the crying stops, until my throat is raw and all I can do is whisper. 

I speak a Word, one that fixes the shattered sky and let's the sun shine properly again. 

The sun speaks their own Words and resets the world, turning the clock back to the day before my escape, I do humanity one kindness and let them wake the next morning as if the past week were nothing more than a bad dream.

I am made to fix my messes, to undo my misdeeds. 

The Horsemen are sealed away again. 

Fairyland is repaired to the best of my ability, although there is nothing that I can do for the Sun-In-Chains. What's done is done. 

GOD will be fine, HE'S GOD, and therefore more or less impossible to kill permanently. 

All evidence of my tirade is erased.

I am finally bound in amber, my powers diminished. I dread returning to the cold depths of the well, but you won't let that happen.

You refuse to send me back to that lonely place beyond dreams and take me home, to your home. Warm and safe beneath the soil, I curl up next to you by the fire.

And for the first time in your short and terrible life, you get a good night's sleep. 

[samthemarvelfan]

Graveyard: Chapter Three

Smoke and Mirrors

Summary: Memories are a dangerous, dangerous thing.

Pairing: Loki Odinson x OFC

Warnings: Sexual language, implied intimacy, physical altercation

A/N: Flashbacks are italicized. Ella is going THROUGH IT, and we finally begin to realize how strong she’s going to have to be to survive.

The news about what Loki had done on Midgard shook the Asgardian people. Sure, Loki was mischievous and loved a good mean-spirited prank, but this was different.

This was lunacy and malice. This was murder for his own personal gain.

This was evil.

When he’d arrived back to Asgard, Thor had taken him to the Allfather himself. He was sentenced to live out his days in the dungeons. Exile of the worst kind—one where you’re forced to bare witness to what you’ve lost.

Shortly after that, the God of Thunder had come to see you.

“Thor...” you cried as you hugged him.

He looked mournful, “Ella I’m sorry, but there is nothing that can be done.”

The hot tears fell down your cheeks as Thor hugged you, attempting to console you. “I need to see him. Please, Thor. He can’t be gone—there has to be some...some good left. Some him...”

Thor sighed, “Don’t do that to yourself. Seeing my brother this way will only bring you torment. You should remember him how he was, not what he’s become.”

You grasp Thor’s hand, “Please.” You beg.

He gives your hand a small squeeze. “I cannot help, but perhaps Mother can. Odin is likely to forgive Frigga of anything.”

A sob escaped you, “Thank you, Thor. Thank you.”

The two of you make haste through the halls of the palace. Heading for the drawing room, you round a corner following swiftly on Thor’s heels when he stops abruptly.

“Mother.” He says simply. As you peek around his massive frame, you see Frigga, looking almost as if she’d been waiting for him.

“All-Mother.” You say, bowing to her.

She laughed delicately. “Rise, child. You think yourself in trouble?”

You nod, and Thor speaks. “Mother...Ella, she needs—“

Frigga put her hand up. “I know. I was raised by witches boy, I see with more than eyes and you know that.”

Thor stepped aside, revealing you fully. Your gaze is locked on the ground in front of you as the All-Mother steps forward.

She watches you for a moment, before placing a hand on your cheek. “Oh my dear,” she coos, “this is love, is it not?”

Your tears return quicker than before. You nod, “Yes,” you feel your lip quiver, “but what he’s become...I know it’s wrong, I do.”

She smiled softly, “You love my son. That is no crime.”

“May I see him? Please, no matter how small the moment. I need to try to help him.”You beg.

Frigga sighs, and nods. “The All-Father will be cross as ever, but I will deal with it. Come.”

Looking to Thor, you mouth a quick ‘thank you’, and follow Frigga to the dungeons

Before you could descend the stairs, she stops you. “Be warned, Ella. He is not himself, his mind has been made undone.” You nod, and she gestures for you to go ahead.

You approach his cell, it’s the first on the left. He’s stood in the middle, with his back to you.

“Loki.” You call quietly, shocked you were able to muster the courage.

He spins slowly, and your heart breaks at the sight of him. The circles under his eyes, the cold, clammy look to his skin. He looks like a man possessed.

He smiles, and for a split second, he looks like himself. Then the smile turns crazed, almost sinister. “Hello, my love.” He croons. “I’ve missed you.”

You swallow the ball of emotion working it’s way up your throat. “Loki, I thought you dead...how could you do this? To me?”

He laughs, “Are you not proud? You would have been my Queen; we could have ruled Midgard together. Just the two of us, as fate intended.”

Loki walks closer to the cells walls, and you instinctively take a step back. His face falls, and for a moment, you see the sadness in his eyes.

“They’ve made you afraid of me, too.”

You shake your head, “What you’ve done...this isn’t you.”

“But this is me!” He yells suddenly, causing you to jump. “This is me in all of my glory, giving truth to the lie I’ve been fed my whole life—I was born to rule.”

You can’t keep the tears back any longer. “You’ve killed so many people—children, Loki!” You shout. “and for what?! Look at where you are!”

You wipe your face, and take a careful step towards him again. “I loved you.” You speak softly, voice trembling. “Through every battle, every new conquest, every scheme and trick. I loved you in death and when I was certain I’d never see you again, but now...” you point to him, “This man—this monster you’ve become, I cannot love you this way.”

You watch his face carefully, searching for any sign of remorse, but he remains unchanged...a master at emotional anonymity.

“And I loved you. Though I was told you were beneath me...a half-breed. That you weren’t worthy of an Odinson because of your bloodline. That I was to be rid of you in favor of someone chosen by the All-Father.”

You swallow hard, as he looks you in your eyes. “Odin was right, you’re tainted flesh. Worthless.”

His words slash through your heart like a knife. “You don’t mean that—“

“I, what?” He mocks, “You don’t know me at all, Ellaria. I’m the God of mischief...of tricks..of lies. I have played with your heart for my own amusement, and now you believe yourself worthy of my affections?”

The tears in your eyes cease for a moment, “Loki...stop this.”

He runs at you to the wall of the cell, “Get out of my sight you vile, little halfling. I never wish to have you in my presence again.” He seethes though clenched teeth.

Your eyes widen at his words, and you run. You run as far and as fast as you could.

That’s the nightmare that wakes you. Remembering how you’d come to hate and be hated by Loki invades your dreams for the first time in years.

You jolt awake, inhaling a sharp gasp of air.

“What were you dreaming about?” He asked calmly.

You jump, nearly forgetting he was actually here. “N-Nothing.”

He scoffs, “Liar.” He takes his thumb and swipes your cheek, showing it to you. “No one cries in their sleep over nothing.”

Feeling your cheeks, you quickly wipe away the pain from your nightmares. The chance Loki knew what you dreamt of was high. He always had the habit of reading your thoughts—both awake and in slumber.

“I’m starving. How long did we sleep?” You ask, brushing off his question.

“You slept for three days.”

“Three days?!” You cry. “Why didn’t you wake me?!”

Loki stood from the bed, grabbing the pitcher of water and pouring you a glass. “For one, I got a break from your attitude, and two, you clearly needed it. No one sleeps for three days if they’re feeling spry.”

You scoff as he handed it to you, “I guess.”

Loki watched as you drank it, “Eat and dress quickly,” he says, “I’m to meet with the Grandmaster for a tour of his fleet. He plans on showing me his impressive collection of ships.” Loki smirked.

Your eyes rolled, that tone said it all. Loki has a plan; one that would surely involve you in some way, shape or form.

You stand, “Fine.”

The trays of food smelled delicious. Your stomach had been so empty, you could feel it ache as the delightful aromas hit your nose. Once your plate is full, you sit on the bench near the bed, and roll up your sleeves to dig in.

“What is that?” Loki says suddenly.

Butter knife in hand, you ignore him, smearing some jam on the toast you’d grabbed.

“Ellaria, I will not ask again.”

“What is what?” Following his eye line, you realize that he’s staring at your forearm.

“Oh that? That was a little welcome present from you, your highness...” you snark,

His face goes cold. “I hadn’t—I didn���t know I’d grabbed you so forcefully.”

You pause your meal yet again. “You never did know your own strength, Loki. Don’t worry, I’ll heal soon enough.”

He stands abruptly, “Speak up for Norn’s Sake next time, Gods know you open your mouth about every other blasted thing.”

“You’re blaming me? It’s my fault your abusing me?”

Loki froze, “Abusing you? I’m the only reason you’re still alive. You ought to be thanking me, but instead, you’re forgetting your place.”

You stood, angrily pushing away your plate. “My place? My place is Asgard. My place used to be the safest haven in the universe, and now I don’t even know what’s become of it.”

Loki stepped closer to you, not speaking, just watching you.

“This is all because of you. You’re arrogance in thinking yourself above everyone. Odin and I may have had our differences, but at least I could say with honesty that he cared for his people.”

The fire in Loki’s eyes at the mention of the All-Father could not be extinguished.

“Differences? Is that what you’d call what he did to us? What he did to you?”

The volume of his voice made you tremble. Loki was known for his composure, and when he lost his temper, things often escalated quickly.

You took a step back, bumping into the coffee table and nearly falling over, but his arm caught you. Loki set you straight on your feet, hands running smoothly down your sides, prickling your skin, before resting on your hips.

“That old fool took everything from me.” His face was inches from yours, so close you could feel the heat of his breath on your nose.

His emerald eyes roamed your features. “I will return to Asgard and claim my throne. I will be the King I was raised to be, and so much more than Odin ever was. If you want to go home, you will help me in doing this.”

Loki released you finally, but remained close to you. “If people need to think me a monster, so be it.”

Your breathing heavily when he steps away from you, not realizing you’d been holding your breath.

“Dress, you have 5 minutes.”

“Oh, and this one...” Grandmaster gestured to a large blue and white ship. “This one holds hundreds—maybe even a thousand passengers. I’ve never needed to use it, but imagine the fun we could have on it.”

Loki feigned interest, “Your collection is, by far, the widest and most impressive in the Universe, Grandmaster. Which would you say is your favorite, though?”

“Ah!” He shouted happily, “Right this way.”

You trailed behind them, making a mental note of what ships it looked like you could figure out how to fly.

“The Diamond Swinger...” he gestured.

It was a beautiful ship. Perfectly aerodynamic, and had plenty of on-craft blasters.

That’s the one. You think to yourself.

“My, my she’s a beauty...” Loki praised.

GM giggled, “isn’t she? It’s my fasted ship—sturdy too. Blasters, shields, the whole shebang.”

You rolled your eyes. This guy was playing right into Loki’s hands and he didn’t even seem to realize it.

“Sir, we’ve got to head to the tower. The contest will be starting soon.” Topaz said monotonously.

He clapped his hands. “Of course, of course! You will join me, won’t you King?”

The GM bit his lip, waiting for Loki’s answer. You can’t help but laugh, of course this guy would fancy Loki.

He cleared his throat, “I would be honored to attend. Pet, what do you say to the Grandmaster for being so hospitable?”

You look at him, almost in disbelief.

You’ve got to be absolutely joking, I’m not thanking this lunatic! You shout with your mind.

Loki steps behind you and nudges his knee into the back of your own, knocking you down.

“What do you say, pet? He seethes into your ear.

Your proper up on both knees, and raise your head high. “Thank you, Grandmaster.”

It’s not much, but it’s all you can force out of your mouth.

Loki backs up, allowing you to lift yourself up. “Well done. She’s still learning, I’m afraid. Her manners need some reformation.” He said with a smirk.

You’re walking now, back towards the exit of the garage. “You know, Loki. A good dose of behavioral therapy is my Contest of Champions. Have you ever considered entering her? She seems quite feisty.” GM said, not bothering to look at you as he walked.

“Feisty she may be, but she’s also very weak. I doubt she could last more than one round before we’d be carting her off to the dump.” Loki didn’t look at you either, he just kept walking with his new bff.

“Oh I don’t believe that, she’s a fighter. I can see it in her eyes. I’m telling you, one round against one of my champions and her attitude will change course.” The GM laughed.

You clenched your fists so hard, you’re sure your nails were drawing blood. You needed to start working on your own plan. Killing Loki and getting the hell back home.

Not necessarily in that order, but hey, ya work with whatcha got.

“If I find she’s displeases me again, I may do just that. Until then, I wish no harm to my new pet.” He pauses by the doors while the Grandmaster enters the codes. Loki turns and looks at you longingly, before he strokes your jaw, “She’s quite special, that mouth is certainly a gift from the God’s.”

Heat fills your face like fire—angry fire.

“I will dress for the occasion, then.” Loki held his hand out to you, and you walked past him. He ignores it, for now. “Grandmaster, we shall meet you in your suite in a hour.”

Back in his rooms, you’re quiet. Uncharacteristically so.

If Loki notices, he doesn’t say anything. Besides, if he really wanted to know, he’d have no qualms about poking in your head.

Your stood by the window, tossing an apple—or what looks like an apple, in the air. The city is aglow, but empty. Most of the citizens had gone to the arena for the contest.

While you’ve come to realize that most of the buildings were made from the trash spewed out by the portals above, it didn’t make them any less beautiful. In fact, if you were being held here like a prisoner, you’d think the planet was quite lovely.

You’re lost in thought when you feel a hand on your shoulder. Out of pure instinct, you spin and strike with your right hand and swoop with your left. When your fists make contact, you swing your leg and knock the person to their knees.

It’s a combination of moves that happens in seconds. Swift and powerful blows blur together, and your brain is suddenly on auto pilot waiting for a new battle. When it doesn’t come, you look down and see Loki on his knees in front of you, wiping the drop of blood from the corner of his mouth.

Your eyes widen, shocked he’d been susceptible to such an attack in the first place.

He let his guard down.

“I forgot just how skilled you were in combat.” He hadn’t come off his knees, but his green eyes were locked on yours. “Surely it was time I’d been reminded.”

Loki’s voice always had the strangest effect on you. Ever sound and syllable washed over you like a blanket, surrounding you in comfort. The way he painted his thoughts with words was something that was never lost on you.

“Next time speak up.” You say, echoing his words from earlier.

He hasn’t moved, he’s still on his knees, his face level with your waist. Somehow, even though he’s the one kneeling, you’re the one who feels vulnerable.

“Get up, Loki.” You feign irritation.

He smirks, “I suppose I should, after all it’s been quite some time since you’ve had me in such a...compromising position.”

Memories flood your mind, visions of the two of you tangled amongst his emerald sheets. Skin coated in a post-intimate glow, nothing but pillow talk between you.

“You’re perfect.” Loki croons as his fingers trace lines along your bare hips.

A fierce heat fills your cheeks, and you laugh. You were naked in the Prince’s bed and yet it is his words that embarrass you.

“and you, Loki Silvertongue, are just sated.” You avoid his eyes, not wanting to fall anymore than you already have.

His strong hands find your cheek and grip it gently. “While that may be true, it doesn’t change anything. You’re flawless, an absolute goddess in every way.”

Loki kisses you. It’s unlike the ones just minutes ago; these kisses aren’t raw and hungry, but soft as passionate. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think they were full of love.

“Loki...” you whisper. You hated this part, sneaking away in the middle of the night in fear.

He doesn’t answer, he simply pulls you close, holding you against his glistening chest.

“Loki, I have to go.” Your voice is strained, on the verge of tears as always.

“No.”

It comes out far too quickly. “No? What do you mean no?” You ask.

He’s holding you, still. “I mean no. I wish for you to stay here, in my bed, with me. I wish to hold you while you sleep, and watch you as you wake in the morning’s first light. I wish to make love to you as the sun is rising and the swallows chirp. I wish to love you properly and without fear.”

Speechless. Loki never fails to leave you speechless. He looks down and see’s the tears welling in your eyes.

“Ellaria, my heart. I love you, and I don’t care who knows it.”

Shaking your head, you’re brought back to the present, the memory alone bringing the familiar sting to your eyes. “Stop it.” You strain.

You know Loki is putting the thoughts in your mind on purpose, messing with you consciousness in an attempt to weaken your resolve.

...and you’re terrified he’ll succeed.

Loki runs his hands up your legs, “How long has it been, Ellaria?” When your name fell from his lips, you shuddered. “How long has it been since you’ve been touched? Was I your last? Heaven’s know I was your first.”

You step back, “Enough, Loki.” You don’t look to see if he gets up. Instead you move back to the window, folding your arms and praying he’ll get the memo to leave you be.

Nope.

You feel him before you hear him, the heat from his body has never matched the coolness of his skin. “Was I your only? Could that be why fate has bound us together this way?” His hands find your waist for a moment, before tracing up your arms.

You don’t answer, you refuse to give him the satisfaction.

Loki chuckles, the deep, rumbling sound in his chest echoing in your ear. “You were mine, once. It seems as though your body still is.” His delicate fingers sweep the hair off of your neck, revealing you goosebump covered skin.

Growling, you spin around with one of Loki’s daggers in hand; you’d grabbed it from his belt whilst he was talking.

The tip of the blade touches the soft part of his neck, right under his chin. You hold it there with firm, but shaking hands. For a moment, no words come out. That’s when you realize your eyes were unable to hold the tears back any longer.

Loki’s hands are up in surrender as you step forward, keeping the blade to his flesh.

“I...am not...yours.” You croak. Your throat so strained, you were sure the ache would never subside.

He watches you for a moment, always observing before acting. Loki slowly lifts his hand and moves the blade away with one finger.

“Then why do you cry for me still?” It comes out as nearly a whisper. For a moment, his eyes look familiar. They look like a place of safety; gone is the empty and cold darkness.

You shake your head. He’s not the same, Ella. Don’t let him fool you again. It’s a mental pep talk, one that would save you from being vulnerable.

“My tears are not for you, they are my own for being so blind. My blade, however, that is something I intend to use on you and you alone.” You’re deflecting, he knows you are. You can tell by the smirk now gracing his lips.

“I’ve no doubt you’d try to kill me if you thought you’d make it out of here alive. The sad truth, my dear? You need me just as much as I need you.”

His eyes are back to normal; dark and unchanging. You keep his dagger, and shove it into your waistband.

Stepping around him, you walked to the bathing room. The moment the door clicked shut, you let out a shaking breath. Why were you letting him affect you so much? Hadn’t you moved on from this by now?

He’s manipulating you, Ella. Just like before.

Splashing your face with cold water, you attempt to gather your nerves. You did not need Loki, and you intend to prove just that.

Not only to him, but to yourself.

Tagging:  @jessiejunebug @babyboybucky @classyunknownlover

[kingedwardvi]

Calendar of State Papers Foreign: Edward VI 1547-1553

1551.

Jan. 6. [Antwerp?] Gaeret Harman, goldsmith, to Sir William Cecil. After a good passage he arrived at Antwerp on New-year's day, at 10 p.m. whence he proceeded to Master Channerly [Chamberlain], at Brussels, and delivered the message. 

Received for answer that they should have no need thereof, and it was hard to get it, because the Lady Regent is not at Brussels, and that if application were made to the Council for a passport, it might be thought suspicious; therefore bids him make the best shift he can to get a good ship or two as needs require and to get him to Zealand with Master Gondelfings [Kundelfinger] and his company, and with the first wind to sea. 

Requests Cecil to procure for him a passport, since without it he may be stayed. Having a bit of the ore in his bag, he gave it to Gondelfings and the Burgomaster, the latter of whom immediately assayed it, and found it so good that there is no doubt if he have ore enough the King shall receive such honest profit as will cause the Council to regret that it has been so long delayed. Has had no tidings of Dansell's coming, or of the money, which grieves him. [Two pages.]

--- Jan. 7. Augsburg. Sir Richard Morysine to Cecil. Were well worthy blame, and unworthy either to receive long or short letters from Cecil, if he did not bid his shortest welcome and give most earnest thanks for them. Master Hales plieth him with precepts, and breeds a desire in him, as much as he can, to please them both. 

Ciphering is to him such a pain, as he had rather do any drudgery than fall to it, and yet will he lie no more so open as he has done. Winchester's fault he can no way better amend, than in doing as he did, to be most against him. Well likes Mr. Wotton's wariness, and where he can, does mean to follow it. He does but tell reports for the most part, which is, in his fancy, a good part of his service; as he can seldom come where he may know whether they be true or otherwise. 

If he does sometime say his conjecture, so it be thereafter hid under a cipher, his lack of judgment, in guessing otherwise than it is, may more justly be pitied than he shent for saying as he thinks. He had rather seem unwise than unwilling to further as much as he can; and what harm do councillors take, when he has said, which may think as they see cause and do what they best like? 

That he is so open, the fault is Fortune's, and many times not his. He sometimes hears news of importance when he has scarce time to write them; if he shall send them, they must go as they may; if he stays them for cipher, they may come thither by other means, and he be shent for leaving his duty undone. 

He supposes his letters come into England unseen; if they do not the Emperor is content men shall write the success of rebels as well as his good fortunes. He may be bold to favour that he ought, when W. made at his discourses to set up that he ought to have beaten down. Will follow him but when he is forced; learn to pardon faults, and he will make the fewer. 

Cecil will perceive what charges will grow newly to him; if the Emperor goes into Hungary, he must either send home his wife or keep at Argentine [Strasburg]; do which he will, he is half undone. Marvels that his diet money cometh not; if that will not serve with more, is it reason he lacks it?

Prays Cecil will cry upon Mr. Hales to sell his western land; he left commission with him, and writes every post to him for it. He would be able someways to entice some to bring him advertisements. His geldings have hitherto served, he must now seek other shifts. 

May no licence be granted to him but licence to want, and few to pity him? "Good Mr. Cecil, let me perceive that you have made my scuse of not writing, and that he hath as well a mind to help me out of this beggary as though I wrote daily. I wish you health, and my lady your wife sick of child."

P.S.—"You must in any wise help Christopher Mount to part of his money; if not to all. I know he wanteth; and, as little plenty as I have, I was driven to pity his needs more than mine own lacks. You shall at once do pleasure to twain." [Three pages.]

--- Jan. 8. [Antwerp?] Gaeret Harman, goldsmith, to Sir William Cecil. Earnestly desires that this money may be paid, as these men heartily desire to serve the King. After the Burgomaster had twice or thrice repeated the assay of the ore, he was as merry as if the King had given him 100 pounds, and said that if he might have ore enough, the whole realm should have cause to thank God for it. 

Out of the 100 ounces would be got more than eight ounces of fine silver, and half a hundred of good lead. If Cecil will show this letter to the Council, they will see that he has always spoken the truth in regard to this matter, and it were pity that men of no experience should meddle in it, as they would lose the one half that God had given to them. [One page.]

--- Jan. 18. Greenwich. The Council to Sir John Masone. Acknowledge his letter of the 30th December, and commend his diligence. Desire to be informed what he has done in regard to the lewd French book against the King, and that he may let the French King know that, however anxious they are to be on friendly terms with the Scots, the latter will always provoke a breach of the peace. 

Dr. Smith has farthered his own suit by printing at Paris a slanderous book against the Bishop of Canterbury. He has once deceived an Ambassador in Flanders, and by likelihood would deceive another in France; but indeed they know him too well to be deceived by him. 

Mr. Chamberlain having lately been denied the service of his religion in Flanders, they have caused the Emperor's Ambassador to procure him liberty on pain of his own restraint here. Wish to know how he is treated in this respect in France. Mr. Pickering's preparations are well advanced, and the time of his departure will shortly be made known. Orders have been issued for the payment of Masone's diets. [Three pages. Copy in Sir J. Masone's LetterBook.] Eod. die.Draft of the preceding. [Four pages.]

--- Jan. 19. Blois. Henry II., King of France, to King Edward VI. In favour of Nicholas Guymonneau, a merchant of Orleans, whose vessel had been captured by the English in 1547, during the time of peace. [Broadside. French. Countersigned by De l'Aubespine.]

--- Jan. 20. Blois.  Sir John Masone to the Council. Introducing the merchant of Orleans mentioned in the preceding letter, and urging his suit, the same being much made of by the French King and Court. [One page and a half.] Eod. die.Copy of the preceding in Sir J. Masone's Letter-Book. [One page and a half.]

--- Jan. 20. Augsburg. Sir Richard Morysine to Cecil. Is his land so increased since his coming out, or his substance so unknown, that men do think he may serve the King without his diets? He would he could, not that he cares, "if your intrade lasted no longer mine than I have to serve here." 

If all his doings be still misliked, he is able to do no better, is sorry for it, and wishes some wise men might shortly call a fool home. He has written so much, and to so many, that he must have a new matter ere he can write more, and come home to make more friends ere he can write to any more. 

Shall he continue at his cares where to have money, how to get his house found? What service can a mind thus distempered think upon? or if he chance to think upon any, how shall he do that he gladliest would? He prays God he come no more home, if he has not in this little while spent a thousand pounds within a fifty or three score. 

He does ask yet but his diets, and if Mr. Hales would make as good haste in selling his land as he does in entreating him to it, would spend his own first, and cry for his allowances after. Does think there be that owe him their help. If they be not able to pay presently, he will bear with them; if they be, and will not, they do him a good deal of wrong. 

He cannot serve without heart, nor live without money. Can less bear this his infelicity, that he must be where spending is necessary, where he must with unreasonable blushing borrow and still fail his day. Had rather write of other things, but sorrow guideth his heart, and his hand the pen. 

God send him once home, and he trusts he shall better indent ere he come forth again. Will stop, and let rage of his race, praying that by some means or other he may be holpen to his due. " And thus in frost, all out of temper, I wish you more than I care for myself, health. Yours in temper and out of temper." [Two pages.]

---- Jan. 22. Blois. Sir John Masone to the Council. Requests passports for one year may be granted to Sir Hugh Campbell, Sheriff of Ayr, his son Matthew, their two wives, and eight servants, to go from and return to France through England; and as Sir Hugh intends to purchase here three or four curtalls, begs that they may be allowed to pass without staying, any restraint to the contrary, if such there be, notwithstanding. [One page.]

--- Jan. 22. Blois. Same to same. Requesting passports for Mr. Hugh Kennedy and Mr. Ringan (Ninian) Cranstoun, two Scottish gentlemen, with seven or eight attendants, their horses and other necessaries, to go to Scotland through England; also that such stoned horses or curtalls as he might desire—one or two being at the most—shall pass without restraint. [One page.]

---- Jan. 23. Blois. Same to same. Apprizes them of the departure of Mons. de Lansac, a native of Guienne and "gentleman for the mouth," who has been sent by the French King as a mediator for peace between England and Scotland. Again refers to the case of the merchant of Orleans mentioned in his letter of the 20th. 

The military preparations are supposed to be against the Emperor. "This Court was never so secret, and therefore the harder it is to know any certainty of things but as time shall reveal them." 

The Chancellor of France has been recently dismissed, on the ground, as common report goes, that he was too slow for the office; but wise men think there was some other matter.

"This Court is all set upon pastimes, and between Candlemas and Shrovetide shall the marriages go forward with much triumph." [Four pages and a half.]

Eod. dieCopy of the preceding in Sir John Masone's Letter-Book. [Four pages.]

---- Jan. 24. Blois. Sir John Masone to the Council. Requesting letters of safe conduct for Sir James Douglas, of Donnelanerycke (Drumlanrig), with eight or ten servants, returning to Scotland through England, and that the same may be sent by John Douglas, who will wait upon their Lordships for Lord Maxwell's safe conduct. [One page.]

---- Jan. 28 Greenwich. The Council to Sir John Masone. Introducing to him a secret agent, "one that Balneys (Balneaves) the Scot hath committed of trust to be in France," and who will bring to him as much intelligence as the Scots have. They have given him 10l. towards his charge. [Half a page. Noted by Masone to have been written in cipher. Copy in Sir John Masone's Letter-Book.]

--- Jan 29. Greenwich. Same to same. In consequence of intelligence received from France, Scotland, and elsewhere, that the great military preparations by the French are intended against England, they desire him to learn from the French King himself their meaning in these preparations. [One page. Copy in Sir J. Masone's Letter-Book.]

---- Jan. 31. Greenwich. Same to same. Introducing the bearer, Mr. Dudley, who accompanies the Vidame to France, and requesting that the usual attentions and good services may be shown to him. [Half a page. Copy in Sir J. Masone's Letter-Book.]

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Feb. 3. Augsburg. Sir Richard Morysine to Cecil. Has now in all received three letters from him; as glad of these as sorry that any sent from him should come short. Was in his last letter, as by this is sure Cecil perceives, wonderfully cumbered for lack of money. 

At home he had not many that ever he durst open his lips to borrow of them any money; and here he would fain be taken for no beggar, not that he passes so much to be one, as that, being so counted, he shall be less able to do good service. 

The rest of his calling be able to lash and lay on, and he, poor soul, must oft lose his night's rest, for that he cannot day it as others do. Thanks him for his friendship and services. If he had heard of his money before, his warm letter, which he sent last of all, had frozen itself to nothing. 

"Let my lady, your wife, take heed she writes no Greek, for if she do, Joannes Sturmius is like to see it Mr. Ascham hath already done her errand to him, and, I do believe, you and she shall shortly see their letters in print. I will not, for all my saying, do more than shall stand well with both your pleasures; and yet, lest she chide me for some others' quarrel, it were my best to say I would show her letters to strangers; so I know she would be afraid to chide me. 

But, what she will, she can write to few that will give her more thanks for a curst letter than I. And yet, let her take heed, for I can, as you may see by my last, speak apace when I am angry." 

His wife sends her commendations to Cecil and his lady, wishing that when the former is at Court without her the latter were here. Is glad Mr. Pickering goeth into France, and hopes he shall easily maintain amity at the Court there. Ωσπερ μεν η ειρηνη τοις ανθρωποις τ'αγαθα παντα τικτει ουτω δε πολλα τα λυπαρα, και κακα εκ του πολεμου γινεται. He means as he writes, and wishes they might for three years war with nobody. [Three pages.]

--- Feb. 7. Florence. Francis Peyto to the Earl of Warwick. Hears nothing farther of the General Council proclaimed at Rome. Some doubt expressed as to its proceeding, as many things may fall before Mayday to let the same. Favours have been offered to him of late, as, with the occasion of their so granting, the inclosure will show; to these his reply is deferred, because they be from Rome removed. 

It is such as may both well excuse the not accepting, and also still maintain him in his credit. The Pope gives himself good time in feasts and triumphs which have been made this carnival. He is liberal of his pardons, for in this city be many of his jubilees. He is known altogether to be imperial, and only favourer of that faction. He rather attendeth to enrich his own, than of Cardinals to augment the number; for hitherto there is but one that hath the hat, where many more were hoped. 

The Genoese are deceived in their vain hope, for at present Don Diego is there, and doth eftsoons return the labourers to the fortress, with whom it is there now matter of state that will with words gainsay the same. So is the liberty there enlarged! Spaniards keep them under awe, whose number daily increaseth in the country thereabouts, but in the city not yet received. 

On the 25th ult. Don Garcia, son to the Viceroy of Naples, and brother to the Duchess here, passed in post this way to Augsburg. He seeks from the Emperor the reversion of Prince Doria's room upon the seas. Hitherto he has only had charge of the Neapolitan galleys, with which he has so well behaved, especially in the late taking of Africa, that he is thought likely to obtain his object; and the rather because of his brother-in-law, the Duke, a man of whose help oftimes the Emperor is served, and maketh good stay in his affairs in Italy. 

He is also a Prince of wise and notable government, as by his proceedings daily is declared. It is thought that the Bishop of Rome and the Duke here will shortly raise some men to send to the service of the Emperor in Hungary, where he has recently gained from the Turk a strong fortress, with the death of many that were therein.

P.S. Has just received from Rome a letter of 31st January, copy of which he annexes to the inclosure. Is uncertain what may be the foundation of these conjectures, but will prove if he may learn the same. [One page and a half.] Incloses,

~ Copy letter from Rome of 17th January. Advises him to prevent Henry Stafford, who, at coming home, is likely to do him small pleasure, with a wise letter to some of his friends. He may thank his Lord's Grace and his uncle, who has of late spoken to the former in his behalf, and obtained a promise of effectual recommendation of him to any Prince of Italy, where he thinks he may best be entertained, and like a gentleman, in case he would willingly forsake all that he has in England, and return to Christ's laws. 

Writer will communicate his mind more at length in next letter; meanwhile, let him consider which he should prefer of these four, the Duke of Florence, Duke of Urbino, Duke or Cardinal of Mantua, or Don Diego, all of whom are his Lord's entire friends. Were the writer to choose, he would select Urbino, for the quietness of that state, before the rest; he has a singular friend in good estimation both with the Duke and Duchess there to further Peyto in that behalf; but let him do as his heart likes best.

~Letter of 31st January. Of his Lord of Sarum, and the writer's love and affection towards him, he needs never to doubt, for he shall find them always ready to his advancement. By a former letter he might perceive in what state Mr. Thomas Stafford, his Lord's nephew, stands with his Grace, whom writer takes to be of such grace and qualities that perchance the time may come that both he and Peyto may be glad, not only to serve him, but that he ever came into these parts. He is not a little affectionate to Peyto upon his uncle's report and that of the writer; so that Peyto, being little older than he, may be hereafter better able to serve him than the writer, whose good years be almost past. No man living knows what he may come to. 

Conjectures more things than may be thought on, and therefore writes this as a warning, that when the time comes, Peyto may say the writer prophesied this long before. Let him in the meanwhile proceed diligently in obtaining virtue, and serve God faithfully, and put not all his confidence and trust in a little plot of land he has at home, which every hour may be taken from him. Has been absent from Rome with his Lord's Grace for 15 days, for which reason he did not write last week. [One page.]

--- Feb. 7. Blois. Sir John Masone to the Council. Had received by Francisco their letter of the 29th January, on Monday, the 2d curt., at 7 p.m. Next morning requested audience, which was deferred for two days on account of the great pastimes invited. Gives an account of the King's and courtiers' tilting, the processions and masks, to which the Ambassadors were invited, and had places prepared for them; and of the grand banquet made by the Cardinal of Lorraine, at which the King himself was steward of the feast and the Constable clerk of the kitchen, "to which also were bade the Ambassadors, to see but not to feed." 

He "never saw a more goodly or a richer sight. A man would have thought that all the jewels in Christendom had been assembled together, so gorgeously were the dames beset with great numbers of them, both their heads and bodies." 

On Friday had audience of the King after dinner. Details at much length their conversation, and a subsequent one with the Constable, in both of which the most positive assurances of friendship and disclaimer of any hostile intentions were given. The general belief is, that the preparations are designed against the Emperor, whose Ambassador "standeth in such doubt, as he hath already sent away his wife." 

Divers bands have been sent lately to Piedmont and some into Burgundy; and the Emperor, on the other side, makes himself strong in both places. The preparations made of soldiers are most in Gascoigne and Burgundy. The Swiss are, by all means, entertained, and so are all such states of Italy as these men make any account of. 

The strife between the Bishop of Rome and the King for the archbishopric of Marseilles is ended, and the Bishop for this time hath his mind. The harangue against the English made at Court was by the prothonotary Monluc, in presence of the King, the Queen of Scots, the Cardinal of Lorraine, and Mons. de Guise, assembled to discuss the pacification of matters in Scotland. "It should seem he brast out therewith ex abundantia cordis, and of his cankered malice towards us." 

Had brought the matter of the lewd book before the Council; states what occurred on the occasion. Has discovered that the author is Peter Hogue, "who hath long served in all practices between the subjects and the Prince against whom this King hath meant hostility. He was first Secretary to Rincon, and sithen to Poulin, and lastly he was joined with Monluc in Scotland and Ireland, and was at the commotion time in habit dissembled in England. But, finally being sent to the Emperer's countries to make some stir there, he is taken, and lieth by the feet in Riplemonde, like to have that that he hath long sithen deserved." 

This Peter wrote the book, but as far as he can learn it was published by the said malicious Monluc, who is now in Gascony, and to whom they have promised shortly to speak withal. Concerning the service of his religion, he has ever since his coming to the Court, used on the holidays, for the most part, the communion, and some time in the working days the common prayers, which he causes to be done in the open place where he dines and sups, and at such an hour as the end thereof, for the most part, meets with the beginning of his dinner, and hitherto never found any man fault therewith, and yet have a good number at Sunday times come to the God-speed of it, as well Frenchmen as Scots. 

Is informed that certain rovers have gone from these quarters to lie about the coast of Devonshire and Cornwall, among which, besides Scots and French, are many Englishmen. The blind Scot, that nameth himself Archbishop of Armachan [Armagh], passed by this Court five or six days ago, and was very much made of; he has gone in post to Rome, being appointed to be one of the doers in the Council. 

Captain Poulin is restored to liberty. Chastillon is now in great credit. His heart is made to bleed by hearing the base sort of the Court, both Scots and French, who are glad to hear anything to the disadvantage of the English doctrine, talk of the buying and selling of offices in England, the decaying of grammar schools and the Universities, with many other enormities, which they show one to another, printed in English books, and set forth by English preachers. 

Rolfe has come in his old age to be a student in Orleans. The Portuguese Ambassador, having a suit in England for certain plate and other things spoiled upon the sea, has requested him to write to their Lordships for favourable justice. He is a right honest man, therefore it were a good deed if he might be restored to some part of what he has lost. Desires to know what answer he shall give to the Earl of Huntly, who often sends to him touching his passport. [Eleven pages.]Eod. die.Copy of the preceding in Sir John Masone's Letter-Book. [Eleven pages and a half.]

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Feb. 16. Westminster. The Council to Sir John Masone. Acquaint him with the proceedings at their conferences with Mons. de Lansac on the subjects of his mission, viz., the settling of differences between them and the Scots as to boundaries, the ransom of prisoners, free traffic on sea and land between the English and Scots, &c. 

The main propositions had been agreed to, and what remained are to be arranged by Masone and Sir William Pickering, who is shortly to be sent to France on a special mission. The Bishop of Winchester was yesterday deprived of his bishopric, "and in his disobedience and obstinate refusing of the King's Majesty's mercy and favour, showed not only a wilful pride, but also a cankered heart of an evil subject." [Six pages. Draft.]

Eod. die.Contemporary copy of the preceding. [Six pages.] Eod. die.Copy of the preceding in Sir John Masone's Letter-Book, with copy of the articles delivered by Mons. de Lansac, and extract from a treaty between Edward IV. and James III. of Scotland, referred to in the letter, and which are not in the drafts. [Nine pages.]

---- Feb. 17. Westminster. Same to same. Sir William Pickering has departed with a joint commission for Masone and himself, as mentioned in their former letter; think that as Masone has more readiness in the French tongue, that he should take upon him the handling of the arguments contained in the instructions sent in their last. 

On the same day that Lansac had received his answer, news arrived from the Captain of Berwick and Sir Robert Bowes that the Governor was at Edinburgh with all the French troops in Scotland and the complement of five or six Scottish ships, for the purpose, as was reported, of going to the borders to punish certain thieves in Liddesdale, but in reality, as the Captain of Berwick was informed, to make a sudden attack upon that town. 

Of this they had apprized Lansac and the French Ambassador, who were immediately to despatch a messenger to Scotland to prevent hostilities. [Three pages and a half. Draft.] Eod. die.Copy of the preceding in Sir John Masone's Letter-Book. [Two pages and a half.]

--- Feb. 18. [Westminster.] Instructions from the King and Council to Sir John Masone and Sir William Pickering, sent to the French King for the purpose of settling the mission of Mons. Lansac by an amicable arrangement of all the differences between England and Scotland. [Eighteen pages. Draft.] Eod. die.Copy of the preceding in Sir John Masone's Letter-Book. [Eight pages.]

----

Feb. 23. Blois. Sir John Masone to the Council. Three or four days since was informed by a wise man and of practice, whom the French King uses often in his secret affairs in Germany, that notwithstanding all their fair words and specious appearance, the King and Court are bent upon war with England, and assuredly will if the Turk comes into Hungary. 

That this is prompted by Mons. de Guise and his house, in so much as it is already half concluded to send away the Queen of Scots with all convenient speed, and with her 300 or 400 men of arms, and 10,000 foot. His informant is much affected to the English religion, and having a great desire to go to England to see Bucer, may probably accompany Masone on his return, when their Lordships may learn more. 

Endeavouring subsequently to ascertain what ground there was for such assertions, had learned that lately the King was highly irritated by a letter from Lord Maxwell complaining of the refusal of his safe conduct; which feeling has been fomented by the Queen of Scots and her house, who bear in this Court the whole swing. 

"The Scottish Queen desireth as much our subversion, if it lay in her power, as she desireth the preservation of herself, whose service in Scotland is so highly taken here, as she is in this Court made a goddess. Mons. de Guise and M. d'Aumale, and the Cardinal of Lorraine, partly at her egging, and partly upon an ambitious desire to make their house great, be no hindrance of her malicious desire." 

The Constable, he thinks, would be content things proceeded otherwise. Recommends vigilance; Fistula dulce canit volucrem dum decipit auceps. 

"The credit of the house of Guise in this Court passeth all others. For albeit the Constable hath the outward adminstration of all things, being for that service such a man as hard it were to find the like, yet have they as much credit as he with whom he is constrained to sail, and many times to take that course that he liketh never a whit." 

Francisco has arrived with their Lordships' letter announcing their intention to send Pickering: as it may be sometime before they can have speech with the King, who is abroad hunting, and will not be within eight miles of the town for five or six days, sends back Francisco, who will inform them of the precarious state of his health, which compels him for the most part to keep his bed. 

In case it shall please God in the mean season either to call for him, or to continue him in this weakness, their Lordships shall not do amiss to give Pickering commission to do the errand alone, wherein peradventure he will otherwise be scrupulous. The malapert glory of the Bishop of Winchester that was is in no place better known than in this Court. This day a great many Scottish gentlemen were despatched with commission to take shipping in Flanders. [Six pages. Indorsed by Cecil.] Eod. die.Copy of the preceding in Sir John Masone's Letter-Book. [Six pages and a half.]

---- Feb. 24. Augsburg. Sir Richard Morysine to Cecil. What should he look for Cecil's long letters, when the shortest be so comfortable to him? It is his comfort that all his doings do not displease. His trust is his time weareth fast away, and that some good chance or other will send him home. If ever he comes home again, and may do anything with those that do send him abroad, he thinks he can say so much for poor men tarrying at home, that he shall be the last that shall be sent with any great Court to shame himself. 

His continual fear to lack, or rather his own continual lacks, must needs grieve him, and yet do they not half as much as that he is forced still to weary the Lords with his beggarly complaints. He thinks they would reckon him worthy some help, if they knew how his things waste away. 

He could write of his beggary till to-morrow, and find matter plenty. If he goes to anything else, now the Lords' letters are done and he almost tired, Cecil sees œgri hominis somnia how they hang together. Makes suit that some clerk of the Council might write but this much to men that serve abroad, "your letters written such or such a day are received," &c. 

If Cecil were in this case, he would think it as necessary as anything can be. Unquietness beareth such a rule in men's heads, while they may doubt whether things come as they be sent or no, that he shall do nothing wisely that feeleth that trouble, if he be no wiser than the writer is. Cecil sees he is troubled, therefore will no longer trouble Cecil. [Two pages.]

----

Feb. 25.  List of despatches sent this day to Sir John Masone and Sir William Pickering, viz.:— 1. Credentials for Sir William Pickering as Ambassador. 2. Instructions for Sir William Pickering. 3. Letter of revocation of Sir John Masone. 4. Letters from the Council to Sir John Masone. 5. Letters to Sir William Pickering to send Thomas Dannett. [Half a page. Indorsed by Cecil.]

--- Feb. 25. Westminster.298. Letter from King Edward VI. to Sir John Masone. Revoking his appointment as Ambassador, and notifying that of Sir William Pickering as his successor in office. [One page. Copy in Sir J. Masone's Letter-Book.]

----

March 17. Blois. Henry II., King of France, to King Edward VI. Acknowledging receipt of his letter by Sir William Pickering, and his concession of such points as had been urged by Lansac; for the completing of what remains will shortly despatch a gentleman who will pass through England to Scotland. [Countersigned by Bochetel. One page. French.]

---- March 17. Blois. Sir John Masone to Cecil. Requests that there may be no delays in the business of Sir William Pickering, who has promised to return within 18 or 20 days. "These men sithen this last commission seem much altered in disposition towards us, and in all men's opinions we are like this year as the last to be friends. If they mean otherwise, they be devils and no men." The Master of Erskine, whom he takes to be a very honest man, and given to peace and unity, will, with M. de Lansac, within two days be in England. [One page.]

---

March 20. Blois. Sir John Masone to the Council. Requesting a safe conduct for the Archbishop of Glasgow and his retinue, desiring to go to and return from Scotland through England. [Half a page.]

--- March 21. Blois. Henry II., King of France, to King Edward VI. Re-credentials of the Sieur de Lansac, sent to England on the matters contained in the letter brought by Sir William Pickering [Countersigned by Bochetel. One page. French.]

--- March 23. Augsburg. Sir Richard Morysine to Cecil. Perceives by Mr. Hales that his ciphering now doth as much cumber Cecil as his lying too open at the first gave occasion for warning him to play closer. Sees that in vitium ducit culpœ fuga si caret arte, and will from henceforth mean to hit the mean. Were Cecil in his place, believes that he would send few of those things open-faced that are now covered with cipher.

Mr. Hales says he is too merry. He must answer and say they be morosiores quam quibus morem gerere vel queat vel velit, that cannot allow him more mirth than he at any times hitherto has used. 

Mr. Hales writes that he has spoken to Cecil to help that the Lords may license him to have his diets in leather. "If you think I could be content to put you in silk, see that you help to clad me in leather." It is a mean spur to service to be always wanting; but he dares not touch this string, it maketh him all day after out of temper. [Three pages.]

--- March 23. Blois. Sir John Masone to the Council. Although the Master of Erskine and M. de Lansac were to have left last Thursday, they had been detained until this present Tuesday, "the occasion whereof is the far lying of the Chancellor from the Court, without whom, albeit he be removed from the seal, they conclude no great matter here; so much do they esteem a wise and a faithful servant, notwithstanding some displeasure taken with him upon a private matter. 

The Master of Erskine seems to be of a plainer sort than many are of that country, and to mean very much the sincere reconciliation of the two nations together. M. de Lansac has everywhere made honourable report of their Lordships' courteous handling of him. M. d'Estrees has returned, but the vessel mentioned in his letter of the 18th has been stayed. 

The Rhinegrave has returned from Denmark to a house of his wife in Gascony, albeit he was in sundry places by the way narrowly laid for. The Turk prepares 200 galleys for the recovery of Africa, to the great fear of all the coast of Italy, Sicily, and the islands in the Mediterranean. Much practice of late to make Parma hold of the French King in like manner as the state of Mirandola, and M. de Thermes, under pretence of going to Rome as Ambassador, has been some time there for that purpose, to the concluding whereof M. St. Pierre has very lately been despatched hence in post. 

The Bishop of Rome winks at this, and thereby has provoked the choler of the Emperor, who cannot but must much storm thereat, since it will give the French King a hold to do great harm in Italy when he pleases. 

There has been a great skirmish between Don Fernando and Signor Octavio touching the question of the frontiers of Parma and Piacenza, wherein many men are miscarried; and news have been received that Signor Octavio has beaten down all the Emperor's arms and crosses, and planted in their places the arms of France.

Recommends the case of the French merchant at Dover, as one very evident, even by the deposi tions of the inhabitants of Dover, and demanding speedy justice. Begs them to hasten the return of Pickering. [Three pages. Partly in cipher, deciphered.]

----

March 30. Cleves. William Duke of Cleves, to King Edward VI. Letters of credence in favour of Herman Cruser, Doctor of Laws, who visits England on business of the Duke's sister. [One page.]

----

April 7. Augsburg. Sir Richard Morysine to the Council. Hearing that the Lady Regent meant to make towards Flanders to-day, had on Saturday last requested an audience, which was granted the next morning at nine o'clock. Her Grace's professions of friendship on part of the Emperor and herself were great. Had told her that the news of this Court, which are that three French ships should be going into Ireland and drowned by the way, made him afraid the English should have good need of powder ere they should have leave to fetch it out of Flanders, if her Grace did not both help him to speak, and after help to speed such as should be appointed to fetch it. 

That the Emperor had given him a very gentle answer, showing a desire to furnish as much as could be conveniently spared; yet he saw the suit would finally be committed to her Grace's order, and therefore prayed her as her plenty might serve their need to help them. 

He had very good words, "if there were to spare, and we should have occasion to spend powder, we should," &c.; but his prayer is and shall be that there may be no more need of powder than they have will to afford it, and then it must either be wanted or fought hard for before it is had, or shortly after. M. D'Arras had been at Council with her Grace a great while before he came. 

Whatsoever the matter was, he saw by her countenance she was in dumps, although, smiling twice or thrice, she did what she could to keep cares in the dark. Here be more posting and little audience given to foreign matters. The Bishop of Jaen, as yet, has not spoken with the Emperor since his coming. Pigghinus would fain take his leave. 

The King of Sweden's men hitherto cannot get to his Majesty. The King of Poland's Ambassador has been there these two months upon taking his leave; he abideth his good hour. It is said that the Queen of Poland is either stark dead or not like to live, and that France will practise with him for a marriage. Has waited upon two Polish gentlemen that came to see the Lady Elizabeth's Grace. 

Knows that they both went home great praisers of her person and of her bringing up. The Frenchmen that were here have gone, as their Ambassador told Bernardine, towards Vienna. Cannot imagine why they should travel that way, unless it be that France may give from thence better advices to the Turk.

Rumours here that France meaneth a voyage into Ireland. Letters from their Ambassador at the Turk's Court had arrived at Venice late at night. In the morning they called a Council, and forthwith despatched 600 new soldiers to Corfu, with money and victuals for themselves and those already there. 

The Turk is said to have at Vallona, hard against Italy, 200 vessels to ship over horses, every vessel able well to carry little lack of 40 horses. To-day, Signor Gastaldo, who was Master of the Emperor's camp in his wars of Germany, goes towards Vienna. Some Spaniards lately slain by the Turks. Africa not thought to be the mark the Turk shooteth at. Italy and Sicily never fitter to be assaulted, both being so weary of the Spaniards that they care not who comes, so they may trudge away. Great dearth of corn and victuals in both. 

The General Council, it is said, will be prorogued to September; because of inconvenience to those that are called and are now on their way to it, supposes they will counterfeit a beginning, but there be few likelihoods that it should last any while. Germany is unquiet, and like to wax madder now that cold and snow have almost left. Two of these French gentlemen that came hither of late did communicate at the Protestants' church under both kinds. 

Duke of Oldenburg is said to have entered into Magdeburg with 300 men well horsed and well hearted. Will know more of the matters of that town by copy of a letter received from thence sent herewith (missing). Since then news have come that on the 25th March the inhabitants had given Duke Maurice's men another great overthrow, and taken prisoner his chief captain, Peter Pfefferkorn, with 200 more, whom, after disarming, they drove altogether before them into the town. 

Mutual complaints of the Emperor's Council and Duke Maurice; the former thinking that the Duke might have done more than he hath, and the latter that he was promised better aid than hath been sent to him. Men mutter that the Duke will procure himself no longer the hatred of Germany by farther offering displeasure to these men. 

The three Bishops-Electors and the Palsgrave, who have been always confederated, are, as it is said, together; some think for the Coadjutoria, others because the Emperor has taken into his hands Superiorem Palatinum, and the decease of this man doth make a claim ad Inferiorem. The Court will be but meanly furnished now King Maximilian has gone, the Queen going, and the Electors and Princes have left. The Prince of Spain is also ready to depart. 

The Emperor has here a guard of 2,000 foot, and it is said intends to bring 1,500 cavalry into the town; if so, the horses there, that now can hardly get meat, must starve, or seek victuals in other places, there being no hay within a dozen English miles round about. People supposed his Majesty would have removed hence, because wine and all kinds of victuals wax not only unreasonable for their price, but not to be had for their scarceness; yet now it is thought they shall lie here most part of the summer. 

Physicians think it perilous for his Majesty to remove till his health is stronger. Knows not whether it were better to be at the expense of removing where things may be had cheaper, or to remain here, dearth notwithstanding. Trusts their Lordships will devise, or rather have devised already, some help for him. [Four pages. A few lines in cipher, deciphered.]

---- April 10. Draft instructions by King Edward VI., with the advice of his Council, to Dr. Wotton, Dean of Canterbury and York, sent to the Emperor as Ambassador. He is to explain that no offence was intended by his Majesty, and if any discontent has been caused by the over-earnest speaking of religion to M. D'Arras or the Emperor by the Ambassador now revoked, it is to be ascribed to the excessive zeal of the man. 

That his Majesty, on grounds of natural equity, expects that his Ambassador in Flanders shall have the same free exercise of his religion in Flanders as the Emperor's has in England. And in regard to the Lady Mary, that no promise of the exercise of religion had ever been made; that a prescribed form of common prayer has been established by Parliament, and that as a subject she is bound, as well as his Majesty, thereby, so should he not but do unjustly to violate it, or in any point to agree to the breaking of it. [Ten pages.]Two copies of the above, with slight variations, attached.

--- April. 11. [Greenwich.]  Instructions by the King and Council to Sir William Pickering, sent to France to notify to the French King the appointment of the Bishop of Lichfield and Coventry [Richard Sampson], Sir Robert Bowes, Sir Leonard Beckwith, and Sir Thomas Chaloner as Commissioners to meet with those of France, for settling the boundaries of Scotland and England, about the beginning of May next, and to commence his duties as Ambassador on the departure of Sir John Masone. [Draft. Seven pages.]

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April 14. Augsburg. Sir Richard Morysine to the Council. So long as he hears not from their Lordships, he will pay no attention to the rumours that come abroad. And yet when it is reported that the French King meaneth to be busy in Ireland, and his Ambassador here says it is most false, he might both answer others, if he knew the state of matters at home, and believe the Ambassador as he should see cause. 

It is said to be very certain that the French King has 28 galleys at Marseilles, and has lately sent thither 140,000 crowns to do such things withal as are in hand; there is also much making of biscuits and such like provision. Further, that a Turkish galiot has arrived there, to solicit the French King to be in readiness, that both their forces may be abroad at the same time. 

The Emperor has also new ships and galleys at Barcelona. The Prince of Spain's departure is delayed, either because the French galleys may cumber his passage or because Andrew Doria has not yet returned from the succouring of Africa. Some say he means to seek out Dragut Rey, in hope to find him in certain straits where he must either fight or yield. Heard this day that Doria is very sick, and some think that by this time he is stark dead. Was told yesterday that letters from Venice mention the capture of a castle of the Duke of Ferrara by Ferrante Gonzaga; but heard to-day that it is a castle belonging to Parma, called Brusa. Whether it be the one or the other, it is thought that war will follow. 

Yesterday came from the Bishop of Rome one Dandino, a bishop, to commune with the Emperor in matters of Parma; so that the Bishop has three bishops here, who severally practise with M. D'Arras. Dandino, having risen by the house of Farnese, is like to favour Duke Octavio's desires, being thought to be full Farnese, as the Bishop of Jaen is thought to be Imperial; but both, notwithstanding, use all their friendship to the service of a third. 

Some reckon that the Bishop of Rome, either to dash the Council or for some other reason, so mindeth to cause a jar between the two Princes, that he will give to the Emperor all the interest that Rome has in Parma, and suffer him after to deal with France for the recovery of it as best he can. Carolo Vic [Carlowicius], agent here for Duke Maurice, was sent four days ago to his master by the Emperor, with instructions, it is supposed, to agree those of Magdeburg, finding less hope now to do them harm than at the beginning. 

Their Lordships must take all these things as reports, and not as of his own certain knowledge. Hears that an old fellow with a long beard has gone from this Court to serve the Lady Mary; he was a good while servant to Chapuis, and after that to Dilphius, and he has letters, to whom Morysine wots not, from the French Ambassador, which he wrote with leisure and very diligently. 

Three days since the Admiral of Flanders wrote hither that the French King's naval preparations are great, and thought it convenient the Emperor should have a good eye to his doings. To-day or to-morrow the Emperor entereth into the Diet, and it is thought will not tarry in it past 10 or 12 days: if he means to accord with Magdeburg and Bremen, as some suppose, it is like enough other things are in hand. 

All men think certainly that war will be proclaimed ere May be quite expired. Pigghinus has taken leave of the Emperor, and goes, they say, to the Council. The Emperor has again written to all his, that they fail not to be at Trent on the day appointed. Thinks that the more show there is of a Council, the less it is meant; and that the Emperor's taking of guaiacum and writing of new letters is but to make men imagine that he thinks of nothing but of the Council; for if the Council were certainly meant, the first letters from the Emperor would serve well enough to command as many of his subjects as must and mean to obey. 

Yesterday heard that the Bishop of Rome has imprisoned two Bishops in the Castle of St. Angelo, because they have become Protestants: one of these is the Bishop of Bergamo, a Venetian of good house; the other's name he knows not. Paulus Vergerius has set them a goodly example; if these be come, more may follow. Vergerius has done a marvellous deal of good by leaving his bishopric and forsaking his hope of growing great in the world; but he has done much more good by printing daily of new books, which go in great numbers into Italy. Many of these are dedicated to the King's Majesty. 

The man has left all to follow Christ, and lives very hardly. Many there are can gladlier commend well doing, than provide that virtue go not a-begging. "Bucer's death has raised up again the bruit that was here, that we are become Jews. The tale is thus told: the King's Majesty asking Bucer how the Bishop of Rome's authority might be quite extinct? His answer was, 'Sir, Messias is not yet come, and therefore the authority that Christ hath given him is to be accounted as none.'" 

Their Lordships see what lust they have to lie, that lie thus, not so much as colouring it with some likelihood of truth. "Bucer is safely laid up, and our country not the worse of a mite that they, which know no more of Christ than his name and dwelling-place, do take us all for damned souls." Many Spaniards and Italians this Lent past went to the Bishop of Rome's Nuncio to be absolved, for that they had served in the wars the King of England. 

Yesterday saw a letter from Ferdinando's Court that as yet little harm has been done on either part, but the Bassa of Buda has gathered a great power, rather to defend himself than annoy others, although some think he waits a larger force from Adrianople and Belgrade, and then, on all sides at once, to set upon Transylvania. Sends herewith a letter from Wittenberg to an honest man of this town, containing the matters which have been done at Magdeburg during the last month. [Four pages.] Incloses,

319. I. From Wittenberg, 23d March. Here they are building boats for making a bridge across the Elbe. They make frequent sallies, and beyond all expectation defeat Maurice's troops. They intercept ammunition and provisions and convey them into the city. So vigorously do they fight, that two days ago heavy firing was heard about 12 miles from this, and is still occasionally. 

All say that it is quite impossible they can take the city. The day before these letters were written many country people came to Wittenberg severely wounded, who said that they had saved their lives by concealing themselves behind the dead bodies. 

When Maurice's troops surrounded the gate to prevent issue from the city, these countrymen were told to leave or abide the consequences. While they delayed 2,000 soldiers rushed out of the city, slew about 300 of them, and attacking a large number of troops who were defending the trenches, killed some, dispersed others, captured several together with a standard, and took them to the city. 

These on the same night they dismissed, with white rods in their hands, after disarming them and writing down their names. John Margrave of Custrin desired to reconcile them to Maurice, and a convention was held at Corbet, but without results. [One page.]

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April 18. Amboise. Sir John Masone to the Council. George Paris, the Irish agent, mentioned in previous letters, has arrived, in company with a great gentleman from Ireland, offering the service of the rebels, with their country, to the French King, if he will send troops thither. 

They have had very good countenance both of the King and of the Constable, and have been in communication with the Bishop of Rome's Ambassador; but it is understood that they have been informed they may look for no aid hence. Details the political intrigues and differences among the Scots at the Court. The Emperor is exceedingly displeased with the Pope, whom he believes to have been a worker in the affair of Parma; and it seems that he has no fancy to be doing with the French King, by whom he has been so pricked lately, as, if he had any mind thereunto, he could not have kept his patience. 

Rumours that the Emperor mindeth to have war with the English. The Scottish Queen's shipping is hasted very much, and it is supposed that she will embark a month sooner than was determined. General musters through France. No great haste making there for sending to the General Council. The reports as to the Turk's intentions against Africa are dying away. 

The frontier of France upon Spain is very straitly kept. The King of Navarre has been dangerously ill, but is recovering. Lady Fleming departed hence with child by the French King, and it is thought that upon the arrival of the Queen Dowager in Scotland she shall come again to fetch another. States his objections to corporations. Complains of the long absence of Pickering, of his continued feeble health, want of money, and relative discomforts and inconveniences. [Nine pages and a half.]Eod. die.Copy of the above in Sir John Masone's Letter-Book. [Nine pages. Printed by Tytler, Vol. i., p. 351.]

---- April 19. Brussels. Sir Thomas Chamberlain to same. A Secretary of this Court, named Matthew Strick, leaves in four or five days for Scotland, in the capacity of Ambassador resident there, and a like Ambassador from Scotland is expected. Bremen and Hamburg are reported to have agreed with the Emperor, but Magdeburg still holds out. Great warlike preparations are made in Spain, and all the merchant-vessels are pressed into service: their destination is not known, but is supposed to be for another voyage to Algiers. [One page.]

----- April 20. Greenwich. The Council to Sir John Masone. Sir William Pickering has been detained by them until the Scottish matter should be farther proceeded in. He now leaves, and they request he may be thoroughly instructed by Masone before he enters upon his official duties. [Half a page. Copy.]

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April 22. Amboise. Sir John Masone to the Council. The name of the person who came with George Paris is Cormac O'Connor, the eldest, as he says, of nine brothers all alive; and he states that his father is the great worker of all this rebellion, and could never be induced to submit, notwithstanding the general coming in of the rest of the Irish nobility, in the time of King Henry VIII., although he has one house within a stone's cast of the English pale, and another within 20 miles of it.

 He charges the French King's messengers with causing the whole stir, and has requested from the Constable an aid of 5,000 men, which, with their own force, would suffice not only for defence but for offence. He has been put off with fair words, and is likely to receive nothing else; but the Queen Dowager of Scotland and the Vidame would fain have them helped. The Scots here are much discontented, and mislike the yoke that foolishly they have put their heads in. Mr. Dudley and Mr. Stukeley, who have been made very much of, return to England in seven or eight days. 

Schertel, the Protestant captain of Augsburg, despairing of pardon from the Emperor, has within these three days come to the Court and having offered his service to the French King, is very well entertained for the first coming. Hears nothing of Pickering, whose tarrying he can only impute to his own ill-luck. 

To-day news have arrived that the Queen of Bohemia has been brought to bed of a son, and that both her husband and the Prince of Spain were departing for Spain, the one to see his wife, and the other to keep the ordinary Courts held every fourth year in Castile, Aragon, and Catalonia, to the great advantage of the King. [Two pages and a half.]Eod. dieCopy of the preceding in Sir J. Masone's Letter-Book. [Two pages and a half.]

---- April 27. Amboise. Sir John Masone to the Council. The Irishmen mentioned in his last letter were on Friday willed to keep their lodgings, and to resort no more to the Court until they should be sent for. Supposes they will be despatched away very secretly, or that the object of their mission being so clearly known, it is not deemed expedient to entertain them so openly. 

The departure of the Scottish Queen is deferred again; some think because of a fancy that the French King has for one of her train; Mr. Dudley has behaved himself in this Court very honestly, and has communicated to Masone all that he could learn by haunting the company of the Vidame, than whom a more superstitious man is not in all this realm, and who has done all in his power to have the Irishmen aided. 

Longs to hear from England, having had no tidings from thence since the 26th of February. Begs to be informed if there is any alteration touching Pickering, in order that he may provide for such things as are necessary for his office, whereof, by too much trust, he is at this present so destitute as never was there in any Court a more miserable Ambassador. 

Yesterday arrived a Danish nobleman, called the Count D'Igles, who was brought up at this Court, and has come, as he alleges, to christen a son of Marshal St. André. A post from the Commissioners on the frontiers of Scotland has just arrived by sea, and two days ago the Baron de Courton was despatched thither. [One page and a half.]Eod. die.Copy of the preceding in Sir J. Masone's Letter-Book. [One page.]

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April 28. Amboise.  Henry II., King of France, to King Edward VI. Has instructed his Ambassador, the Sieur de Chemault, to request that his Majesty will cause to be delivered up to him a Scotsman, named Stuard, implicated in a conspiracy against his grand-daughter the Queen of Scotland. [French. One page.]

---- April 28. Augsburg. Sir Richard Morysine to Cecil. Though Germany cannot match England in sweet herbs, it can in nettles and such as have skill in stinging. He is a proof who wrote to the Council that Morysine was a messenger (αποστολος) rather than an Ambassador (πρεσβυς). Will not regard John Hales' complaints. Knows who says, it is strange if we can endure the cauteries of the physician, and not advice administered when we do wrong. Begs he will stand his friend, as he did by his attorney, when J. H. was there. 

Knows the thanks that good advice deserves. Gives a quotation in Greek to this effect, and adds, "My Lady Cecil can easily spy my theft, and so see what I might a-stolen more. I must say my Lady Cecil, and not change an opinion so imprest in me." Must stick to his opinions in that Court like his grandfather. "Knight it you when you can, I may no more unknight you than I can unlady my wife, and yet her ladyship on working-days is very well content to be wrapped in English clothes, and like shortly to mourn for silk if leather make me not able to barat with some shifting mercer." 

Thanks him for leather, as he expects to be baited when Wotton comes. Will be able to cast off the dog let loose upon him, if it be not the mastiff himself. Is sorry that Cecil would have him speak French, which he hardly understands; "Dieu vous garde, Mr. Buttes was wont to add, de bon jour." The French Ambassador has many advices that the two heads will not easily be reconciled. Cecil must induce him, for whose safety they are both most anxious, to yield a little of his state if the other cannot stoop. 

Their chief object must be the security of the King and kingdom. Considers he is writing not only to Cecil, but to the Duke of Somerset. Cecil's lady must kneel for him, and pay his compliments to the Duchess. "In earnest, if I have no leather my men will go barefooted." Has written to Northampton and Warwick, in whom is all his trust. [Three pages. Holograph, partly in Greek, partly English in Greek characters.]

---- April 29. Amboise. Sir John Masone to the Council. A conspiracy to poison the young Queen of Scots has been detected. He that took the matter upon him is an archer of the guard, who has escaped into Ireland. Much search is made for him, and it is reported that he has been already stayed to be sent into Scotland, and so again into France. 

The old Queen is fallen suddenly sick upon the opening of these news unto her. The design is supposed to have been devised by some miscontented Scots. The same post that brought these tidings also brought word that the Lady Fleming is brought a-bed of a man child, whereat the women here do not much rejoice.

On Monday a French post arrived from England, and since then there has been much talking of dissensions among certain of the English nobility. These he deplores, and thinks that the Ambassador ought to be informed of the truth of occurrents at home so as to stop such rumours: as for himself, these 10 weeks he is more ignorant of any occurrents of England than is the worst pack of this Court. 

Is in continual hope of the return of Pickering. The Princess of Navarre is with child, to the great rejoicing of the whole house of Vendôme. The King of Navarre has settled 400 francs per ann. on the bearer who brought the news from his daughter, and on his heirs for ever. 

The Duke of Vendôme is still with his father-in-law, not far from the frontiers; and it is thought that if the Emperor is not encumbered with the Turk, there shall be some exploit attempted for the recovery of Navarre. Has not heard from his doers in England touching the receipts of his diets, and beseeches their Lordships' aid herein. 

He has lived on credit these two months, not without great interest, and as all his plate and moveables have been sent off, he has no help for himself on this side. His diets are not much more than 37 shillings a day, which only defray his horses and house rent. [Two pages.] Eod. die.Copy of the preceding in Sir J. Masone's Letter-Book. [Two pages.]

--- April 30. Venice. Peter Vannes to the Council. Takes advantage of the departure of a courier extraordinary to inform them that the Turk's preparations are daily more and more certified to be great, and besides the 109 galleys which he has ready, he is providing 40 or 50 more. 

The doings of Andrew Doria are very prosperous to the Emperor's affairs, as will be seen by the inclosure communicated to him by the Emperor's Ambassador. The Bishop of Rome's demonstrations against Parma are like to turn into a calm, as it is reported that the Emperor is unwilling to kindle a war in Italy, and the Bishop of Rome is unable of himself to take any such enterprise in hand. 

The Venetians are very busy, and in eight or ten days their general with the galleys shall set forth. The Prince of Spain, it is said, defers his journey to Spain until the return of Andrew Doria. This day Signor Daniel Barbaro has had his first audience of the Seigniory, and is understood to have reported very honourably of the King's Majesty and their Lordships. [One page and a half.] Inclosure.

----

May 1. Greenwich. Same to same. Informing him that on last St. George's day the French King had been elected a Knight of the Garter, and that on the 18th of the present month the Marquis of Northampton, the Bishop of Ely [Thomas Goodrich], and others are to go to France to invest his Majesty with the insignia of the Order, and requesting that he will remain to assist the deputation. [One page. Copy in Sir J. Masone's Letter-Book.]

---

May 6. Greenwich. The Earl of Warwick [John Dudley] to Sir John Masone. The delay in Sir William Pickering's return has been by occasion of this great Ambassade. Recommends his son Lord Lisle, who has been appointed Attaché to the Embassy. The Marquis of Northampton is to leave upon Monday in Whitsun-week. [One page. Copy in Sir John Masone's Letter-Book.]

----- May 7. Greenwich. The Council to Sir John Masone. Sending therewith his Majesty's letter to the French King of the 1st inst., desiring him to present it officially, and to mention the appointment of the Marquis of Northampton and the Bishop of Ely as Ambassadors extraordinary for the ceremony of investiture. [One page and a half. Draft.]

---- May 19. Chinon. Sir John Masone to the Council. Had received their letters of the 7th upon Thursday the 14th inst., and had ascribed the blame of their late despatch to the negligence of the courier or some inferior minister. On Monday, in Whitsun week, he waited upon the King, and presented the letter from the King his master. The French King was exceedingly delighted. 

"I have not seen him more jocund, neither at any other time have I noted in him either a more pleasant or gentle countenance, either friendlier or more amiable words, which I could not guess but that they proceeded even from the bottom of his stomach."

Marshal St. André seems to rejoice very much of these outward signs of the increase of this amity. Is informed that he takes with him either two or three ships laden with wheat, and intends not to make too much haste to return, being desirous to have some experience of the English hunting, wherein they do exceed other nations. He also, it is said, brings with him a great number of the young gentlemen of the French Court. 

If so, their Lordships doubtless will not let them lack convenient entertainment. Signor Ascanio has returned with certain overtures devised for the pacification of the matter of Parma, which it is thought will not take effect so soon, the less because that Don Fernando, on hearing of the revolt of Parma, had seized a town called Bozzelis [Bossolo], not far from thence, belonging to the Cardinal of Ferrara, and is now fortifying it. Its position being such as to impede supplies from Mirandola, marvellously troubles the French. 

The Emperor is again reported to be dying. Has seen a letter from Rome, in which it is said that the Bishop of Armachan is thoroughly and very well despatched touching the matters of Ireland. What this may be he can rather conjecture than know certainly, but either is it some cursing, or giving the said realm in predam, or some mischief or other, which he trusts shall take the same effect as have other malicious practices which have hitherto been meant against England from that see. 

The French King's ordinance, that all ecclesiastics shall reside half the year on their benefices, has given much offence to the Bishop of Rome. Monluc is likely to be sent thither concerning this. Congratulates them on their taking measures for the reformation of the coinage in England, which will be gladly appreciated both at home and abroad. Marshal St. André will not leave until he hears that the Marquis of Northampton has crossed the sea. [Three pages.]

----

May 20. Brussels. Dr. Wotton to the Council. Arrived at Brussels on Monday in Whitsun-week, having tarried some days at Antwerp for sundry preparations necessary. Next morning Sir Thomas Chaloner and he sent notice of his arrival to the President de Mombarry, otherwise called de Saint Maurice, desiring audience of the Queen Regent. 

Her Majesty did not return from hunting until late, but to-day (Wednesday), about 10 a.m., the President came and brought them to the Queen, to whom Wotton delivered the King's letter. She used herself gently enough, made much expression of amity, and mentioned that the Emperor would leave Augsburg in the beginning of next month to come downwards. 

After leaving her they waited upon the French Queen, and did like commendations from the King to her; who also seemed to take it very well and used very gentle words to them. Intends to depart to-morrow, thinking to find the Emperor at Worms, where it is understood his Majesty will only wait for ships and boats convenient for him and his train. 

Wherefore, had he not feared to offend the King, he could have been content to spare this journey to Augsburg or Worms, and have tarried for the Emperor here, knowing how little pleasure it is for strangers to travel in that barbarous country of Germany. "As I passed through Mechlin a servant of mine told me that one in a velvet coat asked him whether he were an Englishman? My man said, 'Yea,' The t'other asked him whether he were my servant? My man said, 'Yea.' 'Then,' quod the t'other, 'I pray you show your master that I would fain speak with him.' 'What is your name?' quod my man. 'Marry, Geoffrey Pole,' quod the other. When I heard this I told my man I would not speak with him, he having used himself as he had done.

 Likewise here at Brussels, two gentlemen, the one called Kempe, the other Walgrave, would fain have spoken with me. I caused answer to be made to them that if they could make it appear to me that they had leave either to come out of England or to tarry here, I would be glad to speak with them, and else not. And so they went their ways." Desires to know his Majesty's pleasure whether he should have any communication with them, or other persons, if again sued for an interview. [Two pages.]

--- May 20. Greenwich. Commission from King Edward VI. to William Marquis of Northampton, Thomas Bishop of Ely, Sir John Masone, Sir Philip Hoby, Sir William Pickering, Sir Thomas Smith, and Dr. John Oliver, to conclude a treaty of marriage between his Majesty and the Princess Elizabeth, daughter of Henry II., King of France. [Three pages. Latin. Copy in Sir John Masone's Letter-Book.]

---

May 20. Greenwich. Commission from King Edward VI. to the same Commissioners to arrange a treaty of strict alliance and defence between France and England. [Three pages. Latin. Copy in Sir John Masone's Letter-Book.]

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May 20. Greenwich. Instructions from King Edward VI. to the Marquis of Northampton and the other Commissioners aforesaid,—proceeding to France to invest Henry II. with the Order of the Garter,—to demand the Queen of Scots in marriage with the King of England; and in the event of that being refused, to solicit the hand of the Princess Elizabeth, daughter of the French monarch. With the various stipulations as to dowry, time for solemnization of the marriage, &c. 

[Nine pages. Copy in Sir John Masone's LetterBook.] The treaty of marriage following upon the preceding commission has been printed by Rymer, Vol. xv., p. 273, 2d edition, 1728. First draft of the preceding (Eighteen pages), and fair copy thereof (Eight pages, indorsed by Cecil), without the three additional clauses contained in Masone's copy.

----

May 20. "A memoriall of such things as be to be considered for the instructions of the Lord Marquis" (Northampton). "An estimat of the enterteynement of the Lords that went over with my Lord Marquis." "A memorie for the enterteynement of my Lord Marquis and his treyne." In the first of these documents it is settled that there shall be no book of statutes (of the Order of the Garter), as hath been accustomed. [Five pages.]

---- May c. 20 or 21. Greenwich. King Edward VI. to Henry II., King of France. Informs him of the appointment of Commissioners to meet M. Lansac for settling the question of the Scottish boundaries, and giving credence to Sir William Pickering, who has been appointed resident Ambassador in France. [One page. Indorsed by Cecil. French. Copy.]

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May 28. Angers. Sir John Masone to the Marquis of Northampton. Congratulates him on his arrival in France. The King is at present within three leagues of Angers. Recommends his Lordship for the more ease to come by water from Orleans, as the Loire is much greater than in times past at this season it hath been wont to be. M. de Boisdaulphin, a gentleman of much estimation and chief maître d'hôtel to the King, is to accompany M. de St. André to England and remain as Ambassador there. Has just been informed that the King will be here on Tuesday next, will not remain beyond three days, but will go to Chateaubriand, 15 or 16 leagues hence. [One page. Copy in Sir J. Masone's Letter-Book.]

----- May 31. Paris. The Marquis of Northampton to Sir John Masone. Thanks him for his letter, and informs him that his entertainment hitherto by the way has been so gentle and friendly that he is put out of care for needing of anything while he shall be in these parts. M. de Mandosse had met him at Boulogne, and M. de Villebon at Montreuil, and made him right good cheer, continuing their escort of him hither. 

Had been visited by the Mayor and principal men of every town through which he passed, with such presents as they use. If Masone sees the King or the Constable, requests that he will express the Marquis's grateful sense of the attentions paid to him and his suite. 

Was informed yesterday by M. de Mandosse that the King would receive him at Nantes. Will leave Paris about Wednesday next, and spend three days in journey between that city and Orleans, whence he will take the water as Masone recommends him. Sends his compliments to Lady Masone. [One page and a half. Copy in Sir J. Masone's Letter-Book.]

----

June 2. King Edward VI. to the Duke of Cleves. Re-credentials of Herman Cruser. Trusts that the answer conveyed by the bearer will appear just and reasonable. [Draft. One page.]

---- June 4. Paris. The Marquis of Northampton to the Council. Informs them of his honourable entertainment on his way to Paris and of his reception there. Will leave to-morrow, intending on Sunday to be at Orleans, whence he proceeds by water to Nantes, where the King willed him to arrive about the 15th. The Marshal St. André will bring with him to England a very brave company, and M. de Beaudaulphin, who is to remain there as Ambassador. Yesterday Sir Anthony Guidotti showed him a letter from Florence, which mentioned that Horatio Farnese, who had left Marseilles with two French galleys, intending to land on some part of the Italian coast, wherefrom he might best reach his brother at Parma, was by force of tempest driven into one of the Duke of Florence's ports called Vireg, near Pietra Santa, where, having with difficulty landed in a small boat, he was discovered and conveyed to the Duke then at Pietra Santa. Whether he will be detained or set at liberty by the Duke is not known. [Three pages. Indorsed by Cecil.]

---- June 4. Paris. Same to the Earl of Warwick, Lord Great Master of the King's Majesty's most honourable household. Sir William Pickering has been informed by Francis, a servant of the Vidame, who speaks good English, and in respect of having been educated there says he will at all times discover what he hears to be prejudicial to England, that one John Hutchins, an Englishman, formerly a tamborine under a lieutenant with Mr. Luttrell, has lately been at the French Court offering his service to the King, and to bring the Scilly Islands and some parts of Ireland into his hands. 

The King gave small ear to his large promises, and licensed him to depart. He had thereafter seen the Vidame, and offered to send him intelligence from England, with plats, both of Jersey and Guernsey, and all the ports and coasts of England, desiring the company of some trusty Frenchman to deliver these things to him. 

Francis has been appointed very shortly to go to him in England, and he has promised from time to time to communicate Hutchins' proceedings to their Lordships, advising that no steps be taken against him until he has commenced his enterprise, when they may both be arrested, and Francis put to gentle ward that the discovery may not seem to proceed from him. 

Has also been told by Sir William Pickering, that having had certain letters delivered to him by a Scottish herald, to be conveyed to the French Court, he contrived to open them, and amongst others discovered one from the Master of Erskine to his wife, stating that when he last passed through England he had privily spoken with the Earl Bothwell, not mentioning the special matter, and requiring her to advertise him with all speed what the Scottish Queen's pleasure should be touching that mater. Refers to the preceding letter for particulars of his embassy. [Two pages. Indorsed by Cecil.]

----- June 4. Angers. Sir John Masone to the Marquis of Northampton. Has received his letter of the 31st May. The Constable, reckoning that his Lordship will reach Nantes about Thursday or Friday next week has arranged for his coming to Chateaubriand, the Constable's own house and seigniory, and has left this morning to prepare for his reception there; whither, the King, who arrived here on Wednesday, goes to-morrow. 

Desires to be informed of the number and qualities of his suite, concerning which the harbingers inquire daily. His Lordship's lodging was appointed in this town with the rest of his train to the number of 100 beds. The Constable being desirous to feast M. St. André at Chateaubriand before his departure for England, hopes it may be agreeable to his Lordship. Touching the conduct of Senarpont on the frontiers, the Constable has therein written out of hand, seeming not well contented with the matter. M. de Chastillon goes in post to Picardy with 10 or 12 experienced captains to set an order upon the frontiers, and would have gone sooner but for his desire to see the Marquis here. 

Thinks the cause of his going is the coming of the Emperor to the Low Countries. Horatio Farnese has been, contrary to his expectation, very well received by the Duke of Florence, and after good and friendly handling by the said Duke is departed safely and freely. [Two pages. Copy in Sir J. Masone's Letter-Book.]

--- June 4. Paris. The Marquis of Northampton to Sir John Masone. M. de Mandosse has informed him that, because of the preparations for his reception, the French King wills that in nowise should he arrive at Nantes before the 15th inst. This he regrets, and writes to let Masone understand the cause of his training upon the way. Tomorrow he intends to leave this, and to be at Orleans by Sunday night at the farthest. [Half a page. Copy in Sir J. Masone's Letter-Book.]

---- June 6. Plessis Macé. Henry II., King of France, to King Edward VI. Informing his Majesty of his election into the Order of St. Michael. [Broadside. Countersigned by De l' Aubespine. French.]

[xxisxxisxxis]

Gateway Drug | Part Forty-Five

Table of Content or Part Forty-Four

Read HERE on Wattpad

Words: 3.1K

Warning(s): Explicit language, sexual situations, mentions of drug abuse

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Five days detoxing at Doc's house+rehab+therapy=road to recovery=out of the woods. It's the magical equation I swore up and down wouldn't end in "Error."

The few dishes on the counter shatter into the floor once Nikki roughly sits me on it, his fingers digging into my thighs that wrap securely around him, our tongues twisting as we tug and pull at each other's clothes.

I get his pants undone as he pulls the towel from around my body, taking a handful of my soaking wet hair in his hand and tugging my head back to leave bites and bruises up and down my neck, causing me to hum in pleasure while my core pulses with anticipation to be filled by him.

Moving myself to the edge of the counter, spreading my legs as he runs his fist up and down his length a few times, I take heavy breaths, a wash of shame coming over me for a moment because this is the complete opposite of what we were instructed to do. 

But fuck the "no contact" rule. 

I've barely had any contact with him the past few months because he's been stoned or drunk. Telling me to practically ignore and avoid him for 30 days straight is like waving a loaded syringe in an addict's face before sitting it down in front of them and leaving them alone after telling them "okay I know it's right there and it's the one thing you struggle most to control yourself around, but don't even look at it."

Fuck that, and Nikki. And I refuse to walk around my own house anymore and not do the latter of those two.

The indescribable feeling of him pushing into me has my head tipping back , and my eyes closing as the both of us let out content sighs. 

I put my weight on one of my hands that rests on the counter beside me, the other hand wrapped around the back of Nikki's neck, as he moves in and out of me ferociously and I meet him thrust for thrust.

Let's take a step back and catch up on how he and I had gotten to that point.

Eight Days Earlier

"You two can detox at my place, check into rehab, come out when you're better and we'll go from there." Doc explains to Nikki and Tansy as they both sit on our couch.

"W-What about the press? Or my mom?" Tansy asks him nervously, fumbling with the tag on the throw blanket she's enveloped in.

"You let me deal with your mom and the media, alright?" Doc assures her. 

"Surely your mom won't be pissed at you for getting help, Tans." I try to tell her and she rubs her lips together.

"People will know I have a problem if I got to rehab." She points out. "It'll make me look bad."

"Having to cover your entire body with makeup to hide the discoloration of your skin and the track marks, looks bad, Tansy. Screw what people think. At least you're admitting you need help." I say and she doesn't reply, just looking at Nikki to gauge his reaction to all of this.

He looks pissed, but too tired and defeated to give a shit enough to argue with me anymore about it.

"What's the point of rehab if I'm just gonna end up kicking it at Doc's place?" Nikki asks me and I let out a breath.

"Because rehab will teach you coping mechanisms that Doc can't, Nikki. It won't take that long for you to get out if you just try your best at it." I reply and he scoffs. 

"So, what, you're babysitting me at Doc's until I'm done throwing up, shitting myself, and having hot and cold flashes and then shipping me off for a few weeks?" He cuts his dead eyes at me and Doc and I exchange looks.

"Well, it depends on how quickly you adjust to rehab and make a turn around, as to how soon you can get out...so it might be more than a few weeks." Doc informs him. "And Bob has already scheduled you and Viv an appointment with a marriage therapist."

"Well if I'm spending more than three weeks in rehab there's no point in working on our marriage." 

"The program you'll be in includes this particular therapist who's currently working on creating a schedule for Vivian to come visit you often and you two have your sessions bi-weekly." Doc states and Nikki rolls his jaw, looking at me.

"Is this what you really want? Your husband gone for weeks on end until some quack gives me a certificate and a gold star because I went 'X' amount of time without shooting up?" He harshly questions me and I rub my lips together.

I think of the reasons Nikki didn't spend more than three days in rehab the first time he went, was because A.) He refused to believe in a higher power, and B.) He didn't go to rehab because he knew he had a problem and wanted to get better, he went to rehab to appease the people around him because he felt we were twisting his arm until he gave up and cried "mercy" a.k.a "fine I'll go, just as long as you shut the fuck up and get off my back about it."

I look at him for a moment, studying his knotted hair, his yellow skin, his shot eyes, his weak appearance, before saying:

"I'd rather you hate me for a little while for getting you help, instead of waking up and trying to convince myself to continue to live in a world with no Nikki Sixx in it."

"We're not indestructible, Nikki." Tansy adds softly, knowing very well she and he both need help.

He doesn't say anything else.

She had Doc and I convinced she wanted help...but truth be told Nikki actually went to rehab while Tansy had Duff come get her from Doc's house.

She knew she had a severe problem, but the only time Tansy would "clean up" was when she gave her veins a break, out of fear of completely losing them, and was muscling smack. She would fall back on pills and lots of booze, then when some of her veins would start reviving themselves back from their smaller size, she would start up again.

I can't even say how much money she and her mother were paying people to keep quiet to the media. 

Nobody could know perfect Tansy Lyn, Playboy's Barbie Doll, was so broken inside that she repeatedly destroyed her body, let it rebuild, and wrecked it again. 

It must have been a punch in the face to her mom when Tansy came clean in '88 and admitted she had struggled with addiction and was going into rehab...and an even harder punch in the face when she came back in into the spotlight in 1989, dropping her stage name "Tansy Lyn" and dawning "Tansalyn Rose" after marrying Axl, and practically confessed every grimy detail of her obsession with hard drugs and alcohol since 1981, and why she started them to cope with what was happening behind the scenes of the brutal modeling industry. 

In 1990, her vision-come-to-life, "I Won't Just Smile", was born. It started as a campaign to raise awareness against sexual abuse, exploitation, and coercion in all corners of the modelling industry, then stemmed into an organization that offered free services to victims of addiction and abuse, from rehab to post-assault counseling and everything in between.

Years of Diane's hard work to create her daughter's untouchable persona, completely shattered.

I was just thrilled Tansy had turned her struggles around and used them to help others, but first, she would have to face a handful of overdoses, one of which nearly killed her, have a section of her liver cut out, and have a temporary pace-maker.

All of it just made Axl more strict about drugs. Not just for the sake of the band and the fans, but he was afraid some members of Guns in particular would pull Tansy back into the merry-go-round of addiction after she got clean.

"You're telling me I can't stay with him and Tansy?" I ask Doc harshly in a whisper once the four of us get to his house.

"You won't want to stay, Viv. I'm telling you, they're gonna pull out all the stops to get you to cave and get them some smack because they'll be in so much pain. I don't want you to see them like that and I don't want you to compromise their recovery." He explains.

"You think I would do that?!"

"I know you would if it came down to it." He states and I roll my jaw. "This isn't just little flu symptoms and some body aches. They will feel like they are going to die, they will look like they are going to die and I cannot trust you not to give in." His brutal honesty. "You'll be able to see them in about a week, they'll be better by then and then we can look at the next step. Got it?"

I just glare at him.

"Go kiss 'em 'bye' and fuck off." He says next, waving his hand at me dismissively as he goes to my car to grab Nikki's bag and his car to grab Tansy's.

I step back into the living room to tell them 'bye' but stop myself, deciding it's better to let Doc deal with Nikki's pissed off temper when he discovers I won't be staying with them.

Grabbing my car keys from the table by the door, I head the house.

When I get back to our house, I check the machine that's blinking a light to signal a missed call.

I go to the kitchen and get a glass of water as Slash's voice slurs through the speaker.

"H-Hey, Viv, um...uh...we..." I chuckle at his incoherent mumbling and step to the phone to call him back as another message starts playing where his left off.

"Viv," It's Duff. "Call us back as soon as you can."

I furrow my brows a little, about to dial them back until yet another message comes on.

"Viv, we got signed!" Steven's screaming has me dropping my water and the phone, joy coursing through the soles of my feet up to my hair, and I'm running around and screaming along with his recorded message loudly blaring his own excitement.

I run back to the phone and pick it up, dialing their apartment.

"We got signed!" Steven's voice is shouting at me before the phone even rings a single ring.

"When?! How?! By who?!" I say back.

"We'll tell you over dinner because guess who got $7,500 cash advances?! The same mother fuckers who've been stealing from strippers to get by, that's who!" He exclaims.

"Yeah, don't ever tell people you guys did that!" I say in the same tone. "Lemme change and I'll be over there, okay?"

"Okay." He replies, and I can just hear his smile through the phone.

I hang up and give one last scream of happiness before sprinting to get changed and leave.

Tom Zutaut, the same man responsible for giving Mötley Crüe their shot, had given the same shot to Guns N' Roses.

They had signed to Geffen Records, and although that was their second goal--the first was getting a band together--they knew the main goal was to release their first album, and hopefully, have it a success.

Before I can even knock on the door, it's swinging open and Steven's like a puppy, jumping around, waiting on me by the door.

I hug him tightly, trying to keep myself from crying with immense relief that they're one step closer--a giant step closer--to their dream.

When we pull away from each other, Duff holds his hand up for me to give him a high-five and I do, his fingers locking with my hand to pull me into a hug and I'm sandwiched between him and Steven momentarily.

A flash catches my eye and we pull away from each other to see a girl with short, blonde hair, that I've never seen before, holding a camera.

"That's gonna be a good one." She tells us, smiling at Duff as the Polaroid deposits.

Mandy Brixx, member of the punk band, Lotus Lame and The Lame Flames, was a cute girl with bleach blonde hair, beautiful brown eyes and a captivating smile...and was also Duff's first wife.

Mandy wasn't perfect, but she didn't disown Duff after he told her he had gotten me pregnant.

Even though he didn't cheat on her with me, and they had been broken up for about six months when he and I got involved, I know it hurt her knowing he had hooked up with the woman she was sure she didn't have to worry about when they dated. They ended up getting back together in 1988 and got married the same year.

They divorced two years later because something just "changed" and neither of them were happy, but I've always respected her because she was really good to Monroe.

His second wife, however, was crazier than a run over dog because she was always on something.

The last time I saw her in 1993, she had said something crass and rude to Tansy and before Tansy could reply, I was asking Linda, "were you born a cunt or does the crack just bring it out of you?"

She swung on me and I swung back. Except when I throw a punch, I make sure it lands.

Maybe she would've actually hit me if her equilibrium weren't as fried as her brain.

I would've kicked her ass if Duff and Matt Sorum hadn't pulled me off of her.

I hope she got her shit together after they divorced in 1995.

I guess bass players and crack-head models go hand-in-hand...

"Viv, this is my girlfriend, Mandy." Duff introduces me. "Mandy, this is my best friend, Viv."

"Hi, it's good to finally meet you." Mandy tells me with a gentle smile and I extend my hand to her.

"You, too." I reply as she takes my hand in her's, my eyes subtly flickering to Duff now that he's standing beside her, silently asking him when the hell he was going to tell me about his girlfriend.

"I'll tell you later." He mouths to me where she can't see and I just keep smiling as she strikes up conversation with me.

Once we get to the Rainbow, Steven and I are a few steps in front of Duff and Mandy, the blonde drummer letting out a little sigh.

"What is it?" I ask, nudging him.

"Just worried about Tansy." He admits, and I raise my brows. "It's not like that, Viv, I swear." He promises. "She's a cool person, is all. I wish she was here to celebrate this with us."

"I'm sure she'll be thrilled to hear about it when you're allowed to go visit her in rehab." I remind him. "Where's the guys?" I ask next as we step into the Rainbow.

"Slash is hanging out with this chick he met a couple weeks ago, Izzy's with his girl friend and I don't know where Axl is." He tells me and I nod. "So it's just a double date for us tonight." He grins widely, winking at me slickly.

After hours of just goofing off, talking, eating and demonstrating our celebration of Guns' stepping stone, Mandy's calling it a night.

"I'll call you later, Duff." She says to him as she grabs her jacket and he stands up to let her scoot out of the booth.

"Sounds good, babe." He replies, kissing her cheek.

"It was really nice to meet you." She tells me.

"It was nice to meet you, too." I reply.

"Bye." She smiles one last time at Duff, waving to Steven before leaving.

"When did you me--"

"Viv, lemme out." Steven interrupts me and I furrow my brows.

"What?"

"Lemme out, there's a hot girl at the bar and she just waved me over. I wanna get laid. Lemme out." He pleads and I roll my eyes and scoot out so he can stand up.

He does so, heading straight to the bar to try his luck with a beautiful brunette.

And then there were two.

"You were saying?" Duff chuckles out when Steven's gone and I smile a little.

"When did you and Mandy meet?" I ask him and he lets out a breath of cigarette smoke.

"Uh, a month ago, maybe? She gave me her number and I went back and forth with myself until I convinced myself to call her." He explains. "We spent the weekend together so I guess we get along pretty good. She's a great girl."

"She seems nice." I tell him, tucking a strand of my hair behind my ear.

"Yeah, she is." He agrees, taking another drag of his cigarette.

I take a sip of my water and sit in the silence that falls over us before noticing he's staring at me.

"What?" I ask him.

"You wanna go somewhere with me?" He offers, putting his cigarette out.

"Where?"

"C'mon." He stands up, nodding to the door.

"But Steven--"

"--Is about to go mess around with that girl in the bathroom. He's not gonna be mad if we leave him." He adds. "C'mon, you'll like where we go."

"If you say so." I shrug.

He pays the bill and the two of us head back to their apartment so he can get his car.

I know I should have been at home by the phone, waiting for a call from Doc or Nikki or Tansy, but it was pointless to sit at home and worry when I couldn't do anything about it anyway.

When we get to where we're going, Duff is parking his car in the lot of an abandoned building, and I glance around to see there's not much traffic around us.

"Is this the part where you murder me?" I ask him and he busts out in laughter, shaking his head.

"This is where Mandy and her band rehearses." He explains.

"Why're we here?"

"I picked her up here the other day and noticed something you might like." He gets out the car and opens his trunk, pulling out a shopping bag.

"Duff..." I say, uneasy as we approach the rusted door.

"Shh, I got it." He digs in his jacket pocket and plucks out a worn key, unlocking the dead bolt and the door knob.

I follow him inside, and he switches on a light switch, only one light beam in the ceiling comes on, and in the large, dim room, I see a large mirrored wall, sleek but worn out wood floors, and I turn to see Duff holding out a brand new pair of pointe shoes to me.

I wasn't going to tell him I'd gone so long without dancing that I'd have to work my way back up to dancing on pointe, because he'd spent money for the shoes and they looked to be around my size and I didn't want to know how observant he had to be to estimate my shoe size in terms of ballet...so I did something I was really good at doing at that time in my life.

I kept myself from crying.

I knew Duff was going to be a constant encourager in my life when he held those shoes out to me and so easily, so confidently, said:

"You've supported and helped me get into my groove of things to start accomplishing my dream. Now, I'm helping you get back into your's."

[bettydice]

(Planning the Day) To Meet You

Wangxian, Modern AU, Slow Burn, E-Rated

[READ ON AO3]

Chapter 3

Tuesday, Sixth Day with Wei Ying

Lan Wangji wakes up with a hard cock, again. This time, he can remember his dream. Not every image is clear, not every word spoken still audible. But he remembers enough to know that like Nie Huaisang’s poetry book, it is not as indecent as he expected. There was a kiss, but it was almost chaste. They were lying on Lan Wangji’s couch, Wei Ying on top, smiling down at him. One kiss, just one kiss and then Wei Ying put his head on Lan Wangji’s chest and fell asleep in his arms.

Lan Wangji wants that. He wants that more than what he’s envisioned in the shower. If he can have only one of those two, he wants gentle kisses and falling asleep together and feeling so, so warm and happy…

Oh.

Lan Wangji has fallen for Wei Wuxian.

Lan Wangji has often mildly wondered whether it would happen for him one day. After what his brother went through, he has occasionally feared it. Because he had known that he would be like Xichen. That he’d fall quickly and completely and stubbornly. When it seemed that maybe it would not happen for him, he hadn’t been disappointed. Life seemed to be much quieter and simpler… without.

Now it has happened. Wei Wuxian has happened.

Now that he knows what this is, that it is not just misplaced loneliness or boredom, he feels… relief. It does not feel scary. These feelings are not a bother. Liking Wei Ying is not bothersome.

Now that he knows, he can adapt.

Instead of letting Wei Wuxian disrupt his routine, he can include him in it.

Today, he packs more lunch than is strictly necessary for only Lan Wangji. He shares it with Wei Ying. He didn’t expect to be so fond of the sight of Wei Ying eating carrots.

(Wei Wuxian’s book for the day: “Easy Recipes For Lazy Cooks” . Why does Gusu University Library even have this?)

(Things he learns about Wei Wuxian during lunch:

He has a sister called Jiang Yanli and yesterday he visited her and her toddler, who is “the loudest baby on the planet, Lan Zhan, he somehow must have gotten his uncle’s temper, even though Jiang Cheng would never yell at a baby or an animal, everyone else is fair game though, except maybe Wen Qing, I don’t know if it’s because of fear or attraction or both, who knows with this guy and…” and then he abruptly stops talking and for one second looks so sad that Lan Wangji almost drops his lunch box. Jiang Cheng must be his brother. What happened, why is Wei Wuxian sad? He should never be sad. How can Lan Wangji help, how can he… Wei Wuxian smiles again and changes the topic.

Wei Wuxian likes clementines and is disappointed that Lan Wangji didn’t bring any.

“Aaaah, nooo, what is that over there? Do you see those clouds, Lan Zhan? Don’t tell me it’s supposed to rain today?” “Mn.” “Really? Lan Zhan, say it isn’t so! A-Yuan will be so disappointed! We wanted to go visit the ants today! Mhm, do you think I could keep ants as a pet?” “Wei Wuxian.” “You’re right, you’re right. They’d be happier outside.”

Who is A-Yuan? Why… ants? There’s so many things he wants to ask Wei Ying, he wants to know everything about him. But Wei Ying should tell him at his own pace. Or not tell him at all. Lan Wangji will not pry.)

Wednesday, Seventh Day with Wei Ying

Liking Wei Wuxian is exciting. It is the first time Lan Wangji feels like this and now that he’s made it through those first few confusing days, he’s determined to treasure every moment of what comes after. Of liking Wei Ying.

He has no plans of doing such things as confessing or flirting. Or rather, no immediate plans for the first and no idea how to go about the latter anyway. For now, he just wants to enjoy how warm his heart feels whenever he sees Wei Wuxian. How he feels like smiling, when Wei Wuxian does something he’d find annoying if anyone else did it.

Lan Wangji wants to do things that make Wei Ying smile. He wants to see all the different kinds of smiles that Wei Ying has to offer.

There’s one thing he aches to do, though… He would like to call him Wei Ying. He likes how Wei Wuxian calls him ‘Lan Zhan’, how it always sounds playful, as though it is a name that brings him happiness. He wonders if Wei Wuxian would feel the same if he calls him ‘Wei Ying’. Probably not, he is not a playful man. But he wants… Wants to colour the name with the intimacy it deserves.

Once again, he cannot concentrate on his paper. The deadline is next week and the deadline Lan Wangji has set for himself is on Saturday. He is maybe halfway done.

However, what is more urgent to him right now is to figure out the perfect moment to call Wei Wuxian ‘Wei Ying’. To Wei Wuxian it probably will not matter. He offered the name up so easily after all. But maybe having Lan Wangji call him that will have some meaning. Maybe he’ll be able to tell that it means something to Lan Wangji - though hopefully he won’t know quite how much.

When the moment comes, it is a small one, but to Lan Wangji it is perfect.

Wei Wuxian’s bun has almost come undone and he takes out his hair tie, to tie it up properly again. The hair tie snaps. Wei Wuxian pouts. Lan Wangji always has spares. He takes out his spare hair tie. He holds it out to Wei Wuxian.

“Wei Ying.”

Wei Wuxian freezes and stares. He blinks. He blinks more rapidly. He stares at the light blue hair tie resting on Lan Wangji’s palm. Then he smiles . A smile Lan Wangji has not seen yet. A new, impossibly bright smile. Just for him. Lan Wangji returns that smile, even though his might be a tad more restrained. It is no less sincere.

(Wei Wuxian’s books for the day: apparently any book he could find about bees and beekeeping. Hm. Better than ant-keeping, he supposes.)

(Things he learns about Wei Wuxian during lunch:

Wei Ying does not, in fact, plan on keeping bees. He just finds them “cute”. Fair enough.

Lan Wangji brought clementines today. Wei Ying is delighted. Another smile for his collection.

He is meeting Nie Huaisang for drinks later. “Lan Zhan… Lan Zhan, you don’t want to come, do you? We’re just gonna have some beer in the park. Huaisang said you would never sit on the grass, though. I could bring a blanket? Haha, ignore me, I’m just talking nonsense, of course you don’t want to-” “Busy.” “Ah yes, of course you already have plans! Of course, of course, Lan Zhan must be so popular! Everyone will want to meet him when he’s not busy in the library! I’m so lucky to get to see you every day, aren’t I?” Lan Wangji does not know what to say. Before he can say that Wei Ying is wrong, Lan Wangji is the lucky one, Wei Ying has already changed the topic again. )

Thursday, Eighth Day with Wei Ying, First Day of Lan Wangji’s Heartbreak

Lan Wangji is determined to get a lot of work done today. Just because he’s in love, doesn’t mean he has to neglect his studies. He has it all worked out: he will not look up any more books. He has enough quotes and enough notes for three papers. It is time to focus solely on the actual writing part.

He has managed to get the barebones for a full chapter down, when Wei Wuxian appears.

Wei Ying is wearing Lan Wangji’s hair tie.

Lan Wangji forgets how to breathe for a few seconds. Oh. Oh.

He is not going to get anything else done today.

He spends about an hour switching between looking at Wei Ying and looking at Wei Ying’s reflection in the window. He considers this to be an excellent use of his time.

And then Wei Wuxian’s phone buzzes and Lan Wangji opens his mouth to remind Wei Wuxian to put it on silent mode, a reminder he has to give every day, when -

“Oh no, Lan Zhan! Lan Zhan, look! Ah, I cannot handle it, my little radish is the cutest!”

Wei Wuxian shoves his phone in Lan Wangji’s face and on the screen he sees a child grinning at the camera, full of mischief. The child could be any age between 2 and 6; Lan Wangji has not met many children in his life, so he doesn’t know. The child seems to be responsible for the many braids decorating the hair of a man about their age, who is smiling gently while taking the selfie.

“A-Yuan is a natural born stylist, isn’t he? What an improvement, don’t you think? Wen Ning’s hair is so lovely but usually it’s even more of a mess than mine. Ah, he looks so handsome, haha!”

There’s a strange buzzing in Lan Wangji’s ears. He watches as Wei Wuxian takes his phone back and then begins typing a reply excitedly and muttering exactly what he is typing for Lan Wangji to hear.

“Cuties!!! Can’t wait to see my boys later!”

He feels faint. Wei Wuxian has a child. Wei Wuxian is married, with a kid. Wei Wuxian is a dad. He has a very cute family. He takes his son to go see ants when it’s not raining. His husband makes him congee in the morning.

Lan Wangji closes his laptop, collects his pens and notes and puts it all in his bag.

“Oh? Time for lunch? Lan Zhan, it’s not even 12 yet! Are you very hungry today? I understand completely. Did you maybe bring more clementines, they were -”

“Not lunch. Leaving.”

“Oh… You have to go? And here I thought that you only go home to sleep! Even Lan Zhan can’t study all day, so no one can expect me to! I should tell this to my professors. Let me just grab my things and -”

“Leaving.”

And with that, he turns around and leaves. Flees.

(Wei Wuxian’s books for the day: Lan Wangji cannot remember.)

(Things he learns about Wei Wuxian during lunch: -)

Lan Wangji spends the rest of the day… not thinking about Wei Ying.

He eats his packed lunch, too much for one person, at his kitchen table - not thinking about Wei Ying.

He vacuums and cleans his windows and wipes dust and does laundry - not thinking about Wei Ying.

He accepts a delivery (a coffee maker) - not thinking of Wei Ying.

He plays the guqin for an hour - not thinking about Wei Ying.

Dinner, exercise, looking at pictures of Cloud and Jade (his bunnies), reading - never thinking about Wei Ying.

Lying in bed, falling asleep - not thinking about Wei Ying, his smile, his dimples, his…

Not thinking.

Friday, Ninth Day with Wei Ying, Second Day of Lan Wangji’s Heartbreak

Lan Wangji tries his best to function as usual. His morning is like every morning. He arrives at the library like every morning. He opens his laptop, takes out his notes.

He stares at the blinking cursor.

He stares at his notes.

He stares at the blinking cursor.

“Lan Zhan! Good morning!”

How is it already time for Wei Wuxian to arrive? Lan Wangji is not prepared. He’d wanted, needed some time to compose himself.

But now Wei Wuxian is here, wearing his hair tie once again. However, this time, the sight makes him miserable. He’d thought that it had meant something, that it… He is so foolish. Maybe Wei Ying just likes the colour blue. Maybe all his other hair ties have snapped and he cannot be bothered to buy new ones.

Wei Wuxian hasn’t sat down yet, hasn’t taken over his side of the table. He’s staring at Lan Wangji, frowning. Waiting.

Ah…

“Morning.”

Lan Wangji is pretty confident that it sounded like a perfectly normal greeting, but Wei Wuxian still hesitates.

“Lan Zhan… are you okay? Is everything alright? You left so quickly yesterday and looked so pale… I was wo-”

Wei Wuxian flushes and then laughs sheepishly. Why is he…

“Ah, Lan Zhan, you’ve finally succeeded in making me come to the library earlier! ‘Two hours is not enough, Wei Wuxian.’ Your words must have finally sunk in!”

He keeps filling the air with his chatter, as he finally sits down and gets out his notebook and then… they both notice that he does not have any books.

“Oops, look at me, so unprepared. That is what happens, when I get here too early! Now I have to go back and look for something good to read! Or I’ll just have to read about…” He stretches out one arm and leans so far to the side, that he almost falls off his chair, but eventually manages to grab a random book without having to get up. “ ‘Agricultural Reform and Developments of 19th Century Russia’ . Ah… hahaha, I’m sure there’s something to be learned from this!”

“Wei Ying.”

Lan Wangji does not know whether he’s reacting to Wei Wuxian’s nervous energy or whether Wei Wuxian is picking up on Lan Wangji’s inner turmoil. He wants to reassure him that everything is alright, but…

“Mhm? Oh, Lan Zhan, I know, I know, no talking in the library!”

Ah, he hadn’t even thought of that.

If Wei Wuxian isn’t talking anymore, maybe he can focus on feeling… not like this. He wants to return to enjoying his time with Wei Wuxian. Maybe once he has shut down his inappropriate feelings, it can be possible.

Wei Wuxian stays quiet, but keeps throwing glances at him and he chews on his lip even more than usual.

Lan Wangji tries to ignore it, he really does, but…

“Wei Ying?”

Wei Wuxian looks as though he’s caught him eating prawn chips while handling a precious first edition.

“Ahaha, nothing, nothing.”

“Wei Ying.”

“It’s just… you’re frowning a lot today, Lan Zhan.”

“...”

“I know, you think you frown a lot every day, but today it’s different! You have many different frowns, Lan Zhan, didn’t you know? Ah, I’m being silly, aren’t I? Just… are you sick? Are you worried about something? Is your paper not going well? Can I help? I know I seem as though I don’t know anything useful, but I’m actually very smart and -”

“I know Wei Ying is smart.”

“Oh…”

“I’m… fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“It’s just… family.”

He does not say “My heart aches, because liking Wei Ying is beautiful and I don’t want it to end.” He does not say “I didn’t realise I wanted these things until I thought of sharing them with you.”

“Aaah, family issues. I know too well, don’t worry, Lan Zhan. I know how painful… I know! Lan Zhan, let’s not do work today! I’ll take you out, okay? We can go have ice cream and throw pebbles into the pond next to the Department of Botany and -”

“Wei Ying.”

Lan Wangji wants that. He wants that so much. But he does not think he can handle Wei Ying caring for him today. The more he’d try to share his warmth with Lan Wangji, the sadder he’d be that he has to let go of these feelings he wanted to feel for as long as possible.

“I should go… take care of it.”

He thinks Wei Wuxian looks disappointed for a second, but then his smile is back on his face.

“You should! Lan Zhan, so responsible! You… you should go and take care of family issues, talk it out before… yes… “

“Mn.”

He packs his things and is relieved to see his hands don’t look as shaky as they feel.

“Wait. Lan Zhan.”

“Mn?”

“Will I… uhm, will you be here on Monday?”

“Monday.”

He’ll have the whole weekend to get a handle on his feelings. It didn’t take him much longer to fall for Wei Ying, surely it is long enough to… undo it?

He doesn't like lying, not even to himself. How could there ever be enough time to stop liking Wei Wuxian.

He’ll still have to try.

Saturday, Wei Ying-less, Full of Heartbreak

Lan Wangji is not yet ready to think about…

He has a paper to finish anyway. There’s no reason he has to miss his set deadline, just because he’s heartbroken.

Lan Wangji works on his paper from 8:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. Then it is done.

He meditates on the couch for an hour. It is not napping, he might be lying down and his eyes might be closed and maybe he nodded off for a tiny second there but it is not napping.

Then he prints out his paper and goes to have dinner with his brother.

Lan Xichen is worried about him. His brother has always been the only one to accurately gauge what mood Lan Wangji is in. Well… until…

“You have many different frowns, Lan Zhan, didn’t you know?”

Wei Wuxian has different smiles, Lan Wangji has different frowns. Even if Wei Wuxian wasn’t married, Lan Wangji should not burden him with his frowning heart.

“Wangji!”

Apparently his brother has already called his name a few times.

“Ah… I’m fine.”

He can’t see Xichen’s face from his current position, but he can hear him making his best effort to not roll his eyes.

“Wangji, you’re clearly struggling with something. You asked me to read your paper to ‘check whether it is written in a language humans can understand’.”

Mhm, he did say that, didn’t he.

“I’ve just been… distracted.”

“And what has distracted you so much that you needed to lie down on my carpet for, let me see, twenty minutes now?”

Ah, yes, he did lie down.

“Playing with bunnies.”

It is not a lie, technically. Cloud is currently sitting on top of his forehead.

Xichen sighs and then sits down next to Lan Wangji. Cloud is being lifted from his forehead and replaced by Xichen’s hand stroking his hair. Like he did when they were younger, much younger.

“Not a child.”

He does not move his head though and Xichen does not stop stroking his hair.

“But you’re sad.”

“Mn.”

“You were really happy last week.”

“Mn.”

“And now you’re sad. What happened, Wangji?”

“I… ”

Xichen doesn’t say anything, just waits for him to find the words.

“I’m in love.”

“You met someone?”

“Met him in the library.”

“And why are you sad? Did he… is he not a nice person?”

“Wei Ying is… the most…” How could he find words to describe Wei Ying? It would be impossible for anyone, but especially for Lan Wangji, who keeps most of his words in his head. “… wonderful.”

“Why are you lying on my carpet then?”

Xichen really is the best brother for Lan Wangji. Even though getting information out of Lan Wangji is like complex brain surgery, he never grows impatient. And he keeps stroking his hair.

“My feelings are improper.”

“Why…”

“I think… he’s married.”

Lan Wangji squeezes his eyes shut as he says that.

“You think he’s married?”

“Mn.”

“Did he tell you?”

“Indirectly.”

“Wangji.”

“Picture of… his son and husband.”

“Did he say that they were his son and his husband?”

“... No.”

“Did you ask? ”

“... No.”

“Wangji, honestly.”

Maybe even Xichen reaches the end of his patience eventually.

“There’s no reason for Wei Wuxian not to be married.”

“Lan Wangji!”

Xichen slaps his forehead. Well, it is more of a determined pat. But coming from Xichen, it definitely counts as a slap. Lan Wangji huffs and then sits up, so he can frown at his brother. Xichen closes his eyes and Lan Wangji is sure that he’s rolling his eyes behind his eyelids. When he opens them again, he smiles, albeit a tad strained.

“Wangji, I know that this is all… unfamiliar to you. But before you go ahead and play out a tragic love story all on your own… Why don’t you ask this Wei Ying whether he is actually married?”

That sounds… reasonable, but also impossible.

“And, even if he has a partner… that doesn’t make your feelings improper. You’re in love, that’s beautiful, Wangji.”

“I like... liking Wei Ying.”

Xichen smiles at him and puts Cloud in Lan Wangji’s lap. Lan Wangji stares down at her and pats her head the way she likes it.

“I don’t want to stop liking him.”

A teardrop falls down on Cloud’s ear.

His brother doesn’t say anything, but after a short while, Jade’s grey-tipped ears appear in his view and now he has two bunnies in his lap. No more teardrops fall.

“Why don’t you sleep here tonight, Wangji? I’ll make us congee in the morning.”

“Alright.”

For a while, they sit in silence, both petting the bunnies in Lan Wangji’s lap. Until Lan Wangji’s heart hurts a little less.

Sunday, Wei Ying-less, Maybe a little less Heartbreak?

Lan Wangji wakes up well rested. He doesn’t sleep here often anymore, but it is still his home. Even though Xichen turned his old room into a yoga-physical therapy-massage-exercise studio after Lan Wangji moved out to live closer to university. Just like the presence of his brother, this flat instantly makes him feel calm and safe. The bunnies help, too. Though maybe he should have a word with his brother about his… love for plants. Every time Lan Wangji visits, his brother introduces him to a new plant. At this point, there aren’t many free surfaces left. Lan Wangji doesn’t mind plants, but he worries that this means that Xichen will see even less need to leave the house.

They have breakfast together on the balcony. They’re still wearing their pyjamas, definitely breaking Lan Rules,which is something they like to indulge in when they spend Sunday mornings together. Lan Wangji feels… better.

He says as much to his brother, who looks relieved.

“Listen, Wangji. I was thinking… The name Wei Wuxian feels familiar.”

“Nie Huaisang is friends with him.”

“Is he? Oh, why don’t I ask Mingjue-”

“No.”

“Why not? Mingjue is very discreet, he could-”

“Xichen, Mingjue is not discreet.”

“Haha, maybe not. You could ask Huaisang then.”

Lan Wangji does under no circumstances want Nie Huaisang to know about… things.

“Huaisang meddles. ”

“What if-”

“No.”

“Then I guess you’ll have to talk to Wei Wuxian yourself.”

“... ugh.”

They sit in silence for a while, drinking green tea and enjoying the morning sun.

“Wangji.”

“Mn.”

“I think… I want to start working again.”

Lan Wangji looks at his brother and smiles.

Monday, Tenth Day with Wei Ying

Lan Wangji is excited for this day. Xichen is right, there is no reason for him to try to stop or change his feelings for Wei Ying. He will ask him during lunch about his family situation. It doesn’t matter what he replies. Wei Wuxian’s friendship is a gift and no lesser than anything else. It is enough to spend time with him and love him quietly.

He prepares well. He makes and packs lunch for two (plenty of clementines). He packs an extra thermos with coffee for Wei Ying. He spent an hour yesterday with the instructions of his coffee machine and looking up on the internet how to make good coffee. Then he did three trial runs. To him, they all tasted the same, but then all coffee is just different flavours of awful to him. Wei Ying does not seem to have high standards for coffee anyway.

Since his first paper is done ( “I’m a human and I can understand this perfectly, Wangji. Well done.” ), he spends the time until Wei Ying arrives meticulously planning out a work schedule for his next paper that is due in two weeks.

Wei Wuxian arrives at exactly 10:30 a.m., wearing the blue hair tie, a smile, shorts and his flip flops that look as though they’ll fall apart at any minute and Lan Wangji’s heart is at ease. He smiles at Wei Ying.

Thud.

Wei Wuxian has dropped his book and is staring at Lan Wangji, eyes wide open. A flush dusts his cheeks.

“Wei Ying?”

“Lan Zhan! You can’t just… you… “ Wei Ying blinks a couple of times and then bends down to collect his book. Today he’s reading… Lan Wangji flushes.

“ Wei Ying. ”

“Huh?” Wei Ying follows Lan Wangji’s look and then starts laughing. “Ah, this? ‘Hard Times Call For Gentle Loving’ ? Huaisang said it’s a classic, and he can always be relied on for good reading material!”

The cover shows two muscled men kissing. They’re naked except for a conveniently draped blanket. The back of Lan Wangji’s neck feels hot.

“Not in the library.”

Not in the library in front of Lan Wangji. Please.

“Lan Zhan, I always follow your rules but this one makes no sense! What else should I do here if not read? Besides, I got this from here!”

Whoever is running Gusu University Library is doing a very questionable job.

“Don’t worry, you can read it after I’m done! Do you want me to mark the best parts for you?”

“Wei Ying!”

“Lan Zhan!”

“... don’t use highlighters on library books.”

Wei Ying looks delighted and Lan Wangji feels his own lips twitch, even though his neck still feels hot. Wei Ying suddenly clutches his chest.

“Ah, Lan Zhan, what are you doing to me! All these smiles today, I can’t handle it! Are you feeling better then? Are your family matters settled?”

“Mn.”

“I’m so glad! I was hoping all weekend that you’d feel better today!”

“Wei Ying… thank you.”

“Eh? For what?”

“Caring.”

Wei Ying opens his mouth, but then seems to think better of whatever he was about to say and simply looks Lan Wangji in the eyes. Lan Wangji holds his gaze and the moment stretches on and maybe he should ask now, why should he wait until lunch and then -

Wei Wuxian laughs, shakes his head and then opens his indecent book.

(Wei Wuxian’s book for the day: INDECENT)

(Things he learns about Wei Wuxian during lunch:

He really likes the coffee Lan Wangji made.

He’s still sore because Wen Qing made him clean all Sunday. “All the windows, too! Who cleans windows, Lan Zhan? Well, you probably do. But you’re so tall, you don’t need to balance on a wonky chair to reach all corners! I almost fell! So dangerous, why do people clean? It’ll just get dirty again!”

He’s more than halfway through ‘Hard Times Call For Gentle Loving’ and summarises the best parts for Lan Wangji. The sun is very hot today.

He does not learn whether Wei Wuxian is married, because he forgot to ask. He will ask tomorrow.)

Tuesday, Eleventh Day with…

Wei Wuxian does not come.

[alucieussunrael]

Dreams of distant shores

His eyes fluttered open. Finally… he was awake.

A winged beauty came to collect him. She motioned toward the river across him. He was tired. He had traveled a long road, finally reaching his destination after what seemed like an eternity. 

Still, he wanted to refuse. Every ounce of his being shouted out to resist the calming lull of her allure. Was he to throw it all away on a whim now?

‘The choice has always been yours… you’ve fought and earned your penance. Whether you want to cross this river is up to you.’ the winged figure commented as she gestured.

Of course he paused. He tried to recollect the memories escaping him yet they were scattered about every which direction. Forced recollection caused him to reel in pain, yet he still continued. Through grit teeth he stared into the future.

Time had no meaning here. Still, he struggled to ground himself to a single lifetime.

‘Who… who is it you cling to so obstinately… so desperately? Let it all go. You’ve finally reached the shores of freedom, let your spirit find solace and redemption through the truth of the afterlife. You’ve earned that much… my brave soul. You’ve fought for the Light. Find release in it.’

His sanity seemed to shake and rattle as he struggled to hold onto consciousness.

The comfort that threatened to swallow him unraveled as he fought against it.

He grit his teeth as he forcefully answered, “I…” he angrily rasped, “I can’t… give up now… there’s too much at stake. I can’t… just disappear into this… whatever this is...” the man forcefully shook his head.

The fel corruption seemed to wash away yet he was still tempered with his hate and reluctance.

‘You know… there’s no point anymore, right?’

The voice called to him again, still, welcoming… beckoning him to the shores before him.

‘They are all far gone now… and time touches this place differently… your enemies have long since been vanquished, your trials, long since been bested. There’s nothing left for you now but to rest my dear Alucieus.’

In a blink, he was kneeling on the shoreside, reeling in pain as he resisted. His hands grasped at the damp sand as it crumbled about his touch, his voice ladened with sorrow. “Rest… I wouldn’t know how. There’s still too much... I’ve left undone. Too many people I’ve left behind. Covaya… Areus… my daughter... my... son... I can’t just… leave. There’s still too much to be done…”

‘Yet... still… your time has passed. Your touch on the mortal realm complete. All that is left is for you to rest. Come… splendid warrior of the righteous. Rest your weary head and find comfort in-’

“No…” he snarled through grit teeth.

‘You speak as if you ever had a decision to make…’ the winged figure looked down with sorrow onto the man, her voice echoing with a hint of menace now. ‘This was ever your fate. You were to be brought home with a hero’s welcome. I cannot abandon you here on these shores…’ the voice resounded.

“... Is there nothing that can be done? You speak as if my fate is written in stone… You told me… I had a choice...”

‘It has been longer than you know that your fate had been written. You were always destined to guide those around you toward the Light. You have fulfilled your purpose. Now you are called home to reap the rewards of your suffering. Rest easy, weary soul.’

“No…” he gruffly replied again. “I refuse to believe that this is it…” ‘You can believe what you will, but your physical body has already expired and the people you care about have continued to live on for years. As I’ve told you, time passes by differently here. What will you do then? Wander Azeroth as an apparition lost in its faith? You have but to come home and bask in the Light. As you were meant to.’

“I would rather wander lost… than succumb myself to some semblance of peace when the people who depend on me most still suffer through life…”

The winged figure chuckled incredulously, ‘Still… ever the brave one… you realize that if you turn back from here, you will simply be a lost soul with no vessel wandering alone… lost and confused… for the rest of eternity?’

“Better than living a facade…” he responded dryly.

She looked down with a measure of sorrow, ‘It’s not a facade… but… you’re right. I think you would not find the measure of peace reserved for you. You’re still too attached to the living. These years wandering through the mist should have helped you transition but you… you refuse to let go. I’m so sorry…’ she whispered regretfully.

He slowly turned to look away, to the path against the river.

[izzyovercoffee]

Prompt number: 23. “You can’t give more than yourself.” Fandom: Knights of the Old Republic Rating: PG Warnings/Tags: none that I can tell, ask to tag if need Summary: [Revan] and [the Exile] share some tea and watch the dawn arrive.  Notes: featuring m!Revan and f!Exile from long before the Mandalorian Wars, when they were both young Jedi in The Jedi Order. I avoided naming either of them, for hopefully obvious reasons

##. but he would not call her a delight to her face

  Green.

More green in all the scenery than he’d been familiar with in his youth. More foliage, and breathing life in this immediate vicinity than he would have seen over the course of a lifetime from before.

A lifetime, it felt, of space and distance between himself and the place, the life, the family, the person he was.

He’s earned his tea and silence at dawn. A moment to gather himself, and taste the bitter cold of the evening passed, and feel neither required nor accidentally prone to divulge any ulterior or deeper insight to any who asked.

Who made their question innocently probing, in the way the masters all do.

He could not say he’s sick of it. He could not be… ungrateful. He could not be frustrated, or irritated, or annoyed. Thankful---that’s what’s acceptable. The range of emotion that fell within boundaries of “safe” and did not ask for closer inspection was a small one.

It chafed for some. For most, even.

He’d been intimately familiar with tempering his reactions so as not to call attention to himself, in another life.

“I didn’t ask for company,” he says.

“I did not come here to seek yours,” she answers.

He shifts from his position on the stone he’d taken to sitting on for several weeks now, on unbroken mornings.

He could feel her presence from a great distance---and knew she approached him, long before she reached the foot of the mountain he’d taken his tea so often. And yet, he hadn’t moved, hasn’t moved still.

If he so desired, he could have left long before she arrived. So why didn’t he?

Curiosity.

“If not mine,” he asks, and sets down his tea beside himself, “then whose?”

“No one,” she says. She watches him with critical eyes, unpainted face pale under the early morning light that just barely breaks between the boughs of the trees overhead. “I wasn’t expecting to find you here.”

He finds that hard to believe.

“Well,” he says, and despite the interruption he finds amusement in it. “Here I am.”

“Here you are,” she agrees. She lingers by the line of the trees, still observing him from a careful distance, as if expecting him to bite, or lash out, or some other such thing. She looks as she does before every fight---observant, silent, calculating.

Before every conversation, too, if he’s to be honest.

He wonders, often, if the others noticed it. If any of the others in that Temple a long, long way below them now have ever wondered at her potential and thought, perhaps, to crush it. They certainly go out of their way to minimize the full breadth of her impact in simply existing.

Unfortunate.

That’s what his latest master says, often. Deeply unfortunate.

But she cannot, will not, intervene on her behalf, and he finds himself wondering why. Or, perhaps more importantly: why not.

It’s neither here nor there.

“Now that you’ve found me,” he breaks the quiet between them, “perhaps you’d like to join me? Or would you prefer to linger by the trees?”

He watches her remain cautious, though something passes behind her eyes that resembles something akin to softening. Despite himself, or perhaps not with any spite involved at all, he feels the draw of her presence and simply allows himself to bend to it.

These delicate chords of connection, through personal, interpersonal, the force, or so on, all work in many directions and acts of give, and take. Certainly it isn’t the first time he’s felt unburdened by her presence, as if a soothing air’s come over him by simply allowing her to be within his vicinity.

And even so, he still finds it difficult to understand what roils behind her eyes.

It’s a guess---a gut feeling, a supposition. Something churns and storms within her, beyond the touch or reach or awareness of any of the masters.

But, as he’s heard said once, a lifetime ago---like recognizes like.

“I did not come to interrupt your tea,” she says, finally, and turns away from him.

“Perhaps not,” he replies to her back, “but now that I have company, I don’t wish to lose it.”

At that she stills. She turns, as if she was not expecting that---and, perhaps, she wasn’t.

He can’t know her heart, after all. So segmented she keeps everything. So compartmentalized. So separated, and distant, even when warm and connected and present.

Like recognizes like.

“Join me,” he says, again. “I have more tea, if that would tempt you.”

“I suppose I am easily tempted,” she says, voice dry as the deserts he’s left at his heel, and he can’t help but smile.

“Good,” he says, and watches as she finds a seat upon an old stone not far from him. Then he looks forward, to the overlook that bears down into the forest below them, and the distant Temple that only barely breaches the forest’s ceiling some, long, distance away.

They sat at a camp upon a cliff, though he could call it less of a camp and simply an adequate place to rest, with a safe center in which to burn fuel and boil water for tea.

She helps herself to some, without his insistence.

“I don’t come up here to think,” he says, “before you ask.”

“I wasn’t going to,” she replies, once more a hint of dry sarcasm underpinning her tone. “For all you know, I’ve come for free tea.”

A fair assessment. One he suspects isn’t true, but still. Fair.

“Most would.” He finds himself smiling in her direction, and is met with a barely-muted smirk from her.

“I know better than to fasten any suppositions on you.”

“Most don’t,” he says.

She raises her mug of tea to him, in a silent toast. He finds himself smiling wider as she drinks.

“Don’t tell anyone,” she says, “that I am unlike most---or that would get me in further trouble.”

“Further trouble?” he asks. “From what I understand, everyone holds you in very high regard.”

Her smirk takes an edge that feels wholly unsuitable to a pleasant conversation.

“Ah, yes, I forgot---I am doing very well, and I’m not to worry for a single thing I can control.” She takes another sip of the tea, and peers past the overlook. He does not follow her gaze, and instead admires her profile in the slowly dawning light.

Not to worry for a single thing she can control.

Now that is the frightening perceptiveness the masters were right to fear. Should be afraid of.

“All things done can be undone,” he says. “With some effort.”

 Though her face does not move from its position towards the overlook, her gaze shifts to peer at him through the corners of her eyes.

And then her gaze drifts back to the overlook. She takes another sip of her tea.

“With the right attitude,” she says, and sets the mug down in her lap, held between both hands. The heat of the tea rises over the mug in long lines of curling steam into the early morning air, and he remembers his---in time to realize it is cold, now.

“But I didn’t come to bother you with my anxieties,” she says.

“Perhaps not,” he says, and drinks from his now-tepid tea. “But, I can empathize.”

“Can you?” she asks, and to his surprise her question is not sharp, not laced with biting sarcasm, not high and disbelieving. She asks and there’s a note of loneliness, of desperation and isolation hand-in-hand and heart-over-heart.

“I do,” he says, rather than I can. It is a confirmation, rather than a possibility.

It is too strong a statement for them who barely know each other, and yet…

And yet he feels it, as deeply as he can know it---they share a future, uncertain and tenuous as that future might be. From how, or why, he cannot say. The Force, in that way, is strange and un-malleable, revealing only what it wishes to only the most discerning, and even now… even now, even here, he holds uncertainty and certainty with equal measure in his heart with and for all things---save this one.

“I do,” he says again.

She continues to watch the scenery, the view, the breeze and the low-flying clouds that choke the sky of the forest below. The fog rolls in as suddenly as it dissipates, and it is a sight that arrests even the most bitter and jaded at a moment’s notice.

“That’s not a relief,” she says.

It is a statement he’s not expecting, and it wounds him in a way he cannot prepare for. He schools his temper as tepid as the tea he drinks, and simply draws from his half-empty cup between his hands as he waits for her elaboration.

Why does that wound? Why does it hurt?

He has no time to consider it.

“It’s not something two people should feel, much less just me.”

And as quickly as the hurt pierced him, it dissolves away with the last of his tea. He wonders, momentarily, if the hurt he felt was even his own, or if she bled into him in some, sudden, vulnerable moment.

If, in understanding, he scraped apart the dust and fog of distance and peered into that roiling storm hidden away within her---there and gone like a cool breath on the early morning wind.

Oh. The masters did not, truly, understand the depth of fear they should have held at all, did they?

“I like to think,” he says, and finds his voice misbehaving in a way it hasn’t in a long, long time---and even that is cause for alarm, though he dismisses it just as easily. “I like to think that misery, in shared company, is a lighter burden.”

“Mm,” she hums, noncommittal, as she takes another sip of her tea. “Or the burden is doubled.”

He nearly laughs.

“You’re surprisingly negative for all the praise otherwise that surrounds you,” he says, and shifts on his seat to face her fully. “Do you reserve this only for those with empathy?”

“Perish the thought,” she says, and turns to face him, too. The pot of water, kept warm by the heat beneath it, remains between them. “I don’t reserve negativity for just anyone---only honesty.”

Only honesty.

Curious.

“Shall I thank you?” he asks.

“No need,” she says, and motions with her mug to the kettle between them. “The tea is thanks enough.”

At that, he finally allows a laugh---and helps himself to more tea.

What a delight, he thinks.

What a shame he kept his distance for so long.

[complicatedandstained]

The Other Day at Hot Topic: Claire’s

Axel steps out of Hot Topic with a guilty conscience and a pleased smile that he cannot quite contain. 

“Let It Snow” ironically graces the island mall’s speakers overhead, as he traces the familiar path over to Claire’s. He finds himself caught up in the surge of people mid-morning brings to their two story, air-conditioned corner of paradise. Locals and tourists alike beginning their holiday shopping clad in pompom hats and red and green Hawaiian shirts. Above their spirited chatter, Axel can already hear the staccato grumble of Vanitas giving Roxas hell back in Hot Topic. 

Dumbass is going to have to cut that out quick if he wants to get Aqua her job back. 

Axel hammers a few more exclamation points into the ‘hurry up’ message he’s composing before firing it off to Demyx. 

Axel would have liked to stay with Roxas and Vanitas himself, but his own shift has already begun, and the children of Claire’s can’t pierce their own ears. Or so Marluxia tells him. And he needs to play nice with Marly today, for Saïx’s sake.

Anyway, it’s Dem’s day off, and Xigbar can only take so many of his distractions at the tattoo parlor before he starts barking like his German Shepherd. So Dem’d jumped at the chance to come in and continue wooing another potential Organization member. Never mind that the band already has a singer... 

And that would turn off Vanitas to the conversation, for sure. No way was he getting caught in Demyx’s web of rehearsals, demos, and shameless merch promotion. No way in hell. 

Roxas can probably hold his own until then. Vanitas might wind up in a neck brace, but it’s a sacrifice Axel is willing to make. 

And it’d be Aqua’s fault, really, for getting a little too into her part and storming out instead of babysitting Hot Topic’s newest rivals for him. 

God. Saïx is going to throw a fit if he finds out about any of this. 

And Axel figures his introverted boyfriend is already going to be in a rare state from his long day of meetings, margs, and sucking up. 

Of course, Axel will have to tell him something. 

He just might have to temper it first. Nothing will be too over the top tonight. He’s thinking red wine, candles, massage oil, bubble bath…

Then Saïx can just drown me. 

Axel snickers to himself and then laughs outright, recalling Roxas’ flat out refusal to believe that Saïx would date him. A soccer mom trips over her Adidas slides at Axel’s sudden outburst, and, used to being stared at, Axel winks at her—which does not help her catch her footing—before ducking into Claire’s. 

Axel’s smirk finds its way back out as he surveys the moderately busy store. Everything smells like spilt sugar plum perfume. One cluster of small fries gathers around the metallic green and red tinsel hair accessories and another around the tourist faves—cowrie shell bracelets, puka shell necklaces, silver starfish shaped earrings—all strategically located near the entrance. Axel weaves easily between them, too absorbed to notice the lanky, red-headed freak in their midst, and sidles up to the side of the register, where an athletic blonde woman with a pixie cut is finishing up a sales transaction.  

“Larxene, you light up my world like nobody else,” Axel croons to his coworker, overtop the One Direction lyrics floating through the speakers. “The way that you flip your hair gets me overwhelmed!”

He leans fairly close to her ear, his arms crossing on the counter, but she ignores him in favor of straightening a stack of coupons, a scowl forming across glossy pink lips. “You’re late,” she says. 

A dry sound escapes his throat. “Missed you too.”

Larxene puts in beaucoup hours at both Claire’s and Hot Topic to pay for her apartment fees and architecture courses, and, therefore, Axel sees entirely too much of her, and vice versa.

She replaces the 15% off stack atop the cash drawer and checks for anyone else in line before turning around and leaning back to speak to him. “I was hoping you weren’t coming.” Her smile is not charming, but he returns it with vigor. 

“Sometimes life disappoints us.”

Her smirk twists, and an eyebrow rises. “That why you look like crap today?”

“Hm?” Axel glances toward one of the thousand mirrors atop their neat white accessory displays and sights his swept back, unstyled hair, the shock of golden freckles sprinkling his nose, the foreign, childlike quality of his eyes without their cat eye liner. 

He’d almost forgotten. Saïx, Xigbar, Roxas…Why hadn’t they said anything about it?

Xigbar’d told him once he prefers his men without makeup. But of course now he’s dating Demyx and his glitter bronzer loving self, so what the hell does he know. Saïx has seen him with and without and everything in between and would never have said anything. Vanitas and Aqua had been a smidge distracted what with his threats to fire them and all. But Roxas…

Huh. Curiouser and curiouser.

“Saïx monopolized the bathroom this morning,” Axel tells Larxene with a playful touch of bitterness.

“Taste of your own medicine, hm?” teases a voice, approaching from his other side. 

Axel doesn’t need to look up to recognize his manager—Saïx’s closest friend. 

An arm inked with a familiar black, brown, and forest green pattern of vines, leaves, and thorns wraps Axel’s shoulders and gives a brief squeeze. Axel raises a hand to press Marly’s wrist, turning and narrowing his eyes at him skeptically. 

“Hello, Marluxia.”

“You look good,” Marly insists in his easy, confident way, stepping back to observe him. “Natural beauty.”

They are all acutely aware he is only saying this because Axel is not breaking as much of the dress code as usual.

“Don’t listen to him,” Larxene cuts in, tapping Axel’s chin. “You look like crap.”

Axel raises his hands defensively to either side, eyelids shutting them out, “There’s this hoity-toity Hot Topic management conference today. I am a good boyfriend and let Sai primp for an extra hour.”

“And Axel spent the extra time squeezing into those pants,” Larxene quips to her boss, pinching the tight gold denim in question, opposite hand propped on her hip.

“Unquestionably.” Marluxia smirks, eyes flitting through the store to ensure he’s not neglecting his head managerly duties. 

Axel balks, shooing away Larxene’s loose grip on his thigh. “You don’t like the pants?”

“No,” both say in unison, horrified, wide eyes back on Axel and the outfit in question. “We’re obsessed with the pants,” Larxene corrects quickly on both of their behalves. “It’s your face that’s the problem.”

Marluxia chuckles despite his earlier disagreement, as Axel’s arms cross, and he steps off in the direction of his piercing station. 

“Boss,” he growls, “I’d like to report one of my coworkers for unsportsmanlike conduct.”

Larxene pauses in rooting through a fringed black pleather handbag to stick her tongue out at him, flashing the lime green plastic of the tongue piercing he’d done for her. “Then maybe you should go work at Dick’s.”

“I hope you mean Dick’s Sporting Goods,” Axel raps his knuckles against the top of her head, grinning thinly.

“Either way,” she interrupts, smirking up from her handbag, from which she’s produced a tube of liquid eyeliner. 

Axel opens his palm for it with a sheepish smile. “You’re an absolute darling, you know.”

“Screw yourself,” she snipes pleasantly, but releases the tube into his palm. He snatches and pockets it hastily, lest she change her mind. 

“Children. Please,” Marluxia’s hand raises to rub his forehead beneath his neat bubblegum pink bangs. “You primadonnas are making me miss my old job managing White Castle.” Marluxia’s elegant nose crinkles as if he can still smell the burger place’s unique onion stench. “If I’d had to manage both their incompetence and your drama, I think I would have taken an early grave.”

Axel rubs at the back of his neck and chuckles good-naturedly, and Larxene scowls and elbows him in the ribs.

Marly winces at this interaction and rolls his eyes. His throat clears with a neat little cough. “Regardless, there are a few things I’d like to discuss with you both while I have you here. First and foremost, we are running our flower crown promo through this weekend. You are encouraged to wear a crown to advertise the sale and may take one from the display or bring one from home if you like.” 

Marly straightens the ring of red roses crowning the shoulder length, sharply layered pink hair he’s undone from his usual ponytail.

Axel’s lips tip up just as Larxene’s tip down. 

“I’ll do it if she does.”

“Douchebag.” 

For a moment, Larxene’s glare could set off a smoke alarm, but noting Marly’s noble attempt to cover a groan with his hand, her expression softens. Larxene sighs. “Fine. I’ll do it for you, Marly.”

“And the children,” Axel prompts with an alligator smile, eyes following a trio currently knocking over Naminé’s elaborate pyramid of bug-eyed Beanie Boos. “Do it for the sweet little children.”

“Sure, yeah, whatever,” she flicks her wrist toward another group of their miniature customers, pulling down a shelf of earrings whole, “and the bratty little children.”

Axel snorts, though he knows deep down she doesn’t mean it. Larxene enjoys seeing little kids smile over stupid little cute things and helping preteens accessorize for their first dates. She would just stab him with a stiletto heel for saying so. 

“And another thing,” Marly continues, loudly enough to pause their squabble, and ushers them toward the back of the store. They pause near the wall length, color-coded flower crown display, where conversations are less likely to be overheard and customer complaint surveys less likely to be filed. “We need to discuss your timeliness.”

Axel blanches and then wonders why Larxene does too. 

“Larxene, I know that you picked up Kairi’s shift at the last minute,” Marly begins, sweeping a few strands of hair behind his ear and pretending not to notice Axel’s shoulder jutting into hers. 

“And Axel, I’m aware that Saïx asked you to check up on Hot Topic in his absence.”

Axel nods and tries not to scowl at the reminder. 

“Ordinarily, as you know, I’m happy to let these things slide,” Marly continues, folding his hands in front of him above his short violet half-apron.

“And we appreciate it Marly—” Axel puts in, though it doesn’t stop the man’s expression from growing steelier, and there’s a reason he gets on so well with Saïx. 

“However,” Marly interrupts, “with the holiday season upon us and new recruits starting out, I’m going to need you, my more experienced warriors to lead the charge.” He gives each of them a measured look and nods with approval at their attentiveness. “I hope I can count on you.”

“Of course, boss,” Axel purrs easily, patting the man’s bicep.

Larxene crosses her arms and nods as well. “Anything you need.”

“Good,” Marly’s smile grows jagged fangs, “because in Kairi’s absence, I’ll need one of you to train our new employee later today.”

Larxene groans loud enough that a passing service dog yips back. “Anything but that,” she corrects. 

Marluxia laughs a villainous sort of laugh, before he walks off to take over ringing on the register, waving his fingers at them like a noble might a peasant. “Work it out, darlings.”

*           *

Axel and Larxene duck into the narrow lavender painted staff lounge, mid-argument. He heads for the time clock, while she props herself up on her knees on the sleek, black sofa that feels much like a slab of stone in an old timey prison, to try on flower crowns in the mirror above it. 

“I’m not training another Kairi clone,” she repeats.

“Naminé and Kairi have completely different personalities,” Axel interjects readily, having had this conversation, regarding Marluxia’s interest in hiring doppelgängers, more than once already. 

“Then you train Kairi 3.0.”

The first crown has golden leaves that stick up from Larxene’s head like horns, and she swaps it out for another with black and purple blossoms and silver stems. She seems to prefer that. He has to admit it’s striking with her skinny black jeggings and slinky white camisole. 

“I’m happy to train Kairi 3.0.” Axel shrugs turning around as he ties off his Claire’s apron. She beckons him forward and he bows his head so that she can crown him with a ring of ocean blue and seafoam white blooms. 

“What,” her hand near slips, setting the flower crown slightly askew, “seriously?”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to subject anyone to you.” Axel joins her, kneeling on the couch to get at the mirror. Shifting her eyeliner from his pocket, he begins tracing a lid as she readjusts his crown. “But if she doesn’t want to pierce ears, sweetie, you don’t have much of a choice.”

She tugs the crown half off, down below his ear, and smacks him with it. The line above his eye smudges hopelessly.

Glancing back at the mirror, he frowns at the flowers tangled in his hair, scoffs at his single charcoal raccoon eye, and abruptly starts to laugh. Larxene joins in, clapping him on the shoulder. “You suck,” she says, “do you know that?”

“I know,” he says after a minute, tugging at the crown and further upsetting his hair, “just help me fix this.”

“Fine,” she pushes him by the shoulder down onto his ass, and loosens his ponytail, wrapping the band around her wrist, “but I want to hear the latest Hot Topic drama.”

“Drama?” His shoulders stiffen though he attempts to hide it as he combs fingers through his hair. “No drama. When has there ever been drama?”

“You were 15 minutes late, genius.” She lifts the flowers and tugs harshly at a snarl. “Tell me the drama.”

Axel hisses, hands raising in attempt to stop her. She removes the crown entirely and gently smooths back his auburn locks. He lowers his hands. “Alright, alright, gees.” He exhales and his hands fold neatly in his lap. “His name is Roxas.”