#did i mention i found a cropped winter coat

[madegeeky]

Chicago: It's 10 degrees below freezing!

Me, who just got my new summery Edward Scissorhands dress yesterday:

[illyrian-dreamer]

Frozen Flames (Part 1)

Lucien x Reader

Chapter summary: As you make your way through the Forbidden Forest of  Winter Court, you spot a familiar red-headed High Fae searching for a Solstice tree.

Series summary: After fifty years trapped Under the Mountain, you struggle to adjust to your new found freedom as Kallias’s third-in-charge to the Winter Court. 

In an unlikely circumstance, you meet Lucien Vanserra.

As you and Lucien grow closer, dealing with the loss of your mother and trauma from Amarantha’s reign proves harder than you thought. How will you start to trust and love again?

Ok here we go – Lucien series kicking off with Christmas/Solstice vibes because TISS THE SEASON BABY! 🎄

Shout out to @kennedy-brooke for inspiring this story! 💕

I hope you like this meet-cute for our new main character. More parts are being written – comment to join the tag list :) 🦊🍐❄️🔥

Warnings: Mentions of death, violence and trauma

Word count: 1,859

Part 1:

∇

The cold air filled your lungs before it hit your cheeks. It didn’t matter that the sun shone above you, it was two days before Solstice in Winter Court – the coldest time of year.

You brushed your hand against the tall pine trees, their scent bringing back memories of your mother. You longed for her presence, to hear her voice call you as your boots dragged through the trail of snow she left behind, just like when you were young. If you closed your eyes, you could almost hear her.

Your eyes shot open. What you heard were footsteps.

Your heart began to pound. It wasn’t a rationale response, but everything had changed since Amarantha’s rule. Instinct had you scaling the tallest tree you could find as you hid on a sturdy branch, drawing your arrow and aiming at the direction of the sound.

A short way down the path, you saw a flash of red. You squinted, trying to focus on the movement. Was it a fox?

A few moments later, you made out the shape of a male. He was High Fae, that you could tell. He wore an emerald coat with black boots and gloves, his bright hair half pulled back from his deep golden skin, the rest of it sprawling against his broad shoulders.

You recognised the male from Under the Mountain. You hadn’t known him during the fifty years you spent trapped there, but remembered his face during Feyre’s trials. You kept your weapon pulled, your eyes stalking him past your arrow as he walked closer towards your hiding spot.

He stopped close by, sizing up a small tree he faced, his back towards where you hid. The male then withdrew a blade from his coat. You pulled at your bow even tighter at the sight of the weapon.

He flexed his arm, pulling the weapon back, readying to swing at the tree. 

Anger flashed in you – how dare he harm the forest. He did not belong here.

“Stop!” you yelled, words escaping you before you could think twice.

The male stopped, spinning around as he searched for you. You could now see a russet eye that sat deep within a long scar whirling as he looked frantically. The eye spotted you before the rest of him, his face now one of shock. Your heart fluttered – you had forgotten how handsome he was.

“Who are you?” you demanded, aiming your arrow at him.

“Who are you?” the male countered, cocking an eyebrow.

You shot an arrow just before his feet. You didn’t want to harm him, but you were not playing games. He had clearly travelled from elsewhere, and you didn't appreciate the threat to your court.

The male didn't flinch, instead he stared at where the arrow stuck to the snow, before looking up at you and smirking. He let his blade drop to the ground, the silver piece sinking into the cold powder. He raised his hands in a calm surrender.

“My name is Lucien. I mean you no harm.”

Right.

“What are you doing here?”

Lucien raised an arm to the pine tree behind him. “I’m here to collect a tree for Solstice.”

You blinked in shock.

“So you travelled to the Forbidden Forest of my court to do so?”

“I heard there is the best crop.” 

You could have rolled your eyes. Tourists.

You huffed, letting go of the branch you perched on and making a graceful landing into the snow.

“There is. But it isn't yours for the taking.”

Lucien’s face was one of mild amusement as he took in the site of you. “And that is worth shooting an arrow for?”

“I would have shot earlier, but I thought you were a fox.”

Your comment was meant to upset him, but Lucien tilted his head back and laughed. “I have been described like that many times,” he admitted.

His demeanour was friendly, relaxed, but you were unconvinced he wasn’t a threat. You sized him up – should you need to escape. The male was a fair bit taller than you, and muscular beneath his coat. You wouldn’t have much chance to outrun him, but you did have your bow and arrow.

“And who might you be?” he asked, eyes boring into your own, the russet one finding its place. You shifted, uncomfortable at the intensity of his gaze.

You eyed his weapon, still sitting in the snow. He would only have to reach for it quickly…

Lucien caught your eye movement, letting out a soft sigh.

“I can assure you I mean no harm.”

“Except to that tree,” you countered.

“I wouldn't have taken you for a conservationist,” he grinned, nodding his head to you fur lined coat.

Prick, you thought, willing your face to stay neutral.

He smiled again, knowing he had landed his point. “Fine. To make amends, I will leave your trees unharmed.”

You pressed your lips and gave a small nod, acknowledging his surrender.

“If you won’t tell me your name, can you tell me what a female as beautiful as yourself is doing wondering this forest alone?”

You glared at his words that were clearly meant to disarm you. You breathed in, cold air filling your lungs. “I’m here to harvest pears.”

Picking pears the night before Winter Solstice Eve had been a tradition between you and your mother.

She would dress you in a heavy coat, wrapping you in knits that she had made as she carried you on her back. When you were old enough, you had been eager to shuffle through the ankle deep powder into the depths of the forest, your mother guiding the way.

In the midst of the thicket laid a charming orchard with rows of pear trees, the branches glistened with melting ice. It was a magical sight, and you would delight in playing in the soft snow while she gathered the fruit.

When you returned home, the smell of stewing pears with cinnamon and vanilla filled your home as your mother boiled and baked all kinds of tarts and jams. It was that smell of the holidays.

“Pears,” Lucien nodded, looking at you with curious amusement. “As in the fruit?”

“Yes,” you said tightly.

Lucien looked around, the rows of pine trees spreading tall and far amongst the blanket of snow. He looked back at you with a smirk, as if you were mad to think you’d find pears, and he was pitying you.

You rolled your eyes in frustration. “There’s a hidden orchard,” you explained.

“Ah.” Lucien raised his eyebrows, as if unconvinced. “May I come with you to this orchard?”

“Of course not.”

Lucien let out a soft chuckle while looking down, his bright hair falling in front of his face.

“So be it,” he waved his hand as he stepped around you, picking up his weapon and making back for the path. “It was a pleasure to meet you, beauty in the snow.”

You turned to watch him walk away, stunned by his wit and charm.

“There is a farm for Solstice trees only a few yards from the city centre,” you called to him, unsure of why you offered that information.

Lucien turned, a smile on his face. “I am grateful.” He gave a courteous bow of his head, something of a practiced High Fae. He made for the path again, and you watched him until you couldn't not see him past the thick of the forest.

What an odd encounter, you thought, making your way to your mothers’ orchard.

————

You had stealthily escaped the long corridors of the Winter Castle that morning to make the journey to the orchard. You didn't want to attract the attention of your cousin Kallias or his mate Vivian. While you loved them dearly, this was something you wanted to do in private.

The crisp air flushed your face you made your way through the thicket, your memory uncovering the path with each step. You took a cold, sharp breath in, savouring the way it cooled your lungs. That was one of many things you had missed Under the Mountain – fresh air. You hadn’t had a single breath of it in over fifty years before that human girl Feyre had set you all free.

You thought about her often. Kallias had told you that she now resided in the Night Court with Rhysand. Good for her. You hoped she was able to find happiness, as you were all trying to do.

You made quick work to gather the pears, your sack filled to the brim with glossy green fruit. You took a bite into one as you made your way back through the forest, savouring the juicy sweetness as another memory of your mother bought your hand up to soothe the ache in your chest.

This was your first time celebrating Solstice without her. She had sacrificed herself while trying to hide you when Amarantha’s army attacked.

You were still lived in the cottage with your mother at the time – but as cousin the High Lord of the Winter Court – Amarantha had sought you out. Fighting to protect you against the soldiers that burst into your home was the last thing your mother did, the sound of her scream before her neck was snapped still lived vividly in your mind.

So you had spent fifty years Under the Mountain with Kallias, keeping your head down and doing what it took to survive. You mourned your mother in silence, unwilling to let Amarantha delight in your heart break. Instead, you did your best to not draw attention to yourself. If she knew how broken you were, she’d toy with your sadness for fun, as you had seen her do to others. And if she knew you were a more than just Kallias’s cousin, and were a heavily trained archer, she’d use your skills for her own gain.

Since Amarantha’s fall, Kallias had taken you under his wing, and you found a new home at the Winter Castle, serving duties in his court. ‘Home’ was an understatement, the blue and silver castle stood tall and proud at the edge of the Winter Court village, it’s icy corridors panelled with large glass windows that looked out to the frosty mountains that bordered your court.

You pulled tighter on the heavy sack of pears you lugged on your back, keeping your head down as to go unnoticed as you walked through the village.  

You often had to remind yourself that you were free now – free to stroll the cozy shopfronts of the village, free to visit the bars and taverns and sip mulled wine, free to skate the frozen lake.

But you didn't want to do any of that. However, this tradition – the pear picking – that you would do in your mothers honour.

You finally made it back to your room in the castle, dropping the sack of fruit on your floor as a few of the fruit rolled out. 

As you peeled off your bow and arrow, you couldn't help but think of the red-headed male you had encountered in the forest, ignoring the part of you that hoped to see Lucien again soon.

————

Part 2 >>>

Tags: @jazmin2211​ @timecharm​ @itscaitymoore​

[strawberrystreamfields]

Carolina's Journal Log 14:

We'd headed to New Hillcrest Stables late last night, and left for the library once more before the sun had even risen this morning. Our breath had been visible in the air, forming small clouds as we returned to the library. I settled down in one of the old, ornate armchairs with a couple of books I'd retrieved from the shelves. For the most part, I was reading up on myths and legends, mostly looking for mentions of something like the Winter Village. Something that certain piqued my interest was a mention of mystical hidden guardians of Fort Maria. Another legend detailed the origins of the auroras in the sky. After a few hours, during which the sun definitely had risen, I stoof and placed the books back where I'd found them. In the process, I did find a few more books I'd like to read, but I'll save those for another time.

Leaving the library, we set out towards South Hoof, where there appeared to be a small storm of some kind picking up. The travels there were cold in comparison to the gentle warmth of Fort Maria's ancient library. We headed up the bridge to South Hoof, closing in on the epicenter of the small anomaly.

Goats. Why did it have to be goats? Of course it wasn't some normal little storm. One would think I'd be used to this by now, after so long on Jorvik, but I still get surprised. They're cute, don't get me wrong, but they also happened to be a hassle, the two os us having to track down 3 baby goats. At least they're cute.

Doubling back, Rosedawn and I headed for Crescent Moon Village. Against the glowing auroras in the sky, Fort Maria looked like something out of a movie, slightly illuminated and framed by their glow.

Crescent Moon Village's residents were milling about, going about their normal routines, albeit bundled up in coats and scarves. Jorvik in the snow really is a different place. The sections of marsh that reached the bridge that led to the path that eventually led to Stormgarden were identically clear and crystalline. Had I not known how freezing cold the water was, I might've been tempted to jump in. Future-me probably wouldn't appreciate that, though.

Continuing along the path to Stormgarden, we took in the sights of a snow-covered Epona. We'll have to take a better look around sometime soon. It still bewilders me sometimes how the snow is still so ever-present even almost two weeks since it first fell across the usually snow-barren majority of Jorvik.

Passing through the elegant gates that lead to both Old Stormgarden and... Stormgarden, we took a right to head toward Stormgarden. Slowing, we stopped to briefly speak with Li Jian. Him and Ming Yue have been doing alright since we last spoke, and after a bit more conversing, Rosedawn and I took our leave.

Galloping down toward the gate that would take us toward Jarlaheim, we passed the rows upon rows of crops. The old GED facilities sat at the top of the ridge still casting a dark shadow.

The rest of the trek to Jarlaheim was uneventful, and the water glittered in the early afternoon light. Gracefully trotting up the stairs to the main square, we figured we'd stay here for the day. We found ourselves getting into little bits of mischief, helping out Gavin and the nearby pet store before heading to Jorvik Stables to stay the night.

[ziseviolet]

Hi, sorry if this has been asked already..but what did people (like in the Tang Dynasty) wear during the winter? We see a lot of light hanfus, but I’m assuming they made ones out of thicker materials and fur for cold weather? Thanks and love your blog!

Hi, I’m glad you love my blog! 

I discussed what people wore during winter here and here, so please check out those posts if you haven’t already! Basically, during winter people generally wore their usual styles of hanfu, but with thicker materials (and wool, fur, etc) & more layers to keep warm. Recent years have seen an impressive increase in the number and variety of winter hanfu available on the market. 

For example, below are Tang dynasty-style winter hanfu from 如是观. The woman is wearing thicker, warmer versions of typical Tang clothing, and the man is wearing a brown qiuyi (fur-lined long coat) over a blue yuanlingpao (round-collar robe):

Below is an example of how layering can be done for a Tang woman in winter:

There’s actually a logical reason why Tang-style hanfu seems lighter than other styles. As mentioned in this post, the climate during the Tang dynasty was actually warmer relative to other dynasties. The aforementioned post links to an article from New Hanfu that states:

Mr. Zhu Kezhen (竺可桢先生), the founder of modern Chinese geography and meteorology, and a leading figure in the field of phenology, has studied the main trends of climate change in China over the last 5,000 years, using the 20th-century climate as a benchmark for comparison, and concludes: in ancient China, there were four warm periods, the Yangshao periods (仰韶时期, 5000 BC to 3000 BC), Yinxu periods (殷墟时期), the Spring and Autumn & Warring State periods, the Sui and Tang periods, and four cold periods, the late Shang and early Western Zhou periods, the late Northern Song and early Southern Song periods, and the late Ming and early Qing periods. 

According to the literature, the Tang dynasty had “nineteen snow-free and ice-free years in winter and spring, the highest number of any dynasty in Chinese history”. In addition, biological phenomena such as the growing areas for warm area crops such as litchi, citrus, as well as areas for tropical animals. For example, during the Tang dynasty, Hunan, Sichuan, and Guizhou all offered rhinoceros horns to the imperial court, implying that there was a widespread presence of wild rhinoceroses in these areas, which prefer a warm, moist climate and are now only found in the tropics, evidence that the Tang dynasty was indeed warmer than modern times. 

In terms of material, in the period of The Wei, Jin, and North-South dynasties, the climate was cold and dry, and wool knitting Chanyu (襜褕, a kind of Zhiju) and robes, as well as animal-skin furs, were popular at the time. As the climate warmed in the Tang dynasty, the thicker garments were replaced by silk and linen-based fabrics. This is confirmed by archaeological excavations of Tang dynasty figures and some murals in tombs, where men, women, and children of all ages were thinly dressed. The Tang dynasty Tan collar with large sleeves Shan was the most open style of women’s clothing in the history of Chinese feudal society. In addition to the social climate and the openness of ideas of the time, the warm climate of the Tang dynasty was also an extremely important factor. 

However, by the late Tang dynasty, at the end of the eighth century AD, the climate turned drastically colder again. Some of the paintings show skirts from the late Tang period with new designs for warmth, as well as the addition of a robe to the skirt, which may have been considered in the context of keeping warm. 

Conversely, Ming-style hanfu seems warmer than other styles because the Ming dynasty’s climate was relatively colder! Now I’m not a climatologist so I can’t verify how accurate these statements are, but it’s quite fascinating if true. 

For more resources, please check out my winter wear tag. Hope this helps!

[nerdypanda3126]

Damn, You Look Happy Now

It's angst week for the @lovebugs-and-snakecharmers Sprint Fic Challenge!

The rules are three 15-minute sprints with 24 hours for light editing, which includes new writing to smooth transitions or make it feel complete. I ended up with four sprints and added around 1,000 words on this one because... I mean, feels are really hard.

The prompt I used this time around was: "It's okay, I'm used to it." And that combined in my head with Heart Shut by Alex Hall feat. Tenille Townes which I heard the day after watching the episode and I couldn't help but think of these two. 

Summary: Luka's looking forward to a quiet performance in a small local bar until Marinette walks in leading Adrien by the hand. And she looks so happy. Luka just needs to pretend it's not absolutely killing him.

Warnings: S4/E1: Truth Spoilers, non-consensual kissing, drinking

Read on Ao3 

Luka glanced out over the crowd, idly picking at his guitar. After years of touring with Jagged, it was nice to play the background music for a quiet place like this. Although he had to admit the crowd was probably larger than normal for the small local bar.

He frowned unconsciously as his fingers started to find all-too-familiar notes, and his crowd-searching became more focused, intent on finding her. And find her he did. Worming her way to the tables in front of the stage, leading a bewildered, laughing Adrien by the hand. Her melody bubbled up to him over the hum of the crowd. It had changed. When they were teenagers it had been dragged down by confusion, longing, and responsibility. His fingers tripped over the strings lightly, every playful note confirming the happiness she’d found.

Adrien took Marinette’s coat and draped it across the back of her chair before helping her into it. She rolled her eyes when he pressed a kiss to the back of her knuckles and he smirked back before disappearing, presumably to order their drinks. The ease between them was obvious. He could only assume—well, admittedly he’d never asked. But in the limited contact they kept up, she’d never mentioned the new development, either.

She waved shyly at him up on the stage and he set his face in a smile and nodded back. She’d cut her hair. It was cropped close to her neck now, but she’d kept the bangs he remembered. As their eyes were linked, she reached up to worry at a pigtail that wasn’t there, asking him with her eyes if he liked it. Despite himself, his smile warmed as he nodded again. He really did. She looked so happy now, especially when Adrien returned to sit next to her and draped his arm across the back of her seat casually.

He tried—he really did—to focus on his performance, but it was honestly the worst of his life. His eyes kept drifting over to her, often catching her leaning her head close to Adrien’s to talk. Adrien subtly kept her drink full all night, until she was hiding giggles behind her hands and leaning amiably against his shoulder. Every once in a while she’d catch Luka watching her and sober instantly, straightening up to twist her fingers on the table instead, biting her lips and shooting furtive glances his way.

But Adrien would say something in her ear and make her smile again.

The end of his set was an immense relief. He planned on disappearing out back until they left. Not that he didn’t want to talk to her, he just… couldn’t. So he slipped his guitar off and set it aside before he slid quietly out the door marked ‘Employees Only.’

Instantly, he wrapped his arms around himself, regretting not grabbing his leather jacket. It was snowing, and already a thin layer was frosting the cobblestones of the alley he was standing in. There was one other person out there, on a smoke break, but they took one look at Luka and took a last puff before crushing it out and going back inside. The stale cigarette smoke hung around him and mixed with the smell of the dumpster and the crisp winter air. It didn’t help calm his twisting stomach. But he took deep breaths anyways, focusing more on the snowflakes landing on his hot skin, melting away to nothing like he desperately wished he could right now.

He heard the door beside him open and he didn’t even need to look to know she’d followed him. That haunting melody was already in his head and he took one more steadying breath, preparing to tell her he was happy for her as he turned to face her.

She was clutching her coat around her tightly, peeking up at him from behind snow-laden eyelashes. For a moment, neither of them spoke, letting the silence of the snow falling around them stretch to the point of breaking. He shook off the chill that was beginning to seep into his chest and shoved his hands in his pockets.

“You look good,” he started, “happy, I mean.”

“I am,” she murmured back, but there was a strange twinge to her tone. “Um, I wanted to tell you—”

“Marinette, you don’t have to.” He cut her off before the words he didn’t want to hear passed her lips. He wasn’t expecting the childish pout that scrunched her face.

“I do, though,” she insisted, “It’s why we came here tonight, to watch you play, and so I could see you again and tell you—” She took a sharp breath in and held it, biting her lip again. It was only then that Luka noticed the glassy sheen of her eyes and her reddened cheeks that had nothing to do with the cold. He counted in his head how many drinks she must’ve had over the course of the evening. Not enough to not remember, but definitely enough to not be in control.

“You’ve been drinking, Marinette,” he said gently. “You should go back inside. I’m sure Adrien’s looking for you.”

“He’ll wait.” She hiccuped and giggled. “But first I have to tell you something.”

“You can call me tomorrow when you’re sober.” He didn’t mean to be so short with her, but the image of her going home with Adrien hit him harder than he thought it would. He started to reach around her to open the door she was still standing in front of and usher her back through, but she grabbed a fistful of his shirt and tugged him down to her.

As she pressed her lips against his, his body reacted first out of habit. Too many years of crazed fans forgetting he was a person and not a sex symbol. His hands peeled hers off him gently and he took a step back. Except this was Marinette and it tore at something inside him to tear himself away from her.

When he blinked back to the cold reality standing in front of him, he licked his lips unconsciously before daring to look at her again. She was mostly stunned, her eyes blown wide and her lips still slightly parted.

“Oh my God, Luka, I’m so sorry. I just—”

“It’s okay,” he managed to choke out. Not that it was, but it was what came out of his mouth. He cleared his throat to try to speak past the lump that had formed. “I’m… used to it.”

Just not from you, his mind supplied helpfully. He was still holding her wrists and for some reason his thumb moved on its own, rubbing against her delicate skin, but he wasn’t sure if he was reassuring her or himself.

“That... was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. God, I’m so embarrassed.” She tried to hide her face in her hands, but ended up pressing her forehead against his chest instead, muttering about being a disaster.

He only resisted the urge to fold her into his arms because he could smell Adrien’s cologne lingering in her hair. Instead he cleared his throat again.

“Marinette, does Adrien know you’re out here with me?”

She looked up at him and scrunched up her face again, in confusion this time instead of defiance. “Of course he does. He’s the reason I’m out here with you. Mangy cat practically shoved me out the door.”

...What? He blinked at her, uncomprehending, and she sighed as she snuggled into him which was not helping his ability to process anything. He dropped her wrists and grabbed her by the shoulders instead, stabilizing her as he pulled her off him.

“You’re gonna have to help me out, here. You’re here with Adrien, right?”

“Well, yeah, I’m here with Adrien.” She rolled her eyes at him, but then when she caught sight of his serious expression, she seemed to realize something. “Oh, you think—No! No, I’m not—I’m here with Adrien, but I’m not here with Adrien, he’s—we’re—oh, it’s a long story, and that’s why I wanted to tell you, but it’s all wrong and now you think—and I—Luka, I didn’t mean to kiss you like that, I’m so sorry, you must think I’m awful and—”

He took a deep breath and sorted through her ramblings. With Adrien, but not with Adrien. His head was spinning. Adrien was the reason she was out here. She wanted to tell him something. None of it was really adding up, and yet at the same time it was.

“What were you going to tell me earlier?” he asked, doing his best to keep his voice even.

“Under the moon, deep within the woods…” she muttered under her breath, then hiccuped again. The faded memory of a failed date rushed back to him and whatever breath he had left him. She was twisting her fingers into the front of his shirt, seeming very interested in her shoes until she let out a short huff of breath and finally met his eyes again. “I wanted to tell you my secret, Luka, now that it’s all over. And I wanted to tell you…” She blinked up at him with those wide eyes and bit her lip again. This time, he waited for the end of her thought. She closed her eyes and took a long, deep breath in and let it out slowly. When she opened them again, they were clear, as blue as he remembered, and starting to brim with tears.

“I never stopped loving you,” she murmured. “It—the timing, was just—” Another short huff of breath and she wiped at her cheeks. Impatient with herself, it seemed, for not knowing which words to use. But then she drew herself up and the look in her eye became steely.

Every Parisian knew that look. Luka blinked just to make sure he wasn’t seeing things, but it was definitely still Marinette in front of him and not Ladybug. But. She’d said it was all over. Hawkmoth’s defeat—he’d been in America at the time, but the news had done a small segment on it. Her secret. The realization crashed into him at about the same time the words left her mouth.

Without being aware of it, his hand drifted to his wallet in his back pocket and he easily withdrew the signed guitar pick necklace she’d given him. It felt like a lifetime ago. For a moment he let it hang between them, then let the cord slip through his fingers and into her cupped hands.

“I can’t believe you kept it,” she said softly.

She picked it up to look at it, no doubt noticing the wear on it. When he was writing songs on the road, or nervous before a show, or just thinking of her and wishing things had gone differently, he’d take it out and rub his thumb over the smooth plastic. The design on one side was nearly worn off from it.

“My lucky charm,” he murmured. Her eyes bounced back up to his as a genuine blush rose on her cheeks.

A shiver wracked through him as the new information and the cold caught up to him. Marinette’s expression instantly shifted to concern. “You must be freezing! We’ll go back inside and—”

As she turned away to open the door he spun her back to him and leaned down to press his lips against hers this time. She let out a muffled gasp of surprise, then wrapped her arms around his neck to hold him to her, angling her head to kiss him better.

When he pulled away—entirely too soon in his opinion, but it was hard to kiss her the way he wanted with chattering teeth—he pressed his forehead against hers fondly. She giggled and ran a hand through his hair, brushing out stray snowflakes that hadn’t melted away yet.

“You know, it was actually Adrien who told me you were here tonight,” she admitted shyly.

“Remind me to buy Chat Noir a drink,” he muttered, and she laughed again and took his hand, lacing their fingers together as she did to lead him back inside.

[burning-pining-perishing]

Things I miss about England~

As a Brit who moved to another corner of Europe over a year ago, I’m constantly hit with waves of homesickness (Granted, the country itself isn’t all that great, but it has its qualities).

~ the cold

~ the smell of the rain and the earth

~ wearing jumpers and sleeves and boots

~ the greenery, trees of all kinds everywhere, farmers fields abundant with crops

~ the wildflowers that grow wherever they can

~ being bundled up in layers and a big blanket of a scarf, but never wrapping my coat up so I can still feel the cool air on my skin

~ finding at least one bookshop in every village

~ Waterstones

~ the way that the seasons change, the bronze leaves on the floor in autumn, the way that summer is cherished for as long as possible

~ sitting by the fire in winter and roasting marshmallows while watching Love, Actually

~ sitting on the windowsill in my old living room with a cup of tea, a thick jumper, and my cat to watch the world go by

~ the raindrops rolling down the window

~ staring at the clouds until they transform into pictures and making up stories to go with it

~ little flowers that grow in the cracks of the sidewalks

~ the local libraries

~ Costa Coffee, especially their Dark Forest hot chocolate

~ the smell of the air in the morning, and late at night

~ did I mention the cold?

~ the sound of cars driving by on a wet road

~ watching my breath fog in the air

~ the little forests between fields, the deer that lived there

~ the little vintage tea shop in my village and their rose and cranberry scones

~ sitting on a bench in town and listening to the man playing his accordion on the corner, tipping him whatever change I had in my pockets

~ the museums and galleries

~ the old record store that felt so nostalgic, even if everything was overpriced

~ going around old secondhand shops that always smell the same, finding something perfect every time

~ the colourful pigeons that feared nothing

~ the cold, also

~ trips to Scarborough or Whitby, where my dad would recite old local tales or family facts

~ the cold beaches of Hornsea in the winter, where my dad would force us to look for fossils in the clay, even though it was freezing and our fingers where numb

~ most of the time we didn’t even find anything but we usually got chips afterwards

~ okay so I miss my dad

~ and my best friends

~ and my sisters

~ my nieces and nephews

~ my brother too I guess

~ and my grandparents

~ mostly the bookshops

~ anyone know a cure for homesickness?

Photos found on Pinterest, collected on PicCollage

[caspia-writes]

Summer of Whump #1 – Freezing

Summary: A soldier is stuck spending a winter in a trench in Südanglia. A winter which the Großsächsische Reichswehr did not logistically prepare for. Between the psychological toll of the conditions there and the physical effects of prolonged cold, he enters a rapid downhill spiral.

A/N: I've decided to at least play at the idea of doing some of Summer of Whump, almost as much for trying to worldbuild as anything. As the title and summary would suggest, this deals with freezing. I'd also like to note it's been a while since I wrote anything, much less this quickly and at such an ungodly hour of the morning, so this is not quite up to my usual standard.

Content warnings: death, blood, foul language, repeated god mentions

(Also perhaps not the best reading material if you're having pasta at the moment!)

Never in his life had Günther wanted a cup of coffee so badly. Though it didn’t have to be coffee. Tea would work too, he supposed. Or a good, strong spirit. Even just steaming hot water. Anything, so long as it would take the chill out of his bones for a few minutes.

But there was nothing of the sort to be had.

This fact left Günther with nothing more to do than stew in the freezing mud and contemplate the misery of his existence. It was bad enough that the trenches reeked of dysentery and gangrene, that the ground was frozen too hard to do any more digging, that dinner had been more ‘worm noodles’ that the cooks no longer even tried to disguise as anything but. What was worse was that somehow, inexplicably, even when nothing else would, the mud always managed to thaw just enough during the day to seep into a person’s clothes and boots, only to freeze again later.

In Günther’s eyes, this proved two things: first, there was a God; and second, that God was a whoreson bastard if Günther had ever known one.

It was about this time that Günther noticed the man next to him. He wasn’t sure how long the man had been there; when he’d sat down several hours ago, he hadn’t been paying much attention. But he was here now, Günther was bored of staring at sandbags, and he would be damned if he believed that the other man could sleep when it was this cold.

“This is nonsense,” he said, crossing his arms and leaning back against the side of the trench. “We’re out here, freezing to death, shitting our guts out, no food, can’t even get a smoke. And for what? Reuniting with our Südanglian brethren?”

Günther waited a moment for a response, glanced over at the man next to him. He didn’t react at all. Not a sigh, grumble, not even shifting around in response to being bothered. Nothing at all.

“Goddamned senseless shit!” Günther hissed, and spat on the ground in front of him.

Still nothing. The man gazed silently at the mud in front of him. It was almost unnatural how still he was. He didn’t even look like he was breathing. Come to think of it, he looked remarkably like—

—like a corpse. Which would explain the red tinge to the mud stain down the front of his coat. And the hole over his heart.

It didn’t matter, or it shouldn’t have, but Günther couldn’t stop himself from wiping the gathered snow off the coat. There was no reason for it, but he had to know the name of the corpse he’d tried to talk to. He had to. Just to make sure it hadn’t been because it was a friend he’d half-recognized, or a brother, or a cousin, or, or, or...

Well.

Whoever it was, he hadn’t lived long enough to stitch his name into his coat. It was probably his first week at the front then. Maybe even his first day. And he was already dead.

But he had his tags, at least. It took several tries, and a few breaks to swallow down the bile rising in his throat, but Günther managed to hook his fingers around the chain and pull the metal out onto the front of the dead man’s coat.

Paul Wolfgang Neumann.

19.2.03.

A bullet to the chest was one hell of a birthday present. And somehow Günther couldn’t believe that it was the kid’s nineteenth birthday. Fifteenth, maybe. Though even that seemed a little generous. This Paul was—had been—tall, sure, but his face didn’t look nineteen. Maybe Günther had never really met Paul, but he knew Paul was still--had still been--a boy. Not a man.

Bile rose in Günther's throat and he forced himself to look away. There wasn't time for this sentimental nonsense. A boy Paul's age shouldn't have been out in the trenches, no. He should've been in school, or anywhere this hellhole. But what could anyone do about it now? The Anglians--or really, whoever had let the poor kid sign up for this--had killed him and there was nothing anyone could do about it. Not Günther, not the medics, not the boy's parents.

What could still change was that Günther was freezing, and he needed that coat. Paul wasn’t using it anymore. And So Günther began fumbling with the buttons, trying to pry the coat off and not think too hard about where he was getting it from.

It must've taken twenty minutes, but at last Günther got the coat off Paul and onto himself. Things picked up considerably after that. Within seconds he began patting every pocket he could find. Not for money—what good was that?—but in hopes that maybe this Paul might still have a cigarette or some alcohol he hadn't developed the taste for or even a leftover biscuit or two somewhere.

Instead of any of that, he found a letter. Nothing but a letter either. Not even the pen he must’ve used to write it.

The only useful thing he could think of to do with the letter was try and burn it. He had the matches, and it was hardly as though he could burn the trenches down when they were frozen and half-waterlogged.

But he couldn’t do it.

Paul probably had a mother and a father and some siblings, and for all Günther knew none of them had any idea that Paul had even signed up for this. They deserved a little more than another standard notice typed up by one of those girls back up at the field hospital. If his family wouldn’t get his body back—and given the bonfires and acrid black smoke that cropped up behind the field hospital every Sunday, it figured they wouldn’t—at least they might get his last letter. Or however much he’d finished of it.

Günther vowed to try and send the letter in the morning, then leaned back against the wall of the trench again and returned to contemplating his situation. He didn’t notice as the mud on his undercoat began to thaw and soak both his shirt and outer coat.

Then the wind wailed, shards of ice cutting into Günther’s face. That much he did notice. He ducked his head towards his chest and began fumbling with the coat collar. There had to be a way to get it to stand up, to put anything between his face and the little pieces of white shrapnel flying around him. If only his icy-white, numbed fingers would work. Just for a few seconds. That was all he needed, a few seconds where his fingers would work. Then the wind and snow wouldn’t seem so bad.

After several minutes, Günther left the coat collar alone and let his hands drift into the mud next to him. He didn’t need, or want, the collar up anymore. The coat worked well enough as it was. For the first time in days, Günther wasn’t cold. He was warm. Maybe even hot.

And yet, it was still snowing. How could he be warm if it were still snowing? It didn’t make any sense. The coat hadn’t been that thick, had it? His eyes were drawn first to the sleeves, if anything thinner than the coat he had on beneath it, and then once again to red-brown stain covering the front of the coat.

Blood.

That was it. Everyone knew blood was hot! Why hadn’t Günther thought of it before? The coat was hot because there was blood on it. If he’d just had the sense to take a coat off some other corpse before, he wouldn’t have been so miserable these last weeks.

Or maybe he’d spoken too soon.

The blood was hot, yes. In fact, it was too hot. He needed to take it off. It burned. It made everything he wore burn. Invisible wisps of hellfire were licking through the fabric, and he could feel every last one.

He threw the coat off, but it was still too hot. One good thing, Günther supposed, about the trenches being largely deserted was that he could take the rest of his clothes off too. He took the other coat off, then his shirt, then his boots and socks, until he was sitting there naked. But it was still too hot.

Of course. He’d stolen the coat. From a dead man, no less. In a god-forsaken trench at that. No wonder he’d thought of hellfire and not any other equally suitable explanation. It was hellfire, and Hell was where he would be going if he didn’t atone for his sins, and immediately at that.

Now—what were the words of that prayer?

“Alles zum Wohle....”

No. No, that wasn’t right. That was—was the national syndicalist slogan. Not a prayer. Wieck was, would be, the source of Großsachsen’s salvation, maybe, but he didn’t do divine salvation. And that was what Günther needed now. Divine salvation.

He’d try again.

“O Gott, dessen einge... ein...bor... gebornen...”

That was wrong too. Why wouldn’t the words come? Günther knew he knew the words. He’d said that prayer every night since he could remember.

It didn’t matter. He could worry about it in the morning, when he wasn’t so tired. That, Günther decided, was probably why he couldn’t remember. Everything was too hot and he was tired and it would simply have to wait until morning. All he needed now was to find a good place to hide away from the eyes of God until dawn.

He lurched his body across the trench, towards the dugout. That was where he would hide. He would be safe there. In the dugout, under the table.

Once he was there, he knew it was true. This was safety. Something he hadn’t felt in even longer than warmth. The one safe place in this whole damn war, and it was his.

Günther let out a contented sigh and closed his eyes.

[marvellfashion]

So, another Hellfire Club fashion post, but this time about the Shaw family and adjacent characters. Now, Sebastian is an interesting character (terrible guy, terrible, but a better CHARACTER than he gets credit for in my biased opinion) but he does not have a good fashion history. Like. At all. It's honestly almost worse than his villainy. But you know who DOES have style? His son Shinobi. Sadly created during the 90s when it was acceptable to name Japanese characters things like Shinobi (and Lady Mandarin, and Kamikaze, YES REALLY) Shinobi Shaw has had some LOOKS. Like his father he's made some very bold choices and isn't afraid of color (Sebastian wore HOT PINK through most of the 80s, and once combined it with lilac and orange in the same look, it was hideous but I applaud his courage) but UNLIKE his father, who really should stick to business suits in neutrals, Shin has made it work! Okay sometimes he hasn't either but I love him anyway. While Shaw was all about pink in the 80s, Shin was all about purple in the 90s, whether it was blatant

Or something small, like a vest

This is from a trading card, and honestly I love it? Yes, the huge arm gauntlets and epaulets are PATENTLY RIDICULOUS but Shinobi is extra and I love how it is just the PEAK of how he keeps trying to channel the 80s New Romantic fashion that he was a decade late for. Seriously, the other Hellfire Men are dressing like it's the 1880s, but I think Shin is actually going for the 1980s, just the Adam & the Ants type 80s were people were taking inspo from the 1880s. If that makes sense.

I don't actually know what to call this AT ALL except he seems working very hard to draw attention to his ass and...that tracks for him. He can do "normal" business/upscale fashion well too, of course

This was his first appearence and it was in...'91? The 90s, anyway, and the cut of his suit was VERY on-trend for that era. The 90s mens suits were very baggy.

And check out his bowler hat (with a purple band!) and his fancy cane here! My fave though is this. I can't decide if it's FABULOUS or RIDICULOUS but it is FLAMBOYANT and honestly the most "Shinobi" look to me Look at this. LOOK AT THIS. He has on a big violet pirate coat with contrasting lilac lapels and gold embroidery, a big deep red-pink blouse, and LAVENDAR PINSTRIPED PANTS. This is the exact level of Shinobi Being Extra that defines Shinobi. And, let's talk about the person on the left? Because she NEEDS to be talked about.

So this absolute beauty is Mindmeld. She's Shinobi's bodyguard/mercenary in one issue of X-Force in the 90s and she is short-lived but ICONIC. She's very cool, very tough, implied to be transgender (which would make her the first mutant to be written as trans, not counting stuff like shapeshifters and aliens, but trans like real people are trans), and like look at this LOOK? She's like channeling MAD military glam/army surplus chic with BLING here. I love the suspenders, and her piles of bracelets, and that style of gloves. I really think she should be brought back and updated. The jodhpur pants with extra buttons are like, they're not hot now, but that's another thing I think was high-fashion in her time? Another little-known Hellfire lady is Lourdes Chantel. Like a lot of bad guys, Sebastian has a dead fiancee from before he became a villain. Unlike a lot of bad guys, he doesn't whine all the time and announce it to everyone (and I appreciate that) so maybe that's why most people don't know her, but though she only appeared in two issues, Lourdes had SOME LOOKS.

Lo

Look at this QUEEN. She was from Barcelona, so she's rocking this very traditional Spanish look with a mantilla, which is what you call that style of black veil. And that's gorgeous already but I just love her EARRINGS and her BLACK LACE GLOVES like I don't know how a woman who clearly loved style could also love Sebastian Shaw. Speaking of that, I hope Lourdes stays dead, actually, she doesn't need to see what he became after her death. RIP baby. To Sebastian himself, he does not have a lot of good looks, fashion-wise or in general, but something I think is worth mentioning is that the few times he's dressing like a NORMAL PERSON in the 80s and it's NOT a business suit, it's a sweater, and I love that. Like, look how NORMAL he looks in that cable-knit turtleneck and shearling coat? Dude clearly liked soft warm textures and given he grew up in deep poverty during Pittsburgh winters (he was born in Pittsburgh) I get that. You'll also notice that Senator Kelly is in both of these. The blonde woman? Senator Kelly's wife, Sharon. Sharon used to work at the Hellfire Club as a waitress, so during Kelly's meeting with Shaw, she decided to surprise him by showing up as HIS waitress in her old uniform. I low-key think she was trying to facilate a threeway because like...she's saying she wanted to "please" Kelly....and she's doing it RIGHT IN FRONT OF SHAW (who found the whole thing HILARIOUS, which I love)....girrrrrl. And I include this to mention that Sharon Kelly is ALSO A QUEEN

Look at her. Started at the bottom and now she's here. You get that Kelly money, girl. Unfortunately, that did not save her---she ends up dying shortly after this, having gotten caught in the crossfire of an X-Men battle, and that's what started Senator Kelly thinking seriously about the whole "mutants are dangerous" thing. ....also what drove him into the waiting burly arms of Sebastian Shaw who also knows what it is to lose a wife, but that's just MY twisted fan theory. Anyway, I know this was big, but these characters are all connected and I thought submitting them all together would flow well as a sort of story, plus some of them really need to be better-known!

———————————————————-

Shinobi! We love a flamboyant man! 💁🏻‍♀️ don’t you think in that second image it kind of looks like a weird Torero outfit?! Like the shoulders and the jacket and like the accent on his waist, it gives me that vibe!

Mindmeld that is one ICONIC LOOK! I mean crop top with those pants AND suspenders!!! And we can’t forget the jewels!!! She looks fantastic

Lourdes it’s such a shame that we don’t have the spanish look in better quality because it’s wonderful! And Sebastian well the man is living his own fantasy let’s leave it at that 😂

[snowdice]

Gaps in His Files (Part 4) [Relabeled; Refiled Series]

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Relationships: Logan/Patton

Characters:

Main: Logan, Patton

Appear: Remy, Virgil (but only in the epilogue)

Summary:

Logan Berry has learned many things the last 10 years: a lot of math and physics, a bit of humility, and how to be a hero being just a few. Through his education, his experience teaching, and his exploits as the superhero Bluebird, he’s changed in a lot of small and large ways. He has recorded these changes in well-organized documents and files. He’s even had to create two new file designations: a red one for files about his moonlighting at Bluebird, and a light blue one dedicated to his boyfriend, Patton.

When Bluebird is targeted by a memory device and all of those 10 years of progress suddenly disappear, Patton Sanders and Logan’s extensive files are left as his only resource to get those memories back. But what is Patton supposed to do when there are clear gaps in his files? And what does he do when he is one of them?

This is set 25 years before Sometimes Labels Fail though it’s story is completely independent of it and it is not necessary to read that one first.

Notes: Superhero AU, memory loss, past child abuse, past child neglect, unhealthy ideas about ones place in relationships, emotional suppression, self-deprecating thoughts, medical procedures mentioned, very brief unhealthy views of sex

Does anyone see the Easter Egg in here? Probably not. It’s pretty vague...

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Patton did not like driving Logan’s “special car.” It didn’t matter what position he put the seat in, he still either couldn’t reach the pedals or he felt like he was too scrunched up; the radio was (somehow) only set up to receive the local news station as well as some weird station that only ran a program detailing crop growing strategies which Patton thought must be some sort of cover for a channel sending messages in code (at least he really hoped it was because otherwise its existence was an affront to humanity); and he’d accidentally zapped himself with electricity while trying to adjust the temperature twice in the past and he still didn’t know if that was a feature or faulty wiring and Logan had refused to give an argument that convinced him either way. Not to mention, the car didn’t legally exist. If Patton got pulled over in this thing, what was he supposed to tell the police? Sorry, my boyfriend doesn’t have insurance, I’m pretty sure he built this death trap himself out of scrap metal because I can’t even discern the make and model.

“The corn! THE CORN,” the radio spewed.

“Yes, the corn,” Patton spat back. “I know. I heard you the first time.” Unfortunately, today, listening to the corn channel was better than listening to the news. The local news station continued to discuss and theorize what had happened earlier that afternoon over and over until Patton couldn’t take it anymore.

A memory gun had hit Logan. It had been a theory at first considering the things Lightwave and Logan had said along with the fact that Logan hadn’t seemed to remember how to fly, and had been all but confirmed a couple of hours ago when news that the police had investigated the dropped weapon leaked. Which all meant Logan was out there floundering with no idea what was going on or who he was. Patton wondered how much was gone. Had it erased all of his memories? Did he even know his name? He’d known enough to be able to use his powers, but was that instinct and muscle memory?

The theorizing on the local news station just made Patton’s blood pressure spike more with every passing second. Not that turning off the radio and being left alone with his own thoughts was much better. So…

“Crop rotation!”

Patton was the only person who knew Bluebird’s secret identity (at least, as far as Logan had told him.) Well… Remy might have guessed, but he hadn’t been officially told, and Patton doubted he’d be any help anyway. So, Patton was the only person who could really look for him. Sure, he was certain the police were searching (as well as some doubtlessly more dangerous people), but Patton was the only one who knew Logan.

You don’t know this Logan.

His Logan would have gone back to his apartment or maybe Patton’s if he were injured.

Patton gripped the steering wheel tighter. Okay. Maybe this Logan didn’t know where his apartment was. Maybe he didn’t know who Patton was. But he was still Logan, and Logan was rational and, more importantly, predictable. Patton would bet that in a circumstance where he knew nothing about what was going on, he would default to general survival tactics and what had he ranted and ranted to Patton about when they’d watched that one survival movie? Follow the water. Water is where you find food and shelter and almost certainly civilization if you follow it downstream. Sure, that was for when someone was lost in a forest or something, not already in a city, but Patton hoped he’d fallen into that strategy despite that, at least until he thought up something else better.

That’s why Patton had been driving up and down the river for the past few hours looking for anything suspicious and listening to someone blather on about corn. He pulled up underneath a bridge. It was a little bit away from the hustle and bustle of the city, but near enough to get to a more populated area quicklym and it had some good shelter around because there were trees. Patton bit his lip. If he thought like Logan, this would be a good place to stop. He decided to get out of the car and go out on foot for a bit.

Before exiting the car, he checked to make sure the mask was still in place. It felt strange on his face; he never really wore one. He clicked the locking mechanism which made the lights flash once but didn’t beep. He turned and froze when he met eyes under the bridge. The stranger didn’t speak but watched Patton intently from what looked like a makeshift house under the corner of the bridge. Patton edged out from beneath the bridge and headed toward the riverbanks. His shoes sunk into the mud a bit. It was starting to get dark which made it hard for him to search for things that looked out of place, especially when he was unfamiliar with the area. He was just running on blind Logan behavior instinct at this point. It was also starting to get cold. Patton hoped Logan had chosen to wear the winter super suit or he’d found a coat or something.

He wandered, looking into dark places and listening for any sounds beyond the river crashing into the banks. Around 15 minutes into his walk, his eyes caught on a large rock in front of a drainage pipe. Perfect, Logan’s voice said in his head. Patton crept over to check it out. No one was there, but it looked like someone had been recently by a smear of mud near the base of the rock that looked like someone’s foot had slipped there. Okay. He peered around him carefully, walking back toward the river. He had the sudden feeling of being watched. Up. He looked up at a small ledge along the bank and sighed in relief. “Thank god.”

Logan stumbled back a step when he realized Patton had seen him and turned tail to run again.

“Wait, L-” he cut himself off. He couldn’t risk it just in case someone was listening. There was a reason he had the mask and the car after all. Patton was the only one who knew his identity and Logan wanted to keep it that way. He thought quickly, head latching onto a story he’d been told one night curled up against a half-asleep Logan. “I’m Devora the Mood Goddess?” he tried.

Logan paused and turned to face him. “You know me,” he said peering at him from behind the mask still on his face.

Patton nodded, shoulders dropping in relief. “I do.” He offered a hand. “Come with me?”

He looked at the offered hand and then at Patton’s face. There was a moment of silence and then he nodded slowly and took a few steps down toward Patton. Patton grabbed hold of his arm when he got close enough, loosely so as not to startle him even though he wanted to latch on and never let go. Something loosed in Patton’s chest at the contact.

“Who are you?” Logan asked, accepting the touch, though he looked at Patton’s hand on his arm in confusion.

“In the car okay,” Patton requested. He nodded after a moment. “Are you okay?”

“I have body aches and from context clues, I assume memory loss,” he said, “but otherwise I feel well enough.”

“Good. Let’s get back to the car.”

They picked their way back toward the bridge through the muddy riverside. Patton groaned softly when there was an unmarked police car parked next to Logan’s car.

“What?” Logan asked at normal volume.

“Shh,” Patton scolded, but it was too late. A flashlight flared to light and turned to them the next second. “Hello Detective,” Patton said wryly. Patton had met Detective Silvia a couple of times, but of course she didn’t know that since Patton was wearing a mask. Logan knew her a bit more as Bluebird. She gave him a very suspicious look that grew almost hostile when she saw Logan was with him.

“Bluebird,” she said.

“So, I’ve come to understand,” Logan replied.

“I’m his friend. I’m here to help,” Patton said.

“Every villain in the city is looking for him, excuse me for not believing your word.” Patton sighed.

“He knows the code word,” Logan said.

She considered him and then shook her head. “I’d still be more comfortable if you came down to the station.”

Logan tilted his head at her. “No,” he said firmly. Then the detective yelped as her feet left the ground.

“Bluebird no!” Patton hissed. “The detective is our friend.”

“She is not my friend,” Logan replied with a frown. “I don’t know her.”

Patton rubbed his temples. “Just get in the car and put her down gently when you do.”

He went without compliant and Patton rounded the car. His eyes fell on the man he’d seen earlier, backed up against the wall with wide eyes. “Thanks for being concerned for him buddy,” Patton said.

They both got in the car and Patton drove away. He saw the detective being placed back on her feet in the rearview mirror. “Well, I’m going to have to send her a fruit basket,” he mumbled under his breath.

Want to read more? Click below!

AO3 Part 5

[raywritesthings]

Bird in a Storm 5/17

My Writing Fandom: Arrow Characters: Laurel Lance, Oliver Queen, Tommy Merlyn, John Diggle, Joanna de la Vega, Ted Grant, Raisa, Hank, Emily Nocenti, Female OCs, Male OCs Pairing: Laurel Lance/Oliver Queen Summary: The confrontation between the Hood and SWAT on the roof of the Winick Building goes differently, altering the course of Laurel’s career, relationships and efforts to save her city forever, the shockwaves of such an altered path making themselves felt throughout her family and friends. *Can be read on my AO3, link is in bio*

She’d boxed up everything that would be going with her. In the end, it wasn’t really that much. Joanna had offered to hold on to her law books — “For the near future,” her friend had declared, convinced this was only going to be a short hiatus for Laurel from the practice. The bulk of her things were clothes, old photos and albums, and Sara’s stuff. She hadn’t had the heart to throw it away, even with the smaller space she’d have now.

It took a few trips to get everything downstairs, but she wasn’t worried about leaving her stuff. Hank, her first ever client, was sitting with it outside in her car.

He’d sought her services all those years ago for his son when he’d been falsely accused of a mugging. Now that same son was in need of a cheap car to get to and from college, and Laurel had been more than happy to have someone to take it off her hands. The insurance was just going to be too much, not to mention her new home didn’t have its own driveway or garage.

She climbed into the passenger seat and shut the door.

“That everything?” Hank asked.

“Yep. Time to go. Thanks for giving me a lift over.”

“Hey, it’s the least I can do. This all is a real shame.”

Laurel nodded, leaning back against the headrest as she watched her old building glide away past the window. No turning back now.

They left downtown and entered the Glades. They were streets she was somewhat familiar with, at least the ones she took to and from work, but it seemed different now knowing this was to be her neighborhood. She spotted the corner store she’d researched online for where she would be getting her groceries.

As they turned onto her new street, dodging around a trash can that had fallen over into the road, she sat up. There was a whole group of people standing around by the front walk of the little townhouse she was to call her own. Hank honked the horn, and it was at that point she realized she recognized most of them.

“There she is. Welcome to the neighborhood!” Mrs. Ross called out as she got out of the car.

“What is all this?”

“I might have mentioned I was helping you move to a few people,” Hank admitted sheepishly. He had already taken one of the bigger boxes from the car, so Laurel headed up the walk to unlock her front door. She remained on the stoop as Hank went in, looking around at the people who had turned out.

One stood out in particular.

“Raisa?”

The Queen’s cook and housekeeper smiled at her. “I heard Mr. Oliver and Miss Thea discussing your move. You were always such a sweet girl with a good heart, and now we’ve become something of neighbors.”

“I didn’t know you lived in the Glades.” She would have thought the Queens paid her more than that.

“I do. My sister’s family, my son and I. We all share. A few streets away from here.” She waved a hand vaguely in one direction. Then she returned it to holding a tupperware bowl. “Now, I found time to bake some cookies. Your favorite, if I recall.”

Laurel thought she could feel her stomach growl at just the mention. “I’m sure they are. Thank you so much, Raisa.”

The woman patted her arm, and then headed in after Hank.

She wasn’t alone in bringing food. Mrs. Ross was carrying a large casserole dish covered with tinfoil. “You can serve this up over a week, maybe two. Did the job work out?”

“I talked to her over the phone, and she asked me to come in tomorrow to start.”

“Good, that’s good. But listen, don’t stand on ceremony with her. She’s just Pam.”

Laurel took note of that with a nod, and Mrs. Ross continued into the house.

A couple both about five years her senior approached her next. The woman reached her hand out first; she had brown skin and long dark hair in a sleek pontytail. “Hi, I’m Anita. This is my husband, Jerome. We’re right next door from you.”

Laurel shook both of their hands. “It’s nice to meet you. Thank you.”

“No, thank you for moving in. There’s been kids smoking on the stoop and in the back. Makes the whole street stink,” Anita said. Her husband, a Black man, hummed in agreement. “Now they’ll just have to find somewhere else.”

“Well, glad I could help then,” she replied with a wry grin.

Anita turned her head to the side and said, “Bebê, you wanna grab a couple boxes?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh no, that’s okay,” she started, but Jerome had already walked towards the car.

“Oh, don’t worry. He carries heavier stuff than that at the docks,” Anita told her. “Jerome’s got work unloading the cargo ships that come by there.”

“This is like a feather,” he agreed as he returned with one box under each arm. Laurel had to admit he didn’t look to be breaking a sweat. He was probably taller than both Oliver and John, and maybe even her father. His hair was cropped short, though not as close as John’s military regulation.

Emily Nocenti was behind them in the makeshift line that had formed. “Laurel, I couldn’t believe it when I heard this was happening. If it weren’t for you and Joanna at CNRI — well, they’re losing a good person.”

“Thank you, Emily. I’m glad I was able to close your case first.” There were other cases she had been looking at before everything had gone wrong. Cases she would never be allowed to touch, whether or not they would have been winnable. It hurt.

Last of the group, Joanna emerged with a big smile. “I had to come and see the place, didn’t I?”

Laurel gladly accepted her friend’s hug. “Thanks for coming.”

Joanna took out an envelope and passed it to her. “This is from Peter Declan. He’s at a recital for his daughter and couldn’t make it, but they both wanted you to have it. Something to help you out.”

She opened it to find a thank you card with two fifties folded up inside. Laurel bit her lip as her eyes stung for a moment. Just thinking about all that time the man had spent wrongly imprisoned, only to still be so kind. “You’ll tell him thanks?”

“Of course. Now come on, let’s get you unpacked.”

Together, the two friends entered the house. It was much smaller than her old apartment, and still one level. The sitting room bled into the kitchen with only a counter separating them. A cramped hallway led back to a bathroom with a standup shower and further back was the single bedroom with a tiny closet. Sara’s things would be going up on the high shelf in there just as they had done in her old place.

Everyone had congregated in the main room. Raisa and Mrs. Ross were manning the kitchen while Jerome unpacked her appliances. The only good thing about the brevity of her and Tommy cohabiting a space was that practically everything in it had been hers; it cut down on things she’d needed to buy.

“Think these are clothes,” Hank said as he opened one box on a squat coffee table.

“Joanna and I can take that. Thanks, Hank.”

She picked up the box and led Joanna back through to the bedroom.

“Well,” her friend began. “It could be worse.” She sat on the bed and tested its bounce. Laurel didn’t miss her smile dropping for a moment. “So how safe is this neighborhood, Laurel? I mean really?”

“It’s not the worst,” she hedged. “It was the best I could find in terms of the landlord. There’s some tenement housing where they don’t turn the heating on until the dead of winter, did you know that?”

Joanna shook her head. “It doesn’t surprise me, but no. Look, Laurel, are you sure you don’t just want to stay with me and my mom for a while?”

“I couldn’t. Really, it’d be too generous, and I still wouldn’t be able to keep up with my car payments. I’d have no way to get to work.” She finished hanging a few sweaters and turned to take Joanna’s hands. “It’s going to be okay, Jo, I promise.”

Someone clearing their throat caused her to turn and see Anita standing in the doorway. “I found your toiletries. You just want those in the bathroom?”

“Yes, thank you. On the sink is fine. I’ll sort through them all later.” Laurel moved away from Joanna and took out her gray pea coat to hang up next.

“Oh, you sweet thing, that is a beautiful coat.”

“Thank you,” Laurel replied.

“You’re gonna have to get rid of it.”

She blinked. “Sorry?”

Anita gave her a rueful grin. “People spot you walking around in something this nice, they’re gonna think you have money. And some of them are gonna want that money.”

Laurel exchanged a nervous look with Joanna. “Um, okay. Do you think your mom would want this?”

“I’ll ask her.” Joanna stood and folded the coat over her arm. Laurel frowned as she looked over her things. She’d thought she had already sold most of her best stuff, but did she give off the image of someone it would be worthwhile to mug? Was that all that some people would see?

Anita set aside the toiletry case and approached her. “I’m not saying you can’t have anything a little nice. But you want to be careful. Those kind of folks can pick out people who don’t belong, don’t know better.”

Laurel nodded. “I understand.”

“If you need some different things, there’s a thrift store four blocks east of here. You can get some nice stuff second hand, too.”

“Laurel, I’ll finish hanging up the clothes. You go sort out the other boxes,” Joanna said. Her friend could clearly see she needed something else to distract herself with, at least for a few moments.

“Yeah, okay.”

When she entered the main room, Emily Nocenti was pulling the photo albums and framed photographs out of one box and setting them aside. She held up one as Laurel approached.

“Is this you and your dad?”

Laurel shook her head. “No, that’s my sister, Sara.”

“Oh. I’m sorry,” Emily rushed to say, and Laurel remembered with some embarrassment that she had told the other woman the whole history that day they’d bumped into Oliver at the courthouse.

“It’s fine.” She put a smile on to reassure the other woman, then took the photograph and placed it on the narrow bookshelf standing against one wall. “I don’t even know why he bought her that canary. It never shut up, drove us all nuts.” Sara had grown bored with it after a week or so, too, leaving her to either have to remind her sister or simply feed the loud thing herself.

Laurel then stopped by the kitchen. “Is there a pizza place or something near here? I don’t want to send you all home without eating.”

“There’s Joe’s on Fifth and Powell. They’ve got a nice deal on Saturdays,” Jerome told her.

Laurel looked them up and ordered, and soon enough most of her boxes were empty and everyone had regathered in the main room to eat. Anita had had to run next door to grab paper plates, which Laurel wished she’d thought to buy beforehand. She hadn’t really been expecting company so soon, though.

“And there really isn’t some kind of appeal process?” Emily was asking her. “I know the Hood isn’t exactly innocent, but without him Sommers would be walking free. A lot of people think he does good work.”

“Well, he could be doing more,” Mrs. Ross said. Laurel looked over in surprise. The other woman raised both hands. “I’m just saying, there’s a lot still wrong with this town.”

“Yeah, it’s hard to feel safe walking around at night. Usually I just sit around after work waiting for Jerome to be done with his shift and come get me,” Anita agreed. “Lots of guys out there think they can use force to get their way, too.”

“Well, that’s not like anything the Hood’s doing,” Laurel began.

“No, but it’s funny,” Jerome said. “He stopped those bank robbers a few months back. How come he doesn’t do more of that?”

“It would be so nice if he would do something about the gangs that attack the bus routes,” Raisa agreed. “I’m always so afraid to go home. Any day now, they’ll pick the one I’m on, and I’ll lose my wages.”

“There’s gangs hitting the buses?” Joanna asked. Judging by the look on her face, this was the first she was hearing of it, too.

“Well, maybe the Hood just doesn’t know about all of that.”

“What if he did?” Hank asked. He’d been mostly quiet till now, but he was staring directly at Laurel. “Maybe if you told him?”

The others were all watching her expectantly, too. Much as she didn’t want to disappoint them, Laurel knew protecting Oliver’s identity was still important, even among friends.

“It- it doesn’t really work like that. I don’t have the phone to contact him anymore.”

There were nods and glum looks. Mrs. Ross stood and started gathering up empty plates. She patted Laurel’s hand. “Best for you to keep your head down. That’s what we all do to survive.”

The party atmosphere had waned, and slowly everyone started making their way to the door. Laurel thanked them each as they left, then stood in her doorway and watched as Hank drove away with what was no longer her car. The lights were on at Anita and Jerome’s, but other than that the street was quiet.

Laurel shut and locked the door, then put away a few more little things before retiring to her new bedroom. It was hard for her to get to sleep; whether that was due to a first night in a new environment or her thoughts, she wasn’t sure.

What the others had said about the Glades and the Hood, it weighed on her. There was so much more work to do to even come close to saving this city. Laurel just wasn’t sure how she was going to take it on.

---

Pam rose early as she always did and went about her morning routine. Getting ready, watering the plants that needed it, and feeding her cat. She made sure to give him a nice big bowl, otherwise he tended to try going after the basil.

With everything upstairs settled, it was time to head down and open Green Glades for another morning.

She checked the register and went up and down the rows, inspecting her wares. Some of the perennials weren’t looking as good as they had a week ago. She’d have to consider marking them down. There was some other matter of business she needed to tend to today, though it was escaping her what that was specifically. With a shrug, she decided it would dawn on her at the right time.

Pam returned to her counter and had only eased back into her stool for a few minutes before there was a knock at the front door. She looked up. “Now who could that be?”

It wasn’t opening time yet. But as she shuffled to the door, she could make out the outline of a young woman with brown hair and a striped sweater. Ah! Her brand new assistant then. She’d known she was forgetting something.

Pam undid the lock. “Laurel?” Such a pretty name for the girl who was herself rather pretty.

Her new assistant nodded with a small, polite smile. “It’s nice to finally meet you in person, Pam.”

“You as well. I’m glad you got here early. We’ll have some time to go over the store.”

She led Laurel on a walking tour up and down aisles, pointing out the organization of the flowers and other plants. “I did them by difficulty. Makes it easier for the beginners.”

“Difficulty?”

“In how to tend them, grow them. Some plants require a skillful touch compared to others. They’re high maintenance. You’ll see in time. What sort of plants have you owned?”

“Um, my mom had a basket...thing, when I was growing up,” Laurel said. Pam waited, but that was apparently to be it.

“Well, you’ll be able to relate well to the beginners, then. Tell you what, today I’ll have you on the register. She’s an old thing, but you learn the right way soon enough. Oh, and I’ve got some mark down stickers that need putting on a few of the perennials.”

“I can do that,” Laurel volunteered with spirit, clearly glad to have something she felt confident enough in doing. Pam fished out the guide she had for customers, dog-eared and stained with mulch in places, setting Laurel to work.

They had their first customers before she’d finished, and Pam was kept busy by the register. It was mostly folks coming in early for seeds and bulbs, a couple of indoor plants here and there. Pam did some bouquets, of course — she knew where the money was — but she was always so happy to sell something living instead.

“Pam? Sorry, where’s the sink?”

Pam turned to find her assistant holding the sticker tape in one hand and her other, dirt-covered hand far away from her clothes. There were already a couple of dark stains on the front of her sweater.

“Oh! I should have got you an apron. I’m sorry, dear.” She ushered Laurel into the back where she found her an old smock to wear in place of the sweater, along with her own apron.

Laurel came up to learn the register, which left Pam a little freer to chat with her neighbors and regulars, like Annie who came in hefting two canvas bags of groceries already. She must have gotten up early to have made the two mile trek to the supermarket and back.

“I’m thinking of trying a little herb garden this year in my window box,” Annie told her. “Wanted to talk to you first about what I might be needing.”

“Absolutely. Now what have you been growing in the window box before this?”

“Just some marigolds. Mom’s favorite, you know. But who’s this?” Annie asked, turning to look at Laurel.

“Hi, I’m Laurel. It’s nice to meet you. This is my first day.”

“Oh, the new assistant!”

“Yes, this is my florist-in-training,” Pam remarked. “She’s a bit green, but she’ll have a green thumb before it’s said and done.”

Laurel looked down at the register keys, a bit of a blush to her cheeks.

“Now, about that window box,” Pam decided to continue to get the attention off the young woman. 

She did introduce Laurel to a few more of the usual crowd over the course of the day, and just a couple hours after dark, it was time to close up. In another couple months, it would still be light out come closing time.

They hung up their aprons, and Pam assured her assistant she could bring the smock back tomorrow so she wouldn’t be walking home in a dirty sweater. “Try to find something old you don’t mind getting a little messy for next time.”

“Right.” Laurel turned to walk past the counter and towards the door.

“Wait a minute!” Pam called. Her assistant stopped and watched as she shuffled into the back again, this time coming out with a small, potted African violet.

“Now, this is for you. Call it a hiring bonus.”

Laurel looked at the plant with clear surprise and moved to hand it back over.

“I can’t take it for free.”

“Of course you can. I bring home the troubled ones all the time. Any florist should have a few of their own.”

“I don’t know, Pam. I was never really a plant person. What if it dies?”

The girl was nervous, eager to please. If Pam had to guess, life hadn’t treated her well even before her ouster from CNRI. She only knew the bare basics from what Liza Ross had told her neighbor, and she wasn’t inclined to dig for the details. Sometimes it was best to let those things emerge on their own.

“You take that home. Nurture it. Learn to care for it.”

Laurel wilted, then nodded. “Okay. I’ll do my best.”

“That’s all anyone can do, dear.”

She sent the young woman home and finished locking up the place. Pam wiped her hands on her apron before hanging it back up on the hook on the wall, then climbed the stairs at a slow pace. Her feet and knees hurt far less now that she wasn’t doing so much around the shop, but they still weren’t what they used to be when she’d been a younger woman.

Ah well. Young or old, they all had their struggles.

---

She had a full week under her belt at the shop, and suffice to say Laurel was exhausted. Her whole day was spent on her feet, as Pam only had the one stool and she wasn’t about to deprive the older woman of it. It wouldn’t look great if she was constantly sitting around, either. She’d need to trade her plain flats for some sneakers. Her arches were killing her.

It was her first day off and she’d mostly spent it on the couch, too tired to even think about going out. She’d clicked around on her computer reading this or that article. One of Starling’s elite, Ken Williams, was under scrutiny after revealing the pyramid scheme he’d been a part of. The articles didn’t say, but Laurel suspected the Hood’s involvement in making the man change his ways.

At least Ollie was still getting real work done out there.

It had gotten dark without her notice. Laurel yawned and stretched. Time for an early bed. She pushed up off the couch and crossed the room.

The glass in her front window shattered, and Laurel dropped and rolled away from a rectangular object that landed on her floor. When nothing happened, she peeked out from the protective ball she’d curled into.

It was a brick. She heard some jeering laughter outside, but when she went to the window the culprits were already running off into the night. Just some lousy troublemakers. They probably hadn’t even had a purpose to picking her house. Or they were the teens upset she’d taken away their smoking spot.

Laurel’s forehead dropped to rest against the wall as she waited for her heartbeat to slow. Was she getting paranoid? There wasn’t anything special about her anymore, so why would people be coming to attack her?

It occurred to her that standing around in her socks while there was broken glass on the floor wasn’t the best idea. She picked her way over carefully and stepped into her shoes, then went to fetch her broom and dustpan. The floor was easy enough to start with, but she was going to have to remove all the couch cushions and make sure nothing was hiding underneath.

A knock at her door interrupted her, causing her to tense back up as she listened.

“Laurel? It’s Jerome from next door.”

Her shoulders sagged, and she went to the door. “Hi.”

“Anita sent me to check on you. Thought we heard something crash over here.”

“Yeah, I think it was just some kids. They threw a brick through my window. I’m fine.”

“Kids.” He shook his head. “You need any help cleaning the glass up?”

She waved a hand. “No, I’ve got it.”

“Well, how about I bring a tarp over to cover the window up till the landlord gets around to replacing it. We should have one lying around.”

The practical side of her won out when she considered that they still hadn’t reached spring. “If it’s not any trouble, I’d really appreciate it.”

He smiled. “Sure thing. Be right back.”

Laurel took off the couch cushions and finished sweeping while she waited, then took one end of the tarp to help Jerome tape it up. Hopefully the paint wouldn’t peel later.

Just as they were securing it on all four sides, another crash sounded.

They both ducked back behind the cover of the walls, but after several beats of silence, Jerome poked his head out and glanced around. “Can’t see anything.”

Laurel checked as well, looking each way up the street, then down at the ground.

“Oh,” she gasped.

“Laurel?” Jerome was at her side in two steps.

“No, it’s nothing. Just… my violet.” She went out the door and picked her way over a couple shards of glass to where the shattered pot and a heap of dirt sat, her sad little flower barely sticking up out of it. She’d forgotten it was still sitting on the windowsill, and the tarp must have knocked it over. Laurel scooped it up and carried it back inside.

“I’m so sorry, Laurel.”

She plastered a smile to her face. “It was an accident. Really, Jerome, it’s fine.”

“You got another pot we could put it in?”

Laurel shook her head. “No. Um, I’ll try a tupperware and see if Pam can help me with it tomorrow.”

“You sure you’ll be alright here tonight?”

“Yes. But thank you.”

Her neighbor left and Laurel’s smile instantly fell. She looked at the wilted flower sitting in her hands. What was even the point?

Nevertheless, she found a tupperware and packed the dirt in around the plant’s roots. She sprinkled a little water over it and washed her hands, then sat down heavily at her table.

“Are you okay?”

She gasped but almost instantly calmed; Oliver stood near the back of the room with his hood pushed back. He must have entered through the kitchen door, even if she’d been sure it was locked.

“I’m fine. It was just some kids.” She waved a hand towards the tarp. “My neighbor helped me fix it.”

Oliver frowned and stepped closer. “You’re crying.”

Laurel rubbed at the tear tracks on her cheeks, pointless when he’d already seen them. “It’s not because — I’m okay. Just- my plant. It got knocked over.”

Oliver was eyeing her warily, like he was afraid the slightest word might set her off crying. “Your plant.”

“Yeah.” She crossed her arms. “I’m not hysterical. It’s just my boss sent it home with me so I could learn more about caring for flowers, so I know she’ll be disappointed if I’ve already killed it.” To her horror, a lump started to rise in her throat as she spoke, making the next words difficult. “And it’s one of the only things I had to make the place feel like a home, so yes, I am mourning it.”

“Laurel, I know how you think your clients would feel if you lied, but wouldn’t they rather you be there to help them?” Frustration was practically leaking from his tone.

“I can’t go back, Ollie. Don’t you see that’s how this starts? Corruption has this city in a chokehold, and no one is immune. If I lie to save my job, what’s to stop me from withholding a piece of evidence that makes my cases harder to win? Or stealing my dad’s files? Where does it end?”

“I’m worried about it ending out here for you,” he replied. “The Glades aren’t safe. That brick could have been an accident, or it could have been something deliberate.”

“Because billionaires hire teenagers to threaten ex-lawyers?” She almost laughed. “Oliver, I don’t have enemies. Those people in the top offices of corporations or the penthouse apartments, I guarantee they’ve forgotten about me already. I’m nobody.”

His face fell, and he shook his head. “No, you’re not.”

She couldn’t trust her voice to remain steady enough to reply to that. Instead she asked, “What were you doing here?”

“I was on my way to another person on the List.”

“Really? And you just happened to pass by the very minute someone threw a brick at my window?” She looked him in the eye. “You shouldn’t be watching over me. There are plenty of other people in this city who need your help more.”

“But this is the only way I’m allowed to help you.” His expression was pained. He hadn’t liked agreeing to keep his distance as Oliver Queen, but she hadn’t realized how much it might have hurt him.

Laurel got up from her chair and approached him. “I wish things didn’t have to be this way, but they do. And you have to trust me that I’ll ask for help when I need it.”

Oliver closed his eyes but nodded once. “I guess I can’t persuade you to use one of the Manor’s rooms until your window is replaced.”

“No, you can’t. You wouldn’t, not if you were really the person you’re trying to make everyone believe you are. I’ll be fine, Oliver.”

He stiffened for a moment and placed his hand to his ear where the comm to Diggle rested.

“You should get that.” Laurel turned back to her sitting room, busying herself with rearranging the pillows on the couch. When she looked up, he was gone again.

She sighed and wrapped her arms around herself for a moment, flicking the lights off as she retreated to her bedroom. With all the chaos on top of her exhaustion from work, Laurel readily fell asleep.

It was with only minor surprise that she woke the next morning to a text from Oliver himself.

The window people should be there by ten. If they’re not, let me know

That was so typical of him. She sent off a quick reply.

Why, so you can visit my landlord?

Laurel looked the message over again. It sounded harsh when she hadn’t meant to be. She knew he was just trying to help in whatever way he could.

I’m sure it will be fine. But thank you

I do miss you, she very nearly sent. But Laurel held herself back from hitting that button, erasing the words instead. There was little point to making him feel worse. Even if it was true.

---

Oliver sighed as he read Laurel’s messages. He wished he could do more than guarantee she had all her windows. But his involvement in her life had to be kept mostly a secret these days.

If he’d known his outspoken dislike for his vigilante alter ego would put this kind of restriction on his friendship with Laurel, he would have been more careful about what he said.

Put simply, he was stuck. If he tried to intervene as the Hood — visit CNRI’s benefactors, make them reconsider their hardline stance — Laurel could end up in far worse trouble, this time with the law. Would Lance even hesitate to arrest her? He’d used her as bait once.

About the only assistance he could offer was physical protection, and Laurel didn’t even want that. He knew she had a point about not wasting his nights, a point Diggle would no doubt agree with.

But it was hard to see what the point of all of this was. He would be at this mission forever if he went name by name on the list. He was no closer to figuring out what this Undertaking was or if that had been what his father wanted him to stop all those years ago. His mother had been rattled by his visit to her as the Hood, Tommy was jealous of an imaginary enemy, and Laurel had had to give up everything.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t see the benefit that came to him from her decision. To operate out of the Glades as he did, there was a certain amount of discretion he needed to rely on the residents to have. Laurel vouching for him gave him some legitimacy, some currency with those people he would have otherwise needed to work much harder to earn. He’d already had to change some of his routes coming to and from the base thanks to tips that were phoned in when Laurel had been reported missing.

Even her vote of confidence didn’t sway some people, though. Felicity had threatened to quit her tentative working relationship with the Hood the other night over his decision to target Ken Williams because of his status as a parent. Oliver had wanted to point out all the parents and children Williams’ pyramid scheme was stealing from, but John had talked him around to a more conciliatory approach. As a result, he was now committed to tracking down an art thief who had nothing to do with his father’s mission. Everything was just too much.

He decided to spend a little bit of time with Tommy in the club before their meeting with Felicity at Big Belly Burger.

“Finished moving all my stuff into the new place,” Tommy was telling him, his voice cheerful enough that Oliver knew there was something forced about it. “Still downtown, but it’s a bit smaller.”

“Well, I’m sure you’ll settle in,” he said.

“Yeah. Just needs a few touches to start feeling homey. Maybe a girl or two.”

Oliver scrutinized his friend. “You really want to start dating again so soon?”

Tommy shook his head with a grin like he’d said something funny. “Not dating.”

“Tommy.”

“Look, Ollie, I tried it out, right? Turns out relationships are as bad as I always thought they’d be. Some of us just aren’t made for it,” he said, clapping Oliver on the shoulder. It was clear he was counting the both of them as part of this dubious ‘some’, which stung even as Oliver knew he probably deserved to be there.

Digg cleared his throat, and when Oliver looked over he saw why. Laurel was hovering near the back wall, clearly not wanting to approach while Tommy was with him.

“Tell you what, I’ve got a meeting to get to later, so I’m gonna go over the inventory real quick.” He clapped Tommy on the shoulder in return and headed down to the base.

He followed after John who had already led Laurel downstairs. “Hey, is everything okay?”

“Yeah, the window people took care of it. Thanks again.”

“Okay.” Oliver stopped himself from asking why she had chosen to come here, then. Scaring her off was the last thing he wanted.

“I did some thinking at work today about our situation. How we can’t really be there for each other the way we might want to.”

That was certainly putting things lightly, but he couldn’t deny a warm feeling in his chest at the knowledge it had been bothering her, too.

“So I think I have a solution.”

“Oh?”

“I had the thought that since you seem to like lists, maybe I should make you one.” She took out a piece of paper that had clearly been ripped out of one of her old legal pads. Laurel held it out to him with a little flourish that almost reminded him of the girl who’d once presented him with her photo. The mix of happy and sad that memory represented had to be pushed down before he could refocus.

He scanned it over, catching items like bus route gangs and price gouging on medications. Oliver looked up.

“Laurel, what is this?”

“We both want this city to be better than it is, and since I’ve started living in the Glades I’ve learned so much more about what people are up against, just in their day to day lives,” she explained. “I can’t do anything in the courtroom, but I can pass along what I’ve found out to someone who can do something. And that way, you’re helping me like you want.”

He could get where she was coming from, but as he stared down at the list all he could see was another set of distractions from his father’s mission. One that in itself already felt an impossible task.

“Laurel, I want to help you be safe.”

“And this would help do that.”

“But how much? Do you have any idea how many gangs or dealers are out there? Small crime is never going to be completely stopped, and it’s only a symptom of the larger problems my father was dealing with.”

Her arms crossed. “So the people who are victims of small crime should just suffer?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what do you mean, Oliver? Whenever you talk about being the Hood, it always comes down to your father or the men he wanted you to go after. Is this your mission or his hit list?”

He took a step forward. “Hey—”

“What about the people you’re trying to help? Why not listen to what they want?”

“Because I’m not their hero!” He snapped. “Okay? I’m not some guardian angel. I’m a killer, Laurel. Just like my father was.”

She stared at him with wide eyes. He could feel Diggle’s silent gaze on him, too.

“There were three of us who made it to the life raft. Me, my father, and one of the crew. A few days after the boat sank, we were running low on supplies. My father took a gun, shot the crewman and himself, so that I could survive,” he confessed in a shaking voice. “I have to complete this mission, Laurel. Or else it would have been for nothing. I’ve already let too many distractions get in my way.”

Every minute he spent on this Dodger, or got involved in a petty theft, was time he should have expended on the list and its true meaning.

“Well, I’m sorry,” she said, her eyes downcast. “I’ll let you get on with it.” Oliver looked away as she turned and made for the exit.

“Here,” he heard Digg’s low murmur, and it didn’t surprise him in the least that the man took the paper. Wasn’t he always trying to get Oliver to do this or that thing?

But when he looked at the other man, Diggle had tucked Laurel’s list away somewhere out of sight. Oliver drew in a breath and released it slowly as he heard the door to the steps shut behind her. Gone again. How did he keep doing this?

And after all that, he still had to take on this art thief just to keep their tech support happy.

“Let’s get this over with.”

---

Ted was cooling off with some water when the door opened to admit someone who definitely wasn’t one of his regulars. Didn’t even look like she could be a regular.

“Can I help you?”

She spotted him after he called out to her and walked over. “Yes. I wanted to see what kind of classes you teach and if I could take one.”

Ted didn’t bother hiding his smirk. “Yeah, I don’t exactly have all that zumba and spin stuff that’s all the rage with you younger folks.”

Her returning smile was tight and unamused. “Well, good thing I’m not interested in that.”

He shrugged and went over to grab one of his adverts. “You can have a look at that, then.”

He watched her eyes scan over the pages, and as he studied her he couldn’t help thinking there was something familiar about her. Like he’d seen her face before.

“Can a beginnner try boxing, or are your lessons just for people who already know it?”

“I take anybody that can prove they’re committed to learning it. What has you interested?”

She looked up, and it suddenly clicked why he thought she belonged more on TV than in a boxing ring — he had seen her on TV.

“I’ve had self defense training, and now I’m looking for something a little more.”

“Is that because of your Hood friend?” He turned away. “Forget it, I’m not getting involved in the vigilante’s problems.”

“I’m more than somebody’s problem.”

He stopped and looked back. There was something in her eyes — not the desperate, lost look of some of his usuals who needed release from the pain life had dealt them, but a steely determination that belied her painted lips and comfy sweater all the same.

“That’s fair. Alright then, what’s your story?”

She eyed him for a moment. “I lost my job last month, so I’m living in the Glades now. There’s been some rough nights.”

“There always are. Why’d it bring you here?”

“Because I want to be able to handle them on my own.”

That was interesting. “And not the vigilante?”

She shook her head. “He does what he does for the city, not for me.”

She didn’t look to be lying. And the truth was, Ted would be an idiot to gain a reputation for turning down clients. “Alright, I’ll start you on a trial basis, see if you like it. Then we’ll talk regular lessons.”

She nodded. “That’s fair.”

When she turned to leave, it occurred to Ted they hadn’t sorted out one small matter. “Hold up! I didn’t get your name.”

She paused, glancing at him over her shoulder. “I thought you recognized me.”

“Your face. Didn’t remember your name. You get knocked on the head sometimes in the ring,” he added. And on the streets, an old voice whispered in the back of his mind.

The woman smirked. “Laurel.”

“Alright, Laurel. I’ll see you on Tuesday for your lesson.”

“See you, Ted.”

She walked out with her hands resting in her pockets. There was a swagger to her beneath that girl-next-door veneer, a toughness that was coming to the surface the more life wore away at her. Ted felt himself grin.

He could work with this.

[akumadeshitsumon]

The legend of the headless horseman (part 1)

[[So, here is the first part of my attempt at a topical Halloween fic - a short drabble on how the demon currently known as Sebastian Michaelis came to be a headless horseman in the English countryside (VERY loosely inspired by the 14th century poem “Sir Gawain and the Green Knight”). I’ve got an idea for a connecting short story in Sebastian’s current time, which I hope to get around to this weekend. Mobile users, if you want to read this, I encourage you to read it on AO3 instead - I’ve seen what mobile tumblr does to my formatting, but I have no idea how to fix it. (If you do know (and the answer is something other than ‘format everything on your phone’) PLEASE let me know. There’s virtual cookies in it for you.)

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18124445/chapters/50657459 ]]

The legend of the headless horseman

The Dark Ages, somewhere in the English countryside.

There is an air of beauty to Autumn, especially in the countryside. By day there are gorgeous displays of autumn colours on the trees, fallen leaves dancing in the wind, and golden sunlight filtering through the morning mist and spilling into windows like liquid honey. In the fields, the crops that represent a year's worth of hard labour await the harvest, and in the orchards fruit hides coyly between the leaves, waiting to be picked. In the evening mist swirls over the fields and roads, and warm lights in the windows welcome the farmers home.

But Autumn's beauty is deceptive. Nightfall comes earlier every day, and the air turns bitterly cold. The leaves that danced merrily by day now rustle menacingly in the shadows, and warm sunlight is replaced by the silvery cold light of the moon earlier every passing day. As the light fades from the world and nature gives up her fight against the cold reality of the approaching winter, the darkness of night starts to feel more and more oppressive, like a dark force closing in on the little towns scattered around the countryside. By day, one can see the threads that bind these places together -  dirt roads and tree-lined paths, the fields and the workers in them. But by night, these connections disappear into darkness, cutting the villages off from each other. Such nights made humans feel... unwelcome. Those who had to be out at night walked quickly, their shoulders hunched against more than just cold, hurrying to get home.

It is on such dark and cold autumn nights, when the wind howls in the trees and darkness flows through the streets and coats the world like tar, that fear takes hold of human hearts and takes root in the depths of human minds.

And this was exactly what the demon was counting on.

In this contract it had not been named, but it had been given a task: to spread terror across the countryside and strike fear into the hearts of the peasants living there by any means necessary. Demands for tax and supplies had been high, and the locals were becoming restless, so the lord of the local castle had tasked the demon to clear up his mess while he continued to enjoy the fruits of his unbridled greed. Personally, the demon did not see how this behaviour could continue without consequence, but it had not been summoned for its piercing insights into the clearly unsustainable nature of its master's practices. It had been summoned for the power it wielded, and tonight it was meant to put this power to good use.

There were always whispers of ghostly forces at work in Autumn; strange shapes hiding in the mist over the fields, impossibly large animals stalking the woods at night, the cackling laughter of witches on the wind when the moon was full and bright. But lately a more tangible story had been added to the pile: the story of the headless horseman.

It was the miller who saw the knight first, though at first everyone thought he'd been drinking too much, as he'd been known to do. But the miller stuck to his story, and became very agitated when people did not believe him.

On his way home from the tavern one night he had heard hooves on the road ahead, and saw a horseman coming towards him. It was unusual in itself to be riding a horse out at night, though not particularly alarming. However, as the horseman drew close the miller started to suspect that something was wrong. The first thing he noticed was that both man and horse were very large; unusually large for any human or animal he'd ever laid eyes upon. Both horse and man were in full armour; the miller could hear the sound of metal hitting metal every time the horse's hooves hit the ground. This was highly unexpected, as there had not been war in these parts for as long as the miller had been alive. And there was something off about the rider's torch, as well; the light from it was not orange or yellow, as one might expect of a torch, but a sickly green, such as a smith's fire might be if metal shavings fell into it. Put together it was enough to make the miller feel uneasy. As the rider approached the miller's sense of unease increased. The rider was getting close now, but he showed no sign of slowing down, even though he must have spotted the miller on the road in this bright moonlit night. From his position on horseback the knight towered over the miller, but the miller could discern no eyes behind the helmet, no sign of recognition. Thoroughly spooked he leaped aside to avoid being trampled, and in that moment, he noticed that what he had taken to be a torch was not, in fact, a torch at all, but a sword; a flaming sword the size of a scythe, with green flames streaming off it like liquid. Most knights around these parts would have trouble lifting this sword with both hands, and yet the rider held it effortlessly in one hand, as though it was light as a feather. The flames seemed not to hurt him; they danced on his armour, which was also green, and then harmlessly winked out.

As the miller scrabbled up from the mud beside the road he heard the horse pull to a halt; perhaps the knight was feeling guilty for almost hitting him. The knight had stopped and raised his hand to his helmet, and for a moment the miller thought he was going to lift up his visor to speak. But instead the knight grabbed the helmet and lifted it away from his shoulders completely, revealing... nothing. There was no head on his shoulders, just the stump of a neck, dried blood coating it thickly. The knight lifted his helmet high above his head, and a booming laugh echoed through the air.

The miller felt his blood turn to ice in his veins. As the knight's horse reared the miller was already moving - he sprinted through the fields towards the woods, away from the road and the knight in green, whose laughter followed him all the way to the trees.

When he finally stopped to look back, the knight and his horse were gone.

As mentioned, the miller’s story was laughed off at first. After all, it was impossible for a man to ride around without a head. But soon more people reported seeing the spectral figure of the knight, often from further away, silhouetted against the sky with his head lifted high above his shoulders. The stories spread outwards in ripples; soon the knight was known across all of the region - and more crucially, all of the lord’s domain.

Before long, even those who had never seen the knight feared his presence at night. Going out after dark became a hazardous activity, and after the first few victims were found with their heads missing no one dared attempt such a feat at all. Rumours spread among the peasants like wildfire, and by the time the lord of the castle started his ‘investigation’ into the problem people were more than willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. The lord’s heroic ‘battle’ against the knight would be passed along the families of the region for generations - how he confronted the green knight one night and chased him into the woods, only to return at sunrise carrying the flaming sword, which evaporated when touched by the morning light.

It was all suitably dramatic… and a load of old hogwash, of course. The demon was quite adept at creating illusions, and this one had been a masterpiece, if it did say so itself. In reality, all that had happened was its master chasing it into the woods, then waiting a suitable amount of time to build up suspense before returning to announce his glorious victory. The trick worked wonderfully well - the demon’s master saw his power over the peasants living on his lands redoubled, all ideas of dissent stripped from their minds. And when the lord later mysteriously vanished from his castle… well, that only added to the mythos of it all.

Over time humans gained more knowledge of the world around them, and slowly the belief in ghosts and legends dwindled. The headless horseman faded into legend, until he was nothing more than a story to scare kids into going to bed.

And yet... those cold autumn nights never stopped making people feel uneasy.

And there would always be those who knew how to make use of that.

[holographic-chogi]

Protector pt.11/?

Author: holographic-chogi

Pairing: fem!reader x skz

Warnings: animal death (hunting), swearing, and a gun

A/N: hi guys!! So I’m gonna uh...skip the usual late apology. I’m gonna stop announcing that I’m gonna post UNLESS I already have the chapter written. Also for anyone who doesn’t already know, Jiho is Zico (formally of block b). I decided to cut this chapter short because it ushers in some kinda big events. Also, we are actually slowly approaching where I originally intended protector to end...but I kinda enjoy writing for this series. I might do a sequel? It depends on if you guys would want that. Anyway, enjoy!

Summary: a virus has wiped out most of humanity, and society has collapsed. People survive in groups where they live in constant fear and a struggle to survive. Women were the primary victim of the virus, leaving few behind. You are one of the few, kept in secret since the beginning. However, you’ve just been caught.

Masterlist

The following morning, you woke up first. Jisung was curled around you just as tightly as he was before, and you couldn’t help but admire how peaceful he looked, in contrast to the distress from last night. Gently, you tried to move from his grasp, only for him to simply squeeze you tighter, nuzzling into your neck as he slept.

“Jisung…wake up.”

His eyes fluttered open, sleepily at first before widening, staring up at you. His voice was a tad raspy from sleep. “G-good morning…”

You smiled, “Can you let go of me please? I wanna go get something to eat.”

Looking at his arm, seemingly only just realizing that he was holding you, he scrambled to pull way. “Y-yeah! Sorry!”

You chuckled, climbing out of bed and making your way to the door with Jisung following behind. “Can you smell Felix’s cooking from here?”

The lack of response bothered you, so you turned around to face him. He stared at the ground in front of him, tugging at his fingers anxiously.

“Jisung, are you okay?”

He mumbled back quietly, barely audible. “I’m sorry about last night.”

You took a step closer, taking his hands in yours. “Jisung, don’t be sorry about that, you were hurting and I wouldn’t have wanted you to feel like that alone. Always talk to me.”

His voice became even quieter as he looked up at you, his eyes searching you for an answer. “Y/N, why are you so good?”

“So good?”

“You’re just…amazing. I don’t know what we did to deserve you.”

You chuckled, “You guys raided the cellblock. That’s what you did to deserve me.”

A small smile began to form on the young man’s face. “Oh…right.”

“But I mean it Jisung. I care about you so much, and I really don’t want you to hurt alone. You can always come see me.”

His smile grew, along with a slight blush on his cheeks, “Thank y-“

He was interrupted by a knock on your door, startling the both of you. Hyunjin’s voice sounded from the other side, “Y/N! Rise and shine! You gotta get something to eat before we head out!”

Jisung cocked an eyebrow, speaking quietly so only you could hear. “Head out?”

Crap. You forgot you had plans to hunt with Hyunjin. You weren’t sure if it was a great idea to leave Jisung on his own today. “Hold on Hyunjin, I’ll be right out!”

Jisung just stepped past you, opening the door to meet a confused Hyunjin, “What do you mean, head out?”

Hyunjin’s eyes narrowed, “What are you doing in here, Jisung?”

“None of your business. Where are you guys going?”

“Is it seriously not enough for you to be on her like flies on shit all day long? You have to be in here with her at night now too?”

You quickly stepped forward in between the two. “Guys, stop. Jisung, I’m going out to hunt with Hyunjin today, we kinda planned this awhile ago. And Hyunjin, it’s none of your business as to why Jisung was in here, but it really isn’t what you think.”

Hyunjin looked to Jisung angrily, but his gaze softened as he looked at you. “You’re right, Y/N. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be invasive.”

Jisung spoke abruptly, “I’m going with you guys.”

Hyunjin rolled his eyes, “No, you’re not. We need to be quiet and going with a bunch of people is gonna be too loud. I can keep an eye on her, or whatever it is you do, for a few hours.”

You turned to Jisung, “He’s right. Two people are manageable but three are noisy. I’ll be fine, and I’ll be back soon, I promise.”

He looked defeated. “Chan okayed this?”

Hyunjin nodded, “I spoke to him this morning, everything’s cleared and ready to go.”

Jisung looked torn, he wanted to argue, but after the sweatshirt incident yesterday he knew he didn’t have the right. “Okay. I’ll see you later. Be safe.”

You gave him a quick hug, and pulled away to see him pouting. “See you later, Grumpy. I’ll catch something special for ya.”

Growing impatient, Hyunjin pulled on your shirt, “Let’s go! Breakfast, remember?”

You nodded and sprinted with him down the hall. Once out of earshot of Jisung, you asked, “How did you get Chan to agree?”

“I didn’t, so we need to head out fast. “

After the two of you expertly wove your way out of from the back entrance of the fence, you felt a cold hair hit your cheeks. You could tell the first snow would come any day now.

In one hand, you held the birch recurve from Hyunjin’s collection, a bow that you’d had an eye on for quite some time. When you had mentioned it earlier that week, Hyunjin insisted you keep it, claiming he had plenty and really “wouldn’t mind parting with it.”

The forest itself, starting only about 100 meters from the back entrance, was dense and unkempt. The once clear paths have been overgrown and swept over from disuse, making it difficult for most people to pass through. Luckily, Hyunjin and you weren’t most people.

Something you had noticed from the very beginning, is that due to the lack of human activity, the animals had become slower, and less responsive. Almost making the job too easy. Besides this, you weren’t only looking for meat. You had your eyes peeled for any useful plants or produce to bring back. Felix was an excellent farmer but there was no way he could sustain crops in the winter. Lucky for them, they have you.

After a bit of searching, Hyunjin and you had come across a small jackpot. A cluster of about six pheasants were fluttering amongst themselves on the forest floor, probably in search of food for the cold months ahead. Nowadays, you found yourself able to relate much more to what you hunted. You and your prey were only just trying to survive.

A hushed, but urgent voice sounded from beside you, “Are you ready? How many do you think you can get before they get past the trees?”

You squinted, “Three for sure, maybe four. Can you handle the rest?”

He scoffed, “Can I handle the rest? Of course I can, it’s like two or three shots.” He pulled his first arrow back, bending the beautiful red oak wood of his longbow, “Don’t go underestimating me, Y/N.”

You smirked, “Then show me what you can do.” You paused, “Now!”

Arrows flew and a flurry of feathers seemed to go in all directions. Ultimately, you and Hyunjin had each hit three.

You ran up to the fallen birds and began to fill up one of the burlap sacks you’d brought with you; Hyunjin trailing behind and helping you bag them up.

When he reached for one of the pheasants in front of you, you had noticed some kind of bizarre markings on his hand. You didn’t quite think before absentmindedly grabbing said hand and inspecting it. He tried to pull it away, but not before you saw what they were.

The markings were little white scars in the shape of crescents, across the top of his hand. Four to be exact. Worry laced your tone, “Hyunjin, what are those?”

He ran his thumb gently across the surface of the scars, staring at them with what almost seemed like a distant fondness, “Do you remember that day the dog got in, and we had to stitch you up?”

Then it hit you. You remembered how hard you had grasped that hand as Minho fixed your wound. Those little crescents were the marks your nails had left in his skin. “Hyunjin...I’m so sorry. I had no idea I squeezed that hard.”

He shrugged, “I don’t mind at all. It hurt when it happened but you were going through worse. Not to mention, I’m a pretty tough cookie.”

“But the scars…”

“What about it? I actually kind of like them. They look like four little moons on my hand.” His gaze saddened, “Not to mention, if you ever go away, they’ll be a little something I can remember you by.”

There it is again. You wish they would stop reminding you of your predicament. “When I leave. Right. Because that’s all you people seem to want to talk about.”

His eyes snapped up, “What do you mean?”

“I mean both you, Minho and Jisung have brought up to me in the last twenty-four hours. The whole situation is shit.”

He looked at you knowingly, “Right. Because if he doesn’t come get you, you’ve been abandoned. But if he does come get you, you have to leave. And I know you don’t want to.”

Of course Hyunjin gets it. You’re glad at least someone knows you want to stay. Hyunjin always seems to understand you when others fail to do so. “I wish Jiho could come back just so I’d know that our friendship wasn’t for nothing. We’ve been through too much together for him to leave me behind so easily. There has to be something else to this.”

He looked at you knowingly, “I hope he comes back for you too. I want you to stay, just like everyone else here, but you don’t deserve to be abandoned. For all we know, there is something else to it.”

You nodded and wiped away a tear with the sleeve of your coat, tying the bag as you continued to speak, “I hope he comes back, but I’m not sure yet if I’m leaving. It’s a lot to decide, and he’s not exactly here yet.”

Hyunjin’s nodded in response, his mouth opening to speak before he suddenly froze, his eyes widening in fear. He spoke very quietly in a dangerously serious voice. “Y/N, get behind me.”

You heart sank, terrified of whatever it was behind you that he was staring at. You moved towards him, and he quickly grabbed your arm, pulling you behind him.

And then you saw him.

He stood beneath a pine tree, gun in hand, pointed directly at Hyunjin. His greasy, unkempt black hair stuck to the sweat on his oh-so-familiar face, despite the cold weather. Despite his short stature, you knew this man was a serious threat.

Hyunjin’s voice was low and full of danger, despite the gun aimed at his chest. “Who the fuck are you?”

His name was Taeil. You remembered that name, along with the feeling of his fist on your jaw. The searing pain that spread across your face from the blow felt like yesterday. He was all too eager to lay on the punishment back at the cell block.

He was one of them.

His response was ragged, “Doesn’t matter who I am. Why is she with you?”

“Don’t fucking look at her.”

“Answer the question.”

Hyunjin tucked you further behind him, “There are eight more men very close by. You’re outnumbered. If you hurt her you best believe you’re a fucking dead man.”

Taeil stared daggers into him. “I’m not going to kill her. Jiho would want me to bring her back.”

Your blood went cold. So Jiho was still with them after all. Hyunjin tensed in front of you, seemingly not knowing what to do. You answered instead. “I’m not going anywhere with you, Taeil. If Jiho wants to see me,” You inhaled, gathering all of your courage, “He can come fucking find me himself.”

Taeil’s eyes narrowed, “Mouthy nowadays, aren’t we? We both know that isn’t how you speak to me.”

Hyunjin scoffed, “Fuck off pipsqueak. She’ll talk to you however she wants.” He looks back at you, before looking back at him, “Tell Jiho that if he wants to talk to her, he’ll have to come to the farmhouse.”

You exhale, unsuccessfully hiding the shakiness of your breath. Hyunjin reached behind himself and held your hand, eyes still focused on the man in front of him. “Leave, Taeil. Before I call in backup.”

Taeil took one last look at you, seething in hatred, before turning to leave, disappearing as quickly as he appeared.

Hyunjin turned to you, gaze full of worry, before pulling you into a tight hug, “Are you okay?”

Your voice came out in a whisper, “I don’t know.”

“Who was that guy?”

“Someone I never want to see again.”

“Do you think he’s going to tell Jiho?”

“Yes. And I don’t know what’ll happen when he does.”

[exalok]

44 with Corvo/Daud please?

(sorry about the wait!!!! and i outdid myself againit might not follow the prompt very accurately though, and there is a whole lot of sad incoming; i will attempt to write happy things nextwarnings: canon-typical violence, nsfw, Daud for worst fuckin relationship management skills)

—

Kaldwin’s Bridge was…

For months, Corvo had struggled to put into words what, exactly, he felt when he looked down.

Once, he had been reminded of hiking to a mountainous ledge above Karnaca. Seeing the city, the parts he knew to be his and he was chased from as a child, spread like a tiered slope below him… but no. Kaldwin Bridge was no mountain—at most, it was like the edge of a cliff, though colder, perhaps. Grayer. Sometimes, the grand structure swayed under him with a hollow, groaning ripple of sound.

The wind, at least, was familiar.

It had been even grander than everyone had told him, the first time he saw it—and exactly as lonely as he needed, after his mother died. The knot of that loss still stung when he breathed.

The metal stung his palms as he climbed, and the breeze tugged at his coat, damp and chill, carrying the smell of the river; he was getting used to the difference between the smell of the Grand Serkonan Canal and that of the Wrenhaven, thick and oily.

His eyes were fixed at the top to map his way. He noted, most of his focus on not falling, that the Bridge’s heights were less unoccupied than usual.

The other man didn’t turn when Corvo stepped up onto the last platform. His hand, however, was conspicuously tucked inside the front of his jacket. The hair prickling at Corvo’s nape told him it wasn’t just for the cold.

“Hey,” he said, friendly as he could make the word when the wind snuffed out most sounds, and sat at a careful distance overlooking the edge. Gangs were mundane to someone who’d grown in Batista, and Gristol gangs couldn’t be all that different; nothing would happen if he kept polite. “I don’t often see anyone else up here.” He glanced over.

Gray eyes—the man’s head had tilted just enough to shoot him a look. The sharp line of his cheekbone cut against the clouded sky. Corvo observed that he’d withdrawn his hand, that he had on an Academic’s robes under the jacket, and that he was, under the wary hunch and the thick break in his nose, confusingly pretty.

Corvo was staring. Polite. He went back to watching the long, winding rush of the river far below.

“Likewise,” the other man said, and Corvo perked immediately at his accent.

“You’re Serkonan?”

He squinted, suspicious, but still he said, “Yeah. Cullero.”

“Karnaca. I’ve never been to Cullero.”

A twist of his mouth, his eyes drifting back to the void and the city stretching out.

“… There’s a lot of vineyards,” he said, deadpan. Corvo snorted.

They lapsed into silence. Corvo didn’t mind—silence was what he came up here for, silence and distance. It wasn’t so much that he had less free time—being a guard had kept him well-occupied—but spending much of his workday bumping elbows with the Court, its side-eyes, its nagging whispers, left him desperate for anything but eyes on him. Six months now, and he was nowhere nearer making himself a place among them, even with the title of Royal Protector under his belt.

His jaw clenched. He had an inkling no amount of time would make a difference.

“You’re at the Academy, right?” Corvo asked to distract himself from the thought. He had leaned back on his hands, his feet dangling out over empty space, entirely unconcerned with appearances. If there was anywhere he needn’t care about upholding the image of a Royal Protector, it was here. When he glanced over again, the other man was looking back—gray eyes steady, measuring. “What is it like?”

“Busy,” he said, biting and concise.

Corvo huffed. “I’ve heard you keep creatures from all over the Isles—Pandyssia, even—and that you study magic. Is that true? Or do the Overseers reach even there?”

“You ask a lot of questions.” The words were precise, cutting, but Corvo wouldn’t have gotten this far if he let a little intimidation work on him. Still, when he reached for his reasons—my mother used to tell me stories—he found himself keeping the words back.

His teeth clicked together. He shrugged. “You don’t have to answer.”

“Mm.” The other man watched him a moment longer; as the suspicion left his face, his eyes grew no softer, but went dark with a strange curiosity. He curled forward, his chin propped on his fist, contemplating the gray expanse of the city. “The animals are all hunting trophies; mounted, donated, and left to gather dust in the Great Hall. No magic that I’ve seen.” His lips pursed in thought. “We dissected a corpse yesterday, though.”

“A corpse.” What did the Academy have need of a corpse for? The man spoke with a vague detachment, beyond the dispassion of someone who had already seen his fair share of dead bodies.

“Murder victim. I think the lecturer has an arrangement with the Watch,” he added, giving no further explanation. The corner of his mouth quirked up for a fraction of a second, the motion reaching the corner of his eye—then he turned to Corvo, all business again. “And you? Taking a winter vacation? It doesn’t even snow here.”

Corvo shook his head, and paused, considering his answer. There had been no drawings of his face printed in the paper when it was announced who had been chosen as the heir’s Royal Protector, and if this man didn’t know, then Corvo wasn’t keen on finding out how much his attitude would change on finding out.

“… I’m here for work. Got a contract as a personal bodyguard.”

The other man regarded him a short moment. “Condolences.” When Corvo turned to him, confused, he smirked. “In my experience, no one who can afford a personal bodyguard is pleasant to be around.”

Corvo’s smile twitched open with a laugh.

When they parted, Corvo asked his name, and by the time Corvo reached the ground climbing down after him Daud was already gone.

There was no sign of him the rest of the week: Kaldwin’s Bridge stood empty, a high whistle of wind Corvo’s only company.

Those few evenings off were odd, and instead of steadying him, they left him feeling off-balance. It was entirely different, somehow, from when he found himself thinking too deep of his district in Karnaca, or his mother’s face through the window, bent over her sewing work. Once, he spent an hour staring down into the growing dark, and realized when the brightest stars sparked overhead that he’d been waiting, and watching for a drab jacket and short-cropped hair.

His hands had been stiff with cold. The climb down was a harrowing one. Back at the Tower, he decided he would forget about it.

The week after, on the same day, there came a voice below his feet as he stood at the bridge’s highest accessible spire. “Hey! Bodyguard.”

He looked down. The man in the Academy robes waved from the lower platform. Corvo smiled.

Daud kept to a tight schedule, and the dorms were often strictly regulated; this was one of the few days he could make his way up here. He liked the heights, he said. It reminded him of home.

“Yeah,” Corvo answered, and tried to remember whether there were mountains around Cullero.

There was a shiny new scar on the back of Daud’s hand, slick and red like a burn.

“Krust acid,” he said when Corvo asked. They’d been studying the chemical properties of the stuff, and he hadn’t been careful enough tipping it into the beaker. “Chemistry isn’t my specialty.”

“You have specialties?”

“Sure. The Masters generally have one, sometimes two. That’s how sponsorships work.”

“What’s yours then?”

“Nothing,” Daud said, and grinned dark and narrow. “I’m a disappointment.”

Corvo laughed, a little uneasy, but Daud didn’t seem to hold it against him. He only stared back out across the river. The sinking sun, reflecting off the river in great colored splashes of light, edged his eyelashes and the line of his nose in ochre.

If he had been a painter, Corvo thought, he might have known how to… keep it, some small piece, more solid than a memory—but memory would have to do.

They happened across each other again, of course. Every time, Corvo pretended it was a pleasant surprise, and that he hadn’t entirely expected Daud to be there. (Sometimes it was, and he hadn't—but it wasn’t often.) The other man would look at him a little askance, and quiet, like he knew. Like he didn’t mind. Hope tangled with perception and Corvo was never really sure how much he believed what he wanted to see.

The days grew colder, and Corvo climbed.

“And your work?” Daud asked once, having detailed the procedure for extracting whale oil. Strange and complex words swum around Corvo’s head, sounds detached from meaning. He had been tentatively imagining moving closer, so there might be less than a foot of space between them.

“My work?”

“Your charge. Any assassination attempts recently?”

Corvo felt the sharp ratcheting of tension in his own chest like an electric shock—had Daud guessed? Corvo still hadn’t told him the truth of his position, and though he no longer believed it might inspire violence it seemed so awkward to mention it now, and he had seen too many turn fawning after his appointment to entirely trust it would change nothing between them—

He let his caught breath go, forcing himself to relax. Something had flashed across the man’s face, maybe at Corvo’s telling pause, but there was no accusation in the words.

Corvo could tell him, maybe. He would undoubtedly find out, anyway; the heir’s Protector would be as familiar a face as the Emperor’s in due time—but his reluctance held. This place, this man—they were far from the life he’d been dropped into. He didn’t want that distance to close.

“Smooth sailing for now,” he said; then, thinking of the Parliamentary hearings and the council meetings and the endless amount of dignitaries he’d been introduced to and told to stoically receive, he added, “A lot of posturing, mostly.”

“Isn’t it always.” Corvo shot him a glance, uncertain what he meant. Daud gestured vaguely at the district below them. “High society.”

Corvo shrugged. “More because of her father than her. She’s only thirteen.” But learning fast. She kept to the sidelines less and less, though the Emperor didn’t tolerate any interruptions. They were mirror images when they stood side by side: backs straight, heads high with a noble tilt, not the military stiffness he knew—but in terms of ideas, even he could see the friction in their difference. He let himself smile a little.

When he glanced over at Daud he caught only the tail end of a fixed and searching stare.

“Corvo,” Daud said, and Corvo almost startled. Since Daud had only given him one name, he’d done the same, but the using of it was rare enough he still found it a surprise. “How long until your contract ends?”

“… A while,” Corvo decided. It took effort to tell himself this wasn’t entirely an untruth.

Daud turned back to him. His eyes were the exact same color as the overcast day. “I’m leaving at the end of winter. Thought I might go on a tour of the Isles.”

For a moment, Corvo only watched him. He had switched the jacket to a short, scuffed blue coat sometime in the last week. It was getting too cold for anything else.

“I might not understand much of what you tell me, about what you do in the Academy,” he said, picking the words out slow, “But I don’t think you’re doing badly enough they’ll kick you out after one season.”

“You can come with if you’re interested,” Daud continued, staunchly ignoring him.

“I’m serious. That last exam, the one you said—you told me it was the only one you failed, why would they—”

“There are wolves if you go deep enough into the Tyvian steppes. We could see a pack if we get there during the thaw—”

“Daud—”

“You like this city as much as that?” he sneered, gaze flat and dismissive, and Corvo looked at him helpless and lost.

“My job isn’t one I can exactly walk away from,” he said finally. Daud snorted.

“You climbed up here. What can anyone do to stop you?”

Corvo didn’t answer. For a while, silence rolled between them like morning fog on the Wrenhaven, thick and weighted. A hiss as Daud breathed through his teeth.

“I’m bored of the Academy,” he said. “At the end of Ice, I’m catching a boat to Dabovka.”

The sky fell slowly into dark.

A couple more evenings passed, their conversations careful, passed between them like something too heavy, too delicate. Some days Corvo didn’t even try climbing up; the end of Ice loomed, and he imagined it liked a butcher’s knife poised over the cutting block, ready to cut them apart. He knew it was foolish, knew that his mother being an ocean and an island away had made no difference to the sickness of her leaving—and still, he wanted distance to cushion the blow.

But then—the Empress—

His charge was distraught. He hadn’t seen her crying, and she didn’t walk the Tower with reddened eyes and blotchy cheeks.; at most, her voice was a little weaker—but he hadn’t gone through months of the same without being able to recognize grief in someone else’s face.

The girl refused to speak of it, and so when evenings came there was nothing he could do but escape.

On the last day of Ice, he climbed the bridge and found Daud there, sitting at the edge of the platform, still in his coat though the weather was warming. Corvo waited, a hanging second, for him to turn and either glare for the weeks-long absence or invite him closer with one of those quiet looks.

Daud did neither. Corvo should have expected it; he sat anyway, a long meter between them.

Below, the Wrenhaven was high with meltwater from inland. Every hour for the past four days the bells of the clocktower had tolled the death of the Empress, and they did so again now, clear and ringing. Perhaps the city didn’t mourn—the Empress had never been a popular one, mostly absent from the front of the scene, dwarfed by her husband—but it wasn’t about to forget that it was meant to.

Corvo didn’t look over at the sound of shifting. If Daud left, he would only be back in his old loneliness, exactly as far from the world as he needed.

“You look like a sick dog,” Daud said, and Corvo almost laughed. The blunt edge of his words might have hurt more if Corvo didn’t welcome them. “What happened?”

“You dissect many sick dogs, in your Academy?” he asked, and curled his own lip at himself. Too acerbic. Too— Too much. His breath formed a ball in his throat, hard to breathe around and unpleasantly familiar, reminding him of times he had bubbled with something unnameable and the pressure had forced tears from his eyes.

He didn’t want to talk about what had happened. He didn’t want to have to explain his stupid not-secrets. He wanted—

He wanted, strangely, to speak of his mother.

Why now? Because someone else’s had died? Four days the bells had rung for this one, and he hardly knew whether his had a grave, or if he’d visit it someday. Below him, gray and opaque, the river. He imagined speaking her name, and it falling from his mouth like a krust-pearl into the river.

(He remembered the Duke saying, How would you like to work in Dunwall, Lieutenant? and didn’t know what he had looked like but it must’ve been a right fool when he said, Your— Your Grace, I’d be honored, and his mother had wrung her hands and pinched his between them and she’d kissed his cheek on the dock before he left. He hadn’t looked back. His eyes had been on the horizon.)

Words crowded his tongue and he clenched his teeth around them. Daud was leaving, he thought with a sour surge of anger that dulled just as quick. He didn’t need any of this to weigh him down. Corvo held himself still, hunched, his hands clenched together, until his stiffness turned to trembling with the cold.

Daud said nothing more, and left first, as the mist curled along the Wrenhaven.

*

He doesn’t think he’s seeing things.

By which he means he doesn’t think he dreamed the figure he has been seeing in the corner of his eye, perched on chimneys or, when night falls, the dark tops of lampposts, since he first caught sight of it in the high struts of Kaldwin’s Bridge. He just isn’t sure where it disappears to when he turns. If he’s right, it followed him until he passed the gates of Dunwall Tower once. He’s been on guard since.

It’s always the politics. Jessamine may mock his distaste for it, but he understands enough: strange furtive figures around the seat of power mean bad news for the royal family. Whoever it is might be after Euhorn, or after Corvo’s charge—there was all that trouble around rights to the throne the year before, and an opponent might get rid of his heir now that Euhorn had lost the Empress and was making no moves to remarry— Or maybe it even has to do with those two, Roseburrow and Sokolov, and the whale oil—

Corvo shrugs it off. He understands, for the most part, but he can’t stand any of it. Euhorn’s Protector and the Tower Guard are aware of the problem, and he’s staying alert. That’s as much as he can do.

He still isn’t ready for it when, sitting at the corner table in his favorite pub and looking out the window, he hears the chair opposite him dragged out for someone to sit in. The reflection in the glass gives him a long red smear, dark-topped, and two pale lumps that must be hands lying on the tabletop. Unarmed.

He turns with his hand on his sword, just in case, and his breath catches hard.

He knows that face. Those eyes. They’re still that overcast gray. The break in his nose is even worse, though.

“Did you get in a bar brawl in Tyvia?” he asks, eyeing the still-angry scar bisecting Daud’s face from brow to collar. It’s knotted and swollen, no more than a few months old, but the eye underneath still sparks when Daud smirks. Undamaged.

“A couple,” Daud says, thumbing the scar. “But this is from the steppes.”

The movement highlights the bandages wrapped around his left hand, and Corvo follows it back down to the table. “What, did a wolf try to bite your face off?”

The smirk widens, shows teeth.

Corvo, in a fit of uncharitable impatience, wants to call what he feels an unpleasant discomfort. He’s had two years to settle in his own loneliness, to get used to this gray and colorless city, to its rain and its spitting wind, its wary isolation. This is— Daud, shouldering in, imposing himself like he had imposed his quiet and his presence in that short winter two years ago—

Corvo snorts, and leans back in his chair. He wants to be angry; but the truth is, seeing him grin like that, harsh, but more freely than he’s ever seen before—it hurts in places Corvo has grown used to finding numb. Stings. It reminds him he’s here, like the soreness after sparring.

And in any case, Daud had never been a great imposition.

“It took you two years to travel the islands, then.”

Daud settles, and some of the wildness sloughs off. The steady measure of his gaze is familiar in an aching way. “Almost reached Pandyssia.”

“Almost?”

“Ran across a storm. The captain thought the Outsider must have sent it, and decided to turn back.” He’s itching the back of his hand, the one covered in bandages. Corvo jerks his chin at it.

“What happened?”

“Climbing accident,” Daud answers, too light. Corvo narrows his eyes. So he has been following him. Daud meets the suspicion with a level and unreadable look, and for a long minute says nothing more, like he’s waiting for Corvo to pin him with the accusation.Then: “I had an inkling, back then, but I wouldn’t have guessed you were guarding the Emperor.” Still that same tone, weightless, off-hand, like they’re discussing the rain outside, or the watered-down quality of the spirits in Corvo’s half-full glass. “Or his daughter. Wasn’t it a girl? Thirteen? Fifteen now.”

Corvo says nothing. He’s not sure what he could say. That he hadn’t been used to being so watched by the public eye? That he’d wanted something, anything that wouldn’t remind him of the turn his life had taken, for better or worse? Something only his own. It’s hard to come by, in a place like Dunwall Tower, and with that title tied to his ankle, dragging around behind him.

“Is there a point to this?” Corvo asks instead, because this is his day off, and even if his heart flip-flopped unfairly in his chest at the sight of that face, this sounds too much like it’s edging on a threat for him to ignore.

Daud makes a noncommital noise. His eyes have drifted off to the well-lit room beyond them, where people are starting to stream in as the evening stretches into night. The bandages go tight across his knuckles as his injured hand clenches.

“Walk with me,” he says, and in one movement he is out of his chair—then he pauses, eyes flicking back, like he’s waiting.

Corvo looks at what’s left in his glass, and looks at him. There’s no expectation in his stillness; only an abiding calm.Corvo follows.

Outside, the sky hasn’t yet decided to rain, but the fog makes certain the air is unpleasantly damp anyway. The thin puddles Daud strides through will have frozen over by the end of the night. They walk side by side, and Daud can only be considered to lead by the fact that Corvo can just barely recognize the turns they’re taking.

“Where are we going?” Corvo asks after they pass a street name he doesn’t recall and Daud still hasn’t said anything.

The look he gets is less focused than he’s used to seeing, and that more than anything lets him believe it when Daud says, “Nowhere. Just walking.”

The fog is a muffling shroud. They can see each side of the street, but that’s it; both ends are thick with white. Sounds come through soft and muted. Sometimes, heavy steps echo down from branching streets, and Daud deftly leads them off into another passage. He makes hardly a noise when he walks.

“Never seen fog this thick anywhere but here,” Daud eventually says, voice low.

“People say the Outsider calls it up from the river,” Corvo adds. “That you can get lost in it, and end up in the Void.”

“Ghost stories for children,” Daud sneers, but his mouth is quirked up like he’s telling a joke. “The Void looks nothing like this.”

Corvo watches him, careful and curious. “Did you learn that in the Academy?”

“In a fishing village off the West coast, actually.” The smirk hitches higher, then vanishes, and his mouth is again cool marble. “I don’t even remember the name.”

They continue in silence, and though Corvo doesn’t pry he wonders. Late-night wanderers pass them by in layered jackets and coats pulled up against the damp. The street names are familiar again. Far off, the clock rings the tenth hour, and Daud jerks like he’s come out of a dream.

“I should go,” he says. He turns—Corvo grabs the sleeve of his coat.

He wants to say something and doesn’t know what, so when their eyes catch he can only grit his teeth—twist his hand, release, ungraceful with a reluctance he doesn’t fully understand. Daud catches his wrist.

He says nothing, for a moment, then: “I know where to find you.”

When the sound of someone approaching startles Corvo into turning, the hand on his wrist lets go, and as he reaches back Daud is gone. The street is gray and fog-lined and empty.

Two City Watch men come slowly by on the cobblestones; Corvo greets them with a wave of his hand, and goes home.

“You’re getting soft,” Daud says the next time he shows up at Corvo’s pub table. “Complacent.” He’s still wearing the red coat. Corvo, knowing it’s hopeless, can’t help but notice how much more solid Daud looks under it—the broad square of his shoulders, the depth of his chest. He swallows it down with his drink and raises his eyebrows.

“And where is this coming from?”

It’s unsurprising when Daud doesn’t answer, instead baring some of his teeth in a half-snarl and looking away, to the busy center of the pub. Corvo calls for a beer and slides it across to him. That gets a sharp little glance, edging on suspicious.

“It’s good,” he shrugs, and as he reaches for his own glass Daud snatches it from the table. Sniffs it. Drinks. The beer is unceremoniously pushed back into his open hand.

“You never climb anymore,” Daud says, watching him over the rim of the glass.

Corvo doesn’t release the sigh he can feel building in his chest and takes a sip of the beer. It is good. He, at least, will appreciate it.

Daud’s eyes narrow. “I guess you’re comfortable, serving the highest of high society. Soft bed? Food to your liking?”

This is a little too much. Corvo rolls his eyes. “I don’t like the talking and lies and secrets,” he says, pointed, “But yeah, Dunwall Tower has a great cook, and the oxblood steak is to die for.” He meets the glare head-on, refuses to look away. After a minute, Daud seems to settle, leaning back in his chair and letting out a long, heavy breath.

It’s getting loud in the pub. Usually, Corvo lets the noise wash over him, tucked as he is into this corner, a little ways away—but the tension is sliding back into Daud, stiffening his neck as he hunches over the table again.

“Come climb with me,” Daud says, only just avoiding urgent.

“It’s raining.”

“Is that going to stop you?”

Corvo levels him with a look that brooks no argument. “We can walk. But I’m not climbing.”

So they walk. Corvo pulls his waxcloth over his head; his official outfit has no hood, and he’s had to make do on evenings like this. Umbrellas are inconvenient if he wants to keep his hands free. Daud’s coat has no hood either, but he seems to pull one from the jacket underneath, and it covers him just as well.

For a time, they move forward, directionless beyond Daud ducking into long alleyways for no reason Corvo can see, guiding him through passages he’s hardly paid attention to into parts of the city he isn’t sure, even after two years, he has ever seen—then back to the streets he has come to know, never lost or misplaced. Rain falls in sheets over their heads, onto the road, swelling the gutters with grimy water. It stings where it lands on his face and hands.

It’s unseasonably warm for the month of Darkness. Still, he feels himself grow dull and stiff with cold—dull enough that he barely reacts when a sure grip closes on his arm and drags him, forceful, into the dark of an alleyway.

“What's—” he starts, before a bandaged hand comes across his mouth.

Daud’s gaze is fixed on the end of the alley, gold with the light of the lampposts. “Quiet.” His voice can barely be heard over the sound of the rain.

They stand, still, rainwater dripping down Daud’s nose where he doesn’t care to wipe it if it means he must move, until three Watchmen pass coming up the thoroughfare. They remain unnoticed. After a handful of minutes, Daud seems to sweep his eyes around and relax, and they step back out into the street.

Daud pulls his hood down lower and wipes the rain away. Corvo glances up to where the three Watchmen are disappearing into the night—and if he doesn’t ask, he does wonder.

“Your disappearing trick,” Corvo says as they follow the incline of a boulevard down to the river. Daud bumps into him on accident when he turns. They’ve been walking close, so they can hear each other over the rain. “How did you do it?”

“What trick?” Daud asks, but instead of questioning his voice is harsh and dismissive.

“I turned and you were gone.”

“You weren’t paying attention.”

Corvo knows that isn’t it, and finds himself warming as anger starts to stir in his chest. “I looked away for a second. You’re not a card someone can hide up their sleeve.”

Daud’s jaw goes stiff, his mouth a thin, taut wire.

“I had—help,” he bites out.

Corvo makes a derisive sound. “You had help.”

“I can’t tell you,” he snaps, and his shape goes rigid under the coat. “Stop asking.”

“You can’t or you won’t?”

Daud whirls on him, blocking his way, says: “What difference does it make?”

His gray eyes are edged, like glass, or the sheen of a razor.

Corvo stops. He knows there is a sword, hidden inside Daud’s coat; he has seen the shape of it as Daud walked. He also knows there is more, out of sight. Daud has that impression about him: there is always more. He braces himself like he might for a fight, and sees Daud answering it, stance for stance.

“Are we friends, Daud?” he asks.

He can see the confusion flicker, bright and momentary, before it’s snuffed out. Daud’s breaths are strangely heavy. Corvo doubts it could be fear—yet it isn’t quite like anticipation.

“No,” he says, finally. “We’re not friends.”

It’s strange. There is nothing to suggest that Daud isn’t sure of himself: he’s straightened his back, and his eyes meet Corvo’s without flinching. The words sound like they should be the end of something.

Corvo loosens, and reaches out, slow; he sees Daud stop himself from jerking away, and sees, too, how some kind of tension drains out of him when Corvo’s hand closes on the high point of his arm, though Daud reflexively seizes his wrist.

“I work for the Kaldwins,” Corvo says, and neither of them has looked away. “I know how to keep a secret.”

There is a long stillness. Corvo realizes, distantly, that the rain has stopped.

Daud pushes Corvo’s hand off him.

“I’ll consider it,” he says, and Corvo lets him walk away.

It’s on the way from the Tower to the pub, in a deserted road, that a hand presses firm into the small of his back. The elbow he throws is caught in an iron grip.

“Walk with me,” Daud says, and Corvo huffs out his exasperation but lets go of his sword.

“That was a dangerous thing to do,” he mutters as he is lead—this is far from the aimless wandering he’s used to, Daud catching street names with sharp eyes and directing him, steady, in a direction that’s becoming more and more obvious by the minute.

“I’m sure,” Daud answers, and the hand drops from Corvo’s back. His skin rings with the memory of pressure. Almost absently, as Daud brushes past into an alley just slightly wider than his shoulders, Corvo notes the darker spatter across his lapel. It’s new, a darkish brown. It slots into the rest of the picture Corvo has been building with a distressingly simple click.

He remembers, distinctly, his first impression: how certain he had been that Daud was part of a gang. Daud always had an uncomplicated opinion on corpses and their usefulness.

Corvo stops in his tracks, and it takes Daud a moment to notice and turn back, a question in the curve of his frown. He gestures for Corvo to follow. Corvo doesn’t.

“You missed a spot,” he says instead, pulling on his own coat. Daud looks down at the bloodstain, then back up at him. Corvo doesn’t know what that look in his eyes means, or how to interpret the way he tucks his chin into his chest, just a moment, before straightening.

“We don’t have all night,” he says, but doesn’t keep going. Corvo takes a few slow steps forward. Daud turns. Corvo follows.

“Where are we going,” Corvo asks, and Daud glances back as though to make sure he hasn’t stopped again.

“You know where we’re going.”

“Tell me.”

“We’re nearly there,” Daud says instead, and yes, Corvo can see it: Kaldwin’s Bridge, its high metal peaks, sprouting from between the buildings ahead like dark bones. Daud ducks into an alcove, the shadowed pit of a building’s doorway, just out of sight of the one guard standing at the foot of the bridge. He tugs Corvo in after him. The space is close, and their knees bump together when Daud shoots a look out then back up, at him. His face is grim.

“Climb with me.”

Corvo looks at him and feels heavy, slow; a heartless kind of tired.

“Are you going to kill me?” he asks, and the weakness in him shows even through the half-smile he forces. Daud stares. His absolute stillness, strangely, seems to say what kind of idiot are you more than I’ve been found out.

“If I wanted to kill you, I would have done it on the way,” he says, low but clear, unmoving except for his mouth and the flick of his eyes across Corvo’s face.

Corvo lets his expression go neutral. “I could take you in a fight.”

“Then I wouldn’t fight you,” Daud answers, unhesitating. He pulls up the thick sleeve of his coat; strapped to his arm is a compact machine, like a small folded crossbow. “I’d shoot you from a rooftop. You barely react to seeing me anymore.”

Of course he could, Corvo thinks, looking into Daud’s gray eyes, of course this Serkonan man with his unpracticed smile and his rough hands would be the one who held his death most surely—

Corvo takes his wrist, turns it to look at the mechanism in full. It’s well-made. Perhaps not very powerful at long distances, but accurate, he thinks, enough to hit somewhere bad. “You won’t deny it then.”

“No,” Daud says, like he knows exactly what Corvo is talking about. He must. There aren’t many ways to misunderstand this conversation. “But I’m not going to kill you. I meant to ask—” And there he stops, as though the next words are harder to admit to than being a killer. He glances out at the guard again, or the bridge. A short, irritated hiss. “This would be easier up there.”

“No one else is listening,” Corvo says, and it’s true: the sky has been dark for some time, and though windows are lit there is no sign of anything, or anyone, but them in the lee of this street—and still, Daud hacks a laugh, like he’s in on a joke Corvo can’t see.

He pulls his sleeve back down, and Corvo lets go.

“I could be…” Daud starts; he’s evasive, darting looks between the pools of gold where light reflects in the road. “I could be useful,” he decides, and his eyes fix back onto Corvo’s. “To your employers. The royal family.”

It’s a bold move, Corvo supposes; bold enough Euhorn might even appreciate the guts it took to make the offer. He doesn’t know what, exactly, motivates his answer.

“They don’t believe in those kinds of methods.”

Principle, or selfishness? They’ve never given him cause to think they would call on a hired killer—but perhaps some small part of him simply doesn’t want to know whether they might.

(Perhaps— Perhaps another, smaller part of him—

He has so missed having something the Kaldwins didn’t know about.)

“None of my clients had a problem with them,” Daud says, wry, and Corvo tries not to read disappointment in the shift of his shoulders, “However noble their blood.”

Then his eyes narrow, and he adds, as though he’d seen the thought written clear on Corvo’s face, “I’m not giving you names.”

“I didn’t ask you to,” Corvo answers, and relaxes against the inside of the doorway.

The space is growing warm around them despite the chill. Daud is still looking at him.

“Climb with me,” he says, and Corvo breathes in deep.

“Alright.”

It’s been two years since he last went up there. He isn’t worried about being up to the task—sword practice keeps him well in shape, and he doesn’t doubt his own strength—but that old ease he’d had as a child facing the tiered rooftops of Karnaca has dulled, and navigating the struts of the bridge isn’t the thoughtless exercise he remembers it being. In the privacy of his own head, he might even admit it’s daunting.

Still, they make their way up, Daud at the head, and when they reach the highest platform—so familiar, even now—the shrieking wind freezes the sweat under Corvo’s coat. Daud sits at the edge, exactly where he always had, and waits until Corvo takes his own spot before he speaks.

“I thought it was worth a shot,” he says, looking out to the river.

Corvo takes out his cigar box. It’s a small comfort, but he thinks he needs it. “You took that shot. What now?”

He expects there to be a pause, or simply a growing silence, but Daud says, “Now I keep going.” The curl in his lip could be a sneer or a smile. It’s a little bitter, a little tired. He glances over at Corvo’s hands. “We can’t all be Royal Protector to the fucking Kaldwins.”

Corvo holds out the box, open to show the neat row of rolls, but Daud gives a short jerk of his head. Corvo lights his with a match from another pocket.

“You never smoke?” He knows he sounds surprised—the rasp in Daud’s voice sounds exactly like that of the dockworkers Corvo remembers crossing in Karnaca, rubbed raw with smoke, sometimes acheful to hear. Daud eyes him, quiet, chin propped on his fist. His eyes are pricked silver with the city lights.

Before Corvo can react, Daud has pinched the cigar between two fingers and brought it to his own mouth. He’s staring at the glowing tip, the curve of his lips unsure around the end—and then he takes a drag that trickles back out from the corners of his mouth in thin, fast-blown wisps. A noise rumbles up from deep in his chest.

“I did,” Daud says, the rest of the smoke gusting away on the wind. “Used to be in a gang. Everybody smoked.” When he sucks on the end again it’s almost delicate, his brow furrowing as though in focus. “I didn’t like the taste.”

Corvo doesn’t know what he looks like right now—his organs feel like they’re trying to climb up where his lungs are meant to be, and he has to swallow, certain otherwise that his voice might break. His throat clicks.

“So you changed your mind since?”

Daud’s eyes meet his. The pinpricks of the city lights are gone; all Corvo can see is the hot glow of the cigar, flaring as Daud breathes in, then reaches out, the movement calm and telegraphed, until his hand wraps itself in the front of Corvo’s coat and pulls him forward, implacable, merciless. Corvo catches himself on one hand, the platform ringing with it.

There is the brush of lips on his, faltering. The brief taste of cigar smoke as his mouth opens.

He can see entirely too much of Daud’s face—his eyes, somehow dark, and the painful line of his scar, and another over his left eyebrow, and the precise displacement of the break in his nose—when Daud says,

“Maybe I’ll get used to it,”

and pushes him back until he’s sitting, again, in the same spot—now cold—as though nothing happened at all.

Daud takes another drag, frowns and works his jaw, and hands the cigar back.

Corvo takes it. Wants, in an unhinged, desperate way, to grab Daud by the bloodstained lapel of his coat and finish what he just started—but to be here, holding this, the taste of more than smoke on his lips, he must have misread all that has lead up to it, and he thinks—the thought is so clear, like the moon through still water—he thinks that anything and everything he does, right at this moment, will be bloated with a meaning he can’t even begin to understand.

He finishes the cigar, and throws the stub out over the edge to fall somewhere in the river.

They don’t speak for a long time. Corvo has stopped paying attention to the ringing of the clocktower. At some point, Daud gets up.

“Are you leaving?” Corvo asks, unable to keep it down, and Daud looks back to him.

“Even I need to sleep, Corvo,” he says, and Corvo decides it will have to make do for a promise.

He spends the week scanning rooftops, and catches sight of Daud only once: on the first day, perched on a high chimney like a misplaced gargoyle. As soon as Corvo turned to look he darted out along the eaves and disappeared.

When he goes out to the pub, nothing happens on the way. No one comes to sit at his corner table. The woman at the bar smiles, and says he was missed last week, and when Corvo asks about a man in a red coat her face goes blank and she shrugs and shakes her head. He leaves his drink half-finished, and goes back out into the cold.

Footsteps behind him. He doesn’t stop to consider them.

“Running from something?” says Daud, and then Corvo has him flattened against a wall, fists in the shoulders of his coat, hauling him up on tiptoe with the bricks probably digging into his shoulders. Daud has a vise grip on his arms, panting in what must be surprise, while Corvo’s breaths heave around the weight of every action he’s considering. He loosens his hands, and Daud slides back to his feet. His fingers ache.

“Jumpy,” Daud says, but rather than amused his tone is careful, checking him over like he’s expecting to find marks. Corvo drags a hand through his hair with a huff, doesn’t even try to explain himself. Fingers brush, cautious, against his back; and when he doesn’t jump away, the palm presses in. He must be imagining its warmth through the layers of his clothes. “Come on.”

It’s the only difference, that hand, steady on him, and the more it settles there the more unsettled he becomes. He knows last week happened. He repeats it to himself: He knows. He knows. He thinks he mostly controls the tremble when he pulls the cigar case out and takes one, brings it to his mouth, lights it. It tastes the same as it had then. He glances at Daud.

Daud is looking back. Corvo breathes out a cloud.

In one movement the cigar is plucked from his hand, and Daud is taking a drag, something like a challenge in his eyes.

The street is empty. Sometimes Corvo remembers Daud telling him he knew what the Void looked like, and wonders if he went there; if that’s where they go, on these walks, when the entire city seems drained of its people. Corvo pinches the cigar between two fingers as Daud breathes in again, lifts it away, and throws it aside. His fingertips burn from being so near Daud’s mouth.

His lips are cold, though, when Corvo takes him by the arm and drags him somewhere dark. Cold, then not; warm, red with biting, damp with the steam of their close breaths. Corvo cups the raw angles of his face and dips into his mouth again, just pressing lips at first, then his tongue, fingers curling in the hair at his nape. He tastes of cigar smoke, bitter and hot.

Corvo doesn’t take more than one step back before Daud has him flipped and pinned in the dark of the doorway, arms boxing him in.

“We’re not done here,” he rasps.

Corvo chokes on his own breath as a solid thigh pushes up between his legs.

They use their hands—callused, numb with the cold, but tender enough when they grip side or bicep or thigh, or slide over skin, mapping the hollows of muscle and bone—and sometimes, though rarely, their mouths. Corvo has kissed the acrid taste of his own come from Daud’s tongue. Daud has made him writhe, uncontrolled, with only deft fingers and the bite of his teeth, Corvo’s howling muffled by the leather of his glove.

The city’s mass wraps around them in those moments like a shell: closed off, protected. Nothing can touch them but their bodies. Corvo feels himself swallowed by shadows, and even the light glances off of them.

In the month of Ice, as Dunwall prepares for the old Empress’s memorial, Corvo warms his hands in Daud’s pockets while they trade damp breaths in the lee of a building. Daud rolls his hips; Corvo’s fingers clench, digging into the meat of him, and there is a stuttered gasp in the crook of Corvo’s neck, the weight of a well-used body pushed up along his.

“Come with me,” he says, and pulls away, though his hand remains curled around Corvo’s wrist.

Corvo follows after. The night curves over their heads.

“Where are we going?”

“Just come with me.”

Daud had said, himself, that he needed sleep, and Corvo can only suppose that this would be done on a bed, in a room, somewhere tucked away. It still manages to be a surprise that Daud has a pair of keys, and that these keys fit into a pair of locks, and that the door they open gives way to a tiny two-room apartment in the middle of a seedy district.

The kitchen looks largely unused. The bedroom is dark, its only window shuttered. He can still see the bed, a lumpy shape barely lit through the open doorway, over Daud’s shoulder when he is backed up against the bedroom wall.

“Corvo,” Daud says, hands splayed on the wallpaper, and his eyes are a little too wide, his breaths a little too short, and Corvo grabs him by the side of his belt and the back of his head and drags him close, taking all that he wants from Daud’s mouth.

“I want you to fuck me in that bed,” he says, brute words sweet on his own tongue, and Daud snarls and bites his lip.

The mattress is stiff and sagging under his back—his coat, his vest thrown to the floor, his boots kicked off the end of the bed as Daud advances on him in shirtsleeves and breeches—but comfort matters little when Daud’s hands close on his ankles and pin them to the sheets. His shape is huge in the thrown light of the doorway. He crouches there, between Corvo’s bent knees, and undoes Corvo’s belt.

“Get on with it,” Corvo grunts, catching an ankle in the back of Daud’s leg and tugging, and the breath rushes out from him when Daud looms, one arm braced on his chest, and kisses Corvo’s impatient mouth.

“Let me take my time,” he says, and slings the belt out into the dark.

When Corvo is naked, gangly and shivering on top of the blankets and his cock half-hard in anticipation, Daud slides his palms up the concave of his stomach, lines his fingers up with the ripples of Corvo’s ribs and kisses his sternum.

“Skinny bastard,” he mutters there. His breath is a hot, damp wash, and jolts a fresh wave of shaking out of Corvo, who yanks on the back of Daud’s shirt. There is no restraint left in him. He wants Daud’s whole body on him without delay.

“Tell me you have oil,” he growls, and it’s in Daud’s hand, not oil but a metal tin of thick grease he spreads on his fingers, slick and shining in the dregs of hallway light.

“Turn over,” Daud says, and Corvo answers,

“No,” tilting his hips up, bracing with his legs, Daud’s free hand coming up to steady him. “No, like this.” Daud’s eyes in the light: gold-touched, less metal than water. He wants it like this.

He touches himself through it, his own heavy breathing loud in his ears. The first breach is a strange and foreign pressure, but even if it’s been some time he has done this before; soon he’s up to two fingers, breaths wheezing from him at every firm push, propped up on one elbow so he can watch the way Daud’s shoulders shift under the fabric of his shirt. He makes no sound when he works. Corvo wonders, half-delirious, whether he’s this quiet when he kills.

“Now,” he says, dropping back to the mattress and fisting his hands in the sheets by his head, “Daud—” He pushes back on Daud’s pressing fingers, but it’s clear what he wants.

“One more,” Daud says, pulling back, and Corvo almost snarls, slinging a leg around Daud’s hips, jerking him closer.

“Now.”

Daud obliges. Everything but his shirt is discarded, and his cock hangs thick and red between his thighs, wet at the tip. Corvo glances to it and back up, and he can see Daud’s face is red, too, flushed from his chest up to his ears, the tilt of his head nearly demure. Their eyes meet in the dark. Very deliberately, Corvo cants his hips.

Daud fits just right in the spread of his legs, broad shoulders but narrow hips, and the stretch when he presses slowly in makes Corvo want to keen.

He doesn’t. Daud does: the first noise he’s made beyond words, thin and warbling and glorious. The rush, victory or adrenaline or helpless crushing want makes him clench hard and Daud bends his forehead to Corvo’s stomach, hissing muffled curses into his skin.

Winter is like a fever—he’s too hot inside for how cold his skin is—Corvo grabs at Daud’s thighs, fingers digging in, and his body flexes like he can force a rhythm. Rough hands close on his waist. The drag of Daud’s cock out of him, the gradual thrust back in—he huffs a weak breath, pushing into it, and his cock leaves a wet trail on his belly when the next thrust rocks him.

“Faster,” he gasps—fuck, he wants all of it, the heat and the friction and that strength keeping him still as it needs but that killing focus is staring down at the meeting of their bodies, the steady too-shallow slide, rather than applying itself to fucking him out of his mind—

He knocks his heel against Daud’s tailbone, wriggles and strains closer, “Come on—” and Daud pushes him flat with a hand on his chest but it isn’t enough—

His body moves for him—Daud grunts when his back hits the mattress and shouts, reedy and desperate, when Corvo finally sinks down onto him, full, sweaty and buzzing, and takes himself in hand. The arch of Daud’s throat, his head near hanging off the bed, is a gorgeous thing. Corvo fucks himself with hungry jerks of his hips, hissing through his teeth at the burn, and Daud makes high shocked sounds that thrum through Corvo’s fingertips when he lays his hands there, at the dip in his shoulders, just below his neck. Daud’s hands scrabble for purchase on the spread of Corvo’s thighs. It’s all he can do to hold on.

When he comes, the sounds cut off sharp, and his nails rake red lines down Corvo’s sides.

Corvo rolls his hips again and bears down, but all that does is make Daud wince, his panting breaths catching for a second. Fingers press, light, at the red lines; the touch stings, but he doesn’t mind.

“Get up for a second,” Daud says, and when Corvo moves off him he shifts fully onto the bed, sprawled flat and languid.

Corvo’s still hard and not a little envious. When he palms himself, Daud has the gall to smirk.

“Come up here,” he says, and Corvo begrudgingly lies down next to him to bite the smirk away, but Daud shakes his head. He worms an arm under Corvo’s side and gets a hand on the meat of his ass. “Up here,” he says, eyes bright.

Corvo hesitates—then he’s on his knees, Daud’s head between his thighs, one hand curled tight around the base of his cock because, just for a moment, he’s certain he’ll come just from the sight. Daud takes hold of his hips, thumbs stroking. He’s eyeing the lines he left there.

Then he looks up, into Corvo’s face. He says, “Well?” His chin tips up like an invitation.

Corvo fists a hand in his sweat-tousled hair, pulls just enough to draw up his head, and feeds his cock to Daud’s open mouth.

At first he rocks in shallow, breaths short as he watches Daud’s tongue flick out to follow when he withdraws, and he can’t help the low whine when he sinks back in, soft and wet, sucking pressure, a bare hint of teeth when Daud swallows and his tongue pushes up. His heart beating wild, Corvo tucks the thumb of his free hand in alongside his cock and watches, Daud’s lip pulled aside, as he thrusts red and heavy into his pink and glistening mouth. Daud gasps something through his nose, swallows again.

Corvo grabs his hair with both hands, pins him to the mattress and lets himself fuck in deeper, until Daud’s eyes water and his throat clenches and he makes soft choking noises, his nails cutting into Corvo’s skin, pulling him still closer. Corvo braces an arm against the wall and spends with a feeble little cry.

Daud’s throat keeps tightening in small, convulsive motions around him; he shivers through it, grinds his hips into Daud’s face until pleasure turns to discomfort and he withdraws. Daud has gone a deep, precious red, gasping ragged breaths. Corvo crawls down the solid shape of his body so he can kiss his wide-open mouth.

“I taste disgusting,” Daud warns, crushing him closer with an arm across his back, one hand around the back of Corvo’s neck.

“You should know—by now—” Corvo says between searching kisses, “I really couldn’t care less—” and Daud relaxes under him wholly, limp and pliant, eyes closed and stroking down Corvo’s back like he needs to be gentled. Neither of them moves to turn off the light in the hall. There, faintly silhouetted, they share lips and tongues, a strange hesitation in every rough press of Daud’s mouth.

Corvo tangles their legs, pulls the blanket over them both. Daud lets him. He’s a little bony in places, but radiates heat, and the hollow of the blanket warms up fast.

On the cusp of sleeping, Daud shifts under him.

“Won’t they miss you at the Tower?” he asks, his voice still rough. A thrill makes Corvo shiver to know he is the cause.

“I sleep in the barracks still,” he says, burrowing in the crook of Daud’s neck. “I’ll have rooms when Jessamine is Empress.” Daud scratches fingers through his hair, and cradled as he is he quickly falls back into sleep.

Sometime in the night, he wakes to Daud pulling himself away, and grabs for his wrist on reflex.

“I need to piss,” Daud says low, pulling him off not ungently. “Go back to sleep.”

Corvo curls in the warm spot he’s left, huddled in the covers, and does.

In the morning, the bed is empty.

Bells ring. A year ago, Beatrix Kaldwin died in childbirth. They call the city to mourning.

*

Corvo had left unbothered, and in too much of a hurry to return to wonder that Daud was gone with no warning; impulse was in his nature, as was a certain disregard for other people’s worry. The memory of that night kept him up for days. More than once, he waited for the rest of the guards to fall quiet and brought himself off in his hand, the images sharp-edged in his mind.

On his next evening off, he sauntered off to the usual place and waited, sipping on whiskey, at the corner table. When he finished, he called for a Potterstead ale. Then he lingered outside in the drizzle for half an hour, glaring at the rooftops. Waiting.

Daud didn’t show. The evening left a sour taste in the back of his throat.

When the same happened a week later, Corvo started to wonder whether something had gone wrong, asking himself: Did killers for hire take travel contracts? Had he gotten injured? He spent hours staring at the bunk over his, listening to the guards shift in their untroubled sleep.

The third time, Corvo went out into the city. He thought he remembered where Daud had lead him—could only hope he hadn’t been waiting on a dead man, some wound too serious to heal striking him down— Would Corvo find him there, an old body in a corner, forgotten? Had he made it back at all? —and after getting lost twice he found himself in front of the battered old door.

He knocked. There was no answering sound. When he tried the handle, the door swung open, unlocked.

Inside, the floor was covered in dust, and his boots left great dark streaks in it where the floorboards showed through. The kitchen was much the same, no more used than when he had first stepped foot in the place. The bedroom window was still shuttered. He even thought the blankets were the exact same shape he had left them in upon leaving, three weeks ago.

Grief was a familiar creature—yet it did not touch him here. First he wondered if Daud had really been so petty as to abandon his home just so Corvo wouldn’t find him there. Then it hit him that it was just as likely Daud had taken the keys off one of his fresh corpses, and found the place well-kept enough to invite Corvo in. The thought flayed him with rage.

He didn’t cry. He did, however, tear the mattress apart.

It’s not a time he remembers fondly. Two winters, two heartbreaks. The realization that grief can come in many shapes. Many of his decisions in the years that followed were questionable at best, but he is glad enough for how some of them turned out.

Emily will be three years old in a week. The look on Jessamine’s face when she looks down upon her daughter is softness and joy and the fierce, protective light of decision. He only regrets, when he lets himself, that she had to be born into politics.

It’s as they’re taking the avenues back from a social function at the Boyle sisters’ that he sees it. He hardly knows how he noticed: it’s a speck, small and indistinct, black on gray.

As the tall spires pass in the carriage window, his eyes go straight up and catch on the figure perched at the very top of Kaldwin’s Bridge. He knows who it is. There is nothing in his sight or his past to convince him it waves when he looks, but he is just as certain it does.

When they return to the Tower, he tells Jessamine there’s an errand he needs to run; makes sure there are guards posted on the roof and at every exit in case this is a trick. Then he goes out into the streets, to a pub he hasn’t visited in years.

The woman at the bar is a different one. He asks for Old Dunwall. His table, tucked in the corner, is already occupied, though the man in the seat is positioned to be as far out of sight of the room as he can.

Corvo sits opposite. Notoriety isn’t something he needs to worry about.

The coat is worn now, the color faded to something like old blood—it’s been ten years, after all—and the sword is no longer hidden. No one he let see him would dare call him into question. His eyes, though—

(There is still a pang of loss when Corvo meets them, but it’s weak. Just an echo, really.)

His eyes are unchanged. Flat gray, serrated. The scar running jagged down his face is faded with age, and there are bags under his eyes, not yet dark with lack of sleep. Corvo’s mouth twitches at the uncharitable thought that there probably isn’t enough in the man to feel regret.

“You look—alright,” Daud says, and the knowledge that he’d meant to say ‘good’ is as violent as a blow to the face. Corvo can feel his teeth grating, but lets the tension go with a heavy sigh. He doesn’t answer. The narrow line of Daud’s mouth twists, crooked. “I had a question.”

“Then ask,” Corvo says, not quite snappish.

The look Daud levels him with is a measured, considering thing.

“Do the royal family’s principles still hold?”

Some part of him wants to be furious. Corvo’s hand drifts to his sword, pointed but unthreatening. “I’m the wrong man to ask for a job.”

Yet rather than offer that long-forgotten, sardonic little smirk, Daud nods, his eyes darting to the room and the street outside the window. “Don’t need to ask any more,” he says, off-handed. “Kill enough people, the offers come to you.”

That’s a wanted criminal, sitting across from you, Corvo reminds himself. He should be arrested. If Corvo draws his sword fast enough, he could stab him in the space between ribcage and clavicle, or the soft meat of his stomach—pin him to the chair.

He drinks his whiskey, his weapon heavy on his hip.

After a silence, inordinately cold in the warmth of the pub, Daud rises. His fingers linger a moment at the edge of the table.

“Keep an eye on your new Spymaster,” he says. This close, Corvo can smell it: Daud smells of cigar smoke. He might even know the brand.

When Daud leaves through the front door, no one looks up to see him go.

Corvo finishes his glass and returns to the Tower. It’s late; Jessamine is already asleep. His own bed is cold.

The rest, as they say, is Void.

[taendrils]

the heartbeat challenge | 1

― ❝things never work in your favour when you run out of fucks to give, and right when you do heaven seems to throw the seed of evil right into your arms, or more precisely on the corridor to your college dorm. you swore an oath to hate the XY population, blood and pinkies and everything- but namjoon, the shy brunet helping you with your sister’s wedding has always been a man of science- and he seems to love testing just how much he can make you tick.❞

• pairing: namjoon/female reader  • genre: fluff, comedy, a college rom-com, semi-wedding planner a.u • warnings: slow burn, swearing, mentions of sexism and unhealthy dynamics in literature • wordcount: 16k words

a/n: this fic contains satire interpretation of a ‘man-hating’ oc. oh and a very cute namjoon. also this is my longest fic/series thing up to date. cheers and let’s enjoy.

“And a toast to the young couple!”

The people sprawled across the joined tables cheered, the sound of champagne glasses clinking and the sound of friends laughing in delight pleasant to your ears. Few things in life could beat the sensation of hearing nothing but sounds of happiness around, and you took it all in–letting your head fall back and closing your eyes, barely keeping yourself from raising your arms in the air. Between the winter midterms and the inter-semestrial break filled with nothing but volunteer work where you’d encounter children screaming on schedule and coming home to find your love interest–a.k.a the latest lesson chapters all spread out on the kitchen table–at last, you could say that you felt relaxed. One moment ready for the history books where this sort of happiness surrounded you, and one you deserved for sure.

Maybe you deserved it because the earrings you had been wearing for the past five hours insisted on pulling your entire earlobe off or at least fight for their custody, and some part of your knee still stung as a reminder to never rush with blades on your legs again. Especially at eight in the morning when a hyper Yuna who resembled the children you interacted with more than enough swayed into your room like a fairy of adult representatives–clipboard in hand and face lacking any concern. She resembled her corporate supervisors down to the hem of her tailored coat, ready to check every item that met the standards from her list and glare at anything else that didn’t. For her, it sounded like the perfect plan.

For you? Not so much.

She started out with your room, sending daggers to the dust on your nightstand before shifting her eyes to you. Or what was supposed to be you, hidden between three pairs of pants and a nest of messy hair, suitcase left open in the carpet’s middle and the rest of the clothes thrown out at random. A fallen soldier with hopes as high as the sky, but nowhere near ready to get struck with by the chains of femininity and requirement to socialize.

You know, like she didn’t tell you about her engagement party a whopping two days ago, as you were in combat to recover the countless days of sleep that you lost this semester in like, eight hours.

At first, living a quarter of your life with sleep deprivation, you thought you were imagining things, or you made unintentional contact with the spirit world in your attempts at meditation and regaining the self you lost as the years of education progressed. But no, here she was, diamond sparkling in artificial light like a laser pointed towards a jail sentence, focused on you. You didn’t dare to open your eyes, fear tap dancing as it travelled in slow motions across your spine at the chance that said light could hit you right in the pupil.

Spineless as you were, you allowed her to drag you along to whatever beauty rituals were going on in the household, passing a tray of cookies that you could blame on Minho’s choices for sure. Maybe the date too, with his impatience and competitive streak coming together to create the best party in the shortest time. To be honest, you had no idea about any of their whereabouts.  And hours later, between passive-aggressive calls, Hyoyeon arguing with staff as she watched last night’s MMA match, and a bright-eyed Minho swatching tissues to figure out the best colour coordination, you found yourself at a much bigger location, with everything that you dreaded next to you.

Namely, men.

Sure, you enjoyed making people happy and an enjoying an easygoing atmosphere; you were a firm believer (or someone who strived to be) in a life without worries, and thus every moment spent smiling brought you a hair closer to your goal. But men were... well. You’d leave that for them to explain.

Now, confronting the statement, people might think that you suffered from an attention-starving syndrome. Did you? Perhaps. The possibility was out there, far away, like your toleration for the male sex, but a self-grasp told you that your hate did not arise out of being ignored. Not that you were Miss Popularity ever or had friends more than you could count on your toes all high school. One could say, you did well enough to float in the middle of the spectrum–you were not demonized for not appealing to them, but neither did you get a confession or even guys from your parallel classes sliding into your Facebook messages using the classic ‘sup’. Oh, the tragedy of missing so much in life.

In fact, if you take time to think about it, that’s been your signature in most of your endeavours. Existing in the middle of any crowd. From a family standpoint, you weren’t able to shine like your sisters–Yuna being a signed model, recognised for her kindness and charming personality and Hyoyeon resembling the movie-version of a female badass–a no-nonsense boxing trainer. Each of them challenged the norms in their own way, subverting femininity or straight up refusing to conform to it and then... there was you.

That Feminist. Loud and a little annoying. Struggling with both.

The fact that they had settled and formed their own lives and routines while you skated on dry land through college didn’t help either. When you hung out with them, the reminder made you cower a little, fold yourself back into the shell you developed in your younger years from the lack of stability you experienced. You heard a lot about their boyfriends too– fiance and boyfriend, and from what you collected Minho seemed nice enough for a model, not to mention Hyoyeon’s doctor boyfriend, and you learnt to put up with them. Somehow.

However, you weren’t familiar with the faces to your right at the linear table, making it impossible to prevent having your mouth glued shut the entire time the photographer told each of you to smile and blinding you with the lights. Because here was the thing.

You had a blank face. A resting bitch face, like some said, or a woman not smiling face, as you liked to call it. You wanted to express your excitement, you really did, but the thought that your sister would soon be trapped close to forever in a relationship that could only be broken off if she gave her car, or worse–her TV screen held onto the corners of your mouth just like those damn earrings. Hence why, instead of expressing unfiltered joy over Yuna’s engagement, this time official, ring and fancy place rented, you looked like the personification of a rocking chair. Giving occasional nods as if you absorbed all information regarding next week’s weather.

Shame on them for dolling you up like this, hair parted, pretty braids tight on your scalp and orange dress making you look like a fairy. A fairy protecting the pumpkins and other agricultural crops, puffy sleeves moving like waves with your every movement and pleated fabric brushing over smooth thighs. Thighs you gave your blood, sweat and tears to.

Did you deserve to sit next to a man, all beautiful like this? What wrong have you done?

Since you were a child, you gained knowledge about the prices one had to pay to achieve happiness, and to restore the balance, with the peaceful music in the background and smiles in harmony to match it to your left, red wine you had been eyeing all evening on the other side, came the existence of the man. A tall gentleman with hair gel that spread to his brain, and whose arms were too big to stay by his sides, hence why he was taking up all the space on the table and separating you from your one true love. What was left to do, you pouted, interact with him and get into a potential discussion of how you can correct flabby arms, or risk your joints by stretching all across the table so you’d snatch the other one?

Not in the mood for a gym discussion in a trying time, you got up and used the remaining flexibility skills you had to bend across three welcoming faces. The liquid was so close now, its proximity tempting you and charming you into a trance. You wanted to experience this intimate moment, and to assure no one would pay attention to it– having you adverting your eyes to the table parallel to yours... making contact with your greatest enemies.

Your sister, with Minho and his mother who lit up at the sight of you. “Here she is, our youngest!”

She was a nice woman, short perm smoothing over the ends of her cheekbones. A figure that stood up to her son’s forearm, gentle and caring. As a general rule, you loved being in her presence, but you were already sensing the wrinkles forming as your eyes almost screwed shut with how hard you tried to raise the corners of your mouth. Not like you minded one bit, only one part of you wishing to avoid witnessing the impending disaster of interacting with her at social events.

Getting back into a normal position, you let your hand drop off the bottle, fingers longing for the coldness and bowed right as she averted her gaze to the chair you had been sitting on, then to the unknown guest. “And this must be your date?”

Your eyes widened, reaching to touch her only to have your hands freeze midway. “Oh, no, no way–I don’t have a date.”

“How come? Look at you, you’ve filled out so well,” she smiled as she squeezed the extra weight on your hips. To admit, the praise added a few points to your self-esteem meter, but it was no match to the aggravation you experienced in her presence because she had to ask about the other set of chromosomes at each meeting. It was part of the old lady gossip: asking about graduation, when you will get a job, oh and also if you’re not married by twenty-two when are you picking up a man so they can open another question folder. The one branded with a guaranteed approval stamp, none other than ‘when will you have grandkids’.

Insistent question marks to follow it soon after despite you not being related.

“I came to celebrate these two. I’m not looking for one right now,” you said, hoping your tone sounded polite in the least bit. Being accustomed to old ladies, who made up in curiosity for all they lost in height was a full-time job you never stopped learning from.

“Are you staying celibate? Waiting to save yourself for ‘the one’?” she inquired further. Here we go.

“Yeah, course she is.” Minho puffed, letting out a laugh. “For the One Lord Jesus Christ, you mean.”

“Amen. I will find my way, I’m sure,” you took a step back, attempting to return to your chair.“This family needed a cat lady anyway. You guys will be beautiful at 35 and all that, and I’ll be having my wrinkles illuminated by the laptop screen.”

“Coding?” Yuna supplied.

You took it as one of the instances to use your fake smile.“That’s plan A. If it fails, I’ll resort to the worse: write fanfiction in various locations.” Plan B was always ‘Embarrass yourself to the point they don’t talk to you out of their own will’. And get money.

“Oh, come on–”

“I could be in your basement and you won’t know it because Arnold Augustine the Third keeps wailing from the milk temperature.” you leaned your head forward, mimicking the way you sat while you typed on the keyboard, “Clickety clickety clickety clack, clickety clickety clack clack.”

“There is no way I would name our kid that.”

You pursed your lips. “Well, tell your fiance here who made me create an Instagram page to ‘keep the name’.”

His mother stood there with a tight-lipped mouth, the kind of expression others had when you weren’t close enough for them to get the joke, giving back the same forced politeness you gave a minute ago.“I can always introduce you to somebody, child.”

Minho tapped the beautiful girl four seats from you, whispering to her as she passed him the wine, and sometimes you envied him and Yuna for being so in-sync because the next second she was holding out a glass to you as he poured away the bottle’s contents. The drink matched the shade of her velvet floor-length gown, you noted, and if you thought you resembled a fairy of autumn, she was the season’s goddess.

“She’s enjoying herself enough, trust me,” her fiancé added as she passed you the glass. “I think we should check on uncle as well, don’t you love?”

Releasing a breath you’ve been holding for the entire meeting, you sat down, finally pouring the entire glass in your throat in one go, pose relaxing soon after. However, something bothered you–the feeling from this morning still lingered on your legs, little droplets of blood making your knee itch until you found a chair corner to relieve the sensation. Your knee moved farther, knocking into something solid. More accurate description provided, knocked into a muscled thigh fighting to rip out of a blue suit.

“Don’t have a date, huh?” the man grinned as he rubbed his leg against yours. Interpreting your gesture as romantic, movie flirting? Oh God. “Youngho, I’m a bodybuilder.”

A tab opened in your head to search for the profession: male thot job #1.

“Oh no, no no. No, thank you. I am here for the wine,” you explained, “I have a boyfriend.”

Yes, the wine. And the side piece was mango chicken.

“A lady shouldn’t drink so much. It’s not good for you,” he gave you a gentle smile, and you laced yours with the gentlest of ironies as you replied.

“A gentleman shouldn’t give unsolicited advice to strangers.”

He turned back to his plate, and you added another face to the history of guys who disappointed you on the first meeting, struggling to make space on your brain’s list.

Starting with your first crush, a basketball player who acted so nice with you and even pretended to know half the math you did to get close to you and work together. The joy was he seemed quicker to make fun of you for your moustache to his friends whenever they questioned your closeness. Second one, same field but a smaller ball to throw around, as sweet as they come, got bored with your dynamic when he met another girl who liked trap and Rammstein. The third one didn’t even know you existed–not that you were doing much to attract his attention either as you spent half your time staring at his hands and vintage shoes.

Then you considered the what ifs. If you wracked your brain enough, you could still remember the second date you went to at seventeen, eyes holding onto the remaining flicker of hope. Immersed into the memory, you recalled the way your pompadour partner, beer in hand, gave a detailed explanation not of your beauty, but of how much he hated communism and ‘feminazis’. After that, you lost count of the large-shouldered figures passing your life and focused your curiosity on said feminazis. Cool girls that, like you, realized long ago how the key to feminism didn’t have to do with hating men but happened to support the cause.

Attention syndromes aside, you didn’t lack ‘experience’ either. Didn’t even know what people considered experience. You kissed a lot of boys in truth or dares when you were fourteen (and man did you think you were doing something). Also, you were good at faking interest for dares when all you wanted to do was kiss them. Who would have thought you’d end up with a profound dread for the male sex? A good portion of the population who interacted with guys over sixteen, it clicked to you. After your discovery, you wished you could form a society made up of girls that were unfortunate enough to be attracted to those they hated. Yes, we exist, you wanted to say.

A capital flaw that turned you off beyond belief (not that they ever turned you on in the fun way beyond your bedroom and in the outside world) was their lack of dependability, besides opening their mouth. Your high school best friend, Yoongi, you remembered him as one of the most kind-hearted people that you knew. You could have almost said him alone showing this much humanity had been enough to clean the stains of his gender’s reputation, and yet. There’d always been that one little detail that proved to you that Yoongi was indeed a man.

Case in point: the one time in senior year in which you needed a photocopy for your album that required you to search half a town for. It went well, except for the fact that between seven bus stations you still weren’t sure whether they had the machine for it. And Yoongi being a few steps away from the store couldn’t bother to ask about it on the premise of ‘being sick’. Also, who could forget your high school sweetheart, Jungkook, your athlete deskmate who called a lovesick you for the first time during a presentation to ask you whether you’d join his clan in Dragon City.

Spoiler: they didn’t do photocopies there. But at least you contributed to the pay of bus drivers as you succumbed to breeding dragons ready for war.

The realisation came in at a much later time. Although the crushes came and fleeted and you had a greater chance than others at being smitten from the first three conversations with anyone, there was a territory you hadn’t adventured into. No longer did you bother to explain the heavier reasons, the tear-jerkers and mood ruiners. At the time you’d choose to go with the simple alternative.

You had never cared for a man, and you never planned to.

The standards raised. You became mature; you hated men. And nothing could have convinced you otherwise.

At least the free booze on table five distracted you from it.

So, about The Feminist.

The roots of this reputations had been foreign to you since you didn’t talk to many people outside of your dorm or classes. Even while volunteering, you kept it with the three friends you went there with, not making an effort to be social more than that. On the occasion, you’d act out to pull the laughs out of your friends and didn’t bother to scan the people watching, therefore it became a mystery to you how your first impression switched between a clown and the aluminium tinfoil hat.

You had your fair shares of conversations with frat boys in your freshman year when you were a small bundle of hate. Even then, as you expressed your opinions they twisted your words, mocked you as you kept to politeness while conversing. ‘I thought you didn’t like men’, they’d say with a smug face, carrying on with expressions which made you sneer. From the other side, your tinfoil sons and daughters, you heard about your supposed plans to go to Law School only to get into the government and implement liberalism and laws to limit their rights.

Well, they had the spirit but messed it up at the end. Not wrong but not true either. Sounded like another back-up plan in case it went wrong with computers. You ended up being a famous case in the ethics classes you took before you decided on coding, all gritted teeth and ready to eat guys who substituted a personality with monotonous voices and wearing glasses. Despite the events which to this day made you more reluctant to express yourself, you still frequented some classes related to the humanities field: you remained in gender studies and literature.

One of which you were currently sitting in, on the edge for the last hour due to today’s theme of discussing novels of experience. Ten minutes left and your wings would be free, with no hint of annoyance or anger for the entire day. An achievement uncommon for a lesson requiring creativity and freedom of belief, which you loved expressing but avoided hearing.

Creativity had its perks and downsides. One of them was that everyone was allowed to manifest it in one way or another, which left space for questionable fiction not only to be created but to be discussed and theorized over in academic circles. Such example you didn’t want to experience again had been the latest reading assignment, one of the choices for today’s topic. Most of your classmates who chose to present had ventured into other choices, letting you live and catering to your neurons. Until you heard the incantation.

“Based on a definitory experience in 1929, the book which puts to light the tragic heroine bearing the same name explores the idea of retrospection, of relieving a love whose absence leaves the individual…”

Leaves them blessed that they didn’t read such bullshit. You rolled your eyes, remembering the read you got through during winter break, the slowest 120 pages of your life. A tint of sadness seeped through the anger building in your loins, threatening to overflow. The rest of the emotions you learned in high school psychology came to you in their order. Starting with the disgust you felt at the author’s description of the young girl which were both infantilizing and barbaric, marking her bright presence and sense of spirituality as below him. The little fucking intellectual who sat and beat his dick to how he was the sole individual on Earth capable of self-reflection.

In the beginning, the first state to follow had been surprise. Surprise that no one thought to leave that man in a ditch after a drunk night and use his manuscript as toilet paper. With your eyes closing the night you read, in its steps happiness followed, now that it was over and you could go sleep and never check it again.

Lastly, fear. You understood and if you had to name a positive about the story would be the accurate portrayal of subjectivity, of how one would misinterpret based on their thought process and obsession with another person. Fiction had the qualms of exploring said concepts but to you, the way people related and discussed them based on reality’s moral system mattered most. You feared that people would take this toxic relationship and call it a love story and you feared the backlash following your disagreement.

“The subjective perspective of the events makes the impossible love even more painful for the protagonist as he is forced to separate from the young girl, ‘woman and child’, who ends up succumbing to his infatuation and wishes to give herself completely to him with the symbols of spirituality around them bearing as witnesses. A powerful interior conflict can be observed…”

The impossible love. Romeo and Juliet were shaking in their boots at the love of an unempathetic protagonist and a girl too young to know what love meant. You’d think the asshole had an interior conflict since he was stepping over any moral compass known to man.

“…, this way, an authentic and vulnerable experience is captured by the author. It is a story of irremediability, of a consuming love which young people aspire to experience and live for.”

Breathe through your nose, lips pursed to even out your inhales. Once again, the mere mention affected you more than it should’ve, and your mouth won the race over your self-control.

“I disagree.” You didn’t wait for the professor to call your name. Not anymore.“It makes no sense to brand the book as a love story or something a teenager should strive for because of the male character’s actions and his view of her throughout the story. A novel of experience? Certainly. The subjectivity and the protagonists’ reflective notes throughout the narrations guarantee it.”

“Well–” your classmate cut in, but you gave no sign of stopping.

“But she is described as ugly and barbaric, below him despite her high education and extensive poetry knowledge and changed from virgin to whore as she gives into him. These thoughts do not disappear even after he ‘falls in love’ and starts to feel whole next to her because of his supposed superiority. This is not a tragedy, separating them was mandatory to protect her.”

You let your head drop, pursing your lips as you waited for the counter argument. At the silence,  the professor took to watching you, pondering over the answer.“I think you should reflect on the mentality of the 30s. During that time, it could’ve been considered as such.”

Your breath hitched. You couldn’t stop the slight tremor of your tone and the voice that raised another octave. “Are we still living in the 30s? Why are we perpetuating the same mentality, why are we letting it slip with this excuse?”

The professor’s gaze alternated between you and the clock pointing towards the end of the class, “We should leave this discussion for the next time.”

The whispers increased. From behind you, a girl spoke. “Here she goes again with this extreme stuff. I swear, I’m a feminist too but she is exaggerating.”

You were familiar with the type. The one to laugh at your jokes and watch with undivided attention whenever you wanted to lighten up the mood by making a fool of yourself. Several times you heard them laugh at jokes made at the expense of women, several times you were shut down when you stood against it, the moment you call it out you get called a sensitive extremist.

And it wasn’t always bad since men’s voices were an echo chamber to you or radio noise at best, yet the women. The pressure put on women like you by other women suffocated you, settling over your windpipe no matter what you replied. Those were the most frequent case when it came to the rising of your doubts. Chest heavy, you chose not to retaliate, storming out as soon as you collected your things, hoping that time alone would help you solve the issue within yourself.

“Hey, wait–” you snapped your head to the sound, wild eyes contrasting the touch of calamity in his. “I–”

The guy got out of class, hurrying after you. Even a buffoon would see the correlation.“Has the professor said anything?”

He paused in his tracks, taken off guard by the question. “No, that's not it. I wanted to tell you–”

Emotions weren’t your best feature, and you had a few arguments with them here and there. They would threaten you, you’d fight back, they’d reach for cat videos or a thing you did ten years ago and you’d shut up. And isolate.

Which was what you were planning to do right now, if not for Beanie Boy over there testing–wait. You’re sure you’ve seen this guy outside of literature.

“You're in my gender studies class, aren't you?” you pushed, remembering the denim jacket and beanie from a row in front of you, a classic colour combination. Besides that, who could forget the impression he left from the first day, starting off his speech with: I'm tired of his story, It's time I listen to hers. Girls cooing, an unusual image present in your lectures and a few giggling over the shy gestures following. That you remembered.

The tangled letters of his name stayed foreign to you, more concerned with paying attention and learning, and so did his motif to look for you. From what you gathered, he was a unique individual, popular for his Instagram outfit shots and scenery captures. An apparent style whose amalgam of characteristics you didn't recall seeing in recent lectures.

You tilted your head, hand falling to your hip. “Do you want the notes, is that it?”

His mouth gaped, dimples growing to see the light. “Oh, thank you for offering–”

“Then it’s settled. Come to the dorms on Floor One by Thursday, I’ll be there then,” you said with the solemnity and suspicion of a drug dealer, quick to turn around and walk away. More than ever at this hour needed the space to calm your nerves and collect yourself enough so you could pay attention to the next classes.

Still, were you so cheap now that you’d hand out your notes to anyone now to get rid of them? Information is the way to life, and yet you traded it just to get away from it.

Classic.

Five days later fate found you in yet another tricky situation. For as long as you’d live in the campus dorms, you were to never experience peace or any tranquillity. Be it you were cursed or stamped with bad luck at birth, the fact had been internalized long ago, along with your animosity for the object you have lost once again. There was no other way. You pressed the door’s handle, tempted to give up and bang your head against it so you had a way out of this situation.

At least you weren’t completely hopeless.

Once pulled out of said thoughts, you felt around for the phone in your jeans, battling with the sleeves of your fur coat to retrieve it so you could dial Yujin, “Hey, any chance you’re around? I lost the key again and I can’t face Mrs. Choi for the third time this month. Can you please go instead of me?”

Past desires loomed over you once again as you registered your roommate’s words: she didn’t think you’d be home this early, so she locked the door till she returned from the library. Your schedule followed: meet up with your girlfriends and revise the material for next week’s finals as you ranted on the side, but you didn’t have access to it. Duh.

A possibility that not everything is out to get you manifested as you heard steps on the hallway, and you took it as your saving grace… until you checked who it was. A perfect candidate for directing your frustrations to. The Man of the Hour. The most recent addition to your database, who said nothing about the missing material. You were friends on Facebook, for fuck’s sake, did he not care enough to ask for your room number? Did he have other resources to access your personal information, you questioned, frantic in your thoughts which made you turn around, determined to find the answers.

You marched up to him, cutting off his chances at avoidance. “You!”

He pointed to himself, mouth agape.

“You made me wait for so long, and you didn’t show up,” you chastised, wincing a little at how your neck cracked when you stared up at him. “I even organised my papers for you.”  

A hand came up to scratch at his own.“Uhh, I appreciate it… but I-I’m not here for that.”

“So, guess it’s for another time? How long will this take?”

Your patience was running thin more with each meeting, though you remained careful in front of the man. Given your current moods and schedule, you didn’t have the chance to rage about education- and a part of you didn’t want to either. The more you saw him, the more you took your time to observe him, along with his gestures, both of which made you reconsider your opinion of him. Such as no matter how tall and imposing he was, he never looked you in the eye.

Not to mention how you were locked outside your room so you stood no chance to even touch said cellulose, thus you had close to no right to be angry.

“I... This is my room. I moved to 113 at the beginning of the semester.” His gaze once again, drifted elsewhere, studying the hall and reverted back to your shoulders, to the soft curve of your jaw.

“Did I not see you before? Ever?”Were you that absent and disconnected from your surroundings?

“Well, uh… you must’ve seen a lot of these.” He bent to touch the ground before getting on his tiptoes to raise his arm as high as he could, and an image of huge beige coats and white sneakers popped into your mind. The assumptions you made led you to the face your roommate told you about, Kim Seokjin, a pure aphrodisiac senior from art history. You mistook Beanie Boy for him, you thought, coming back at the right time to watch the former grin bashfully at his joke. He surely caught you smiling, for he continues his newfound rambling. “Yeah, Hoseok says he won’t get down in the club with Vincent Van Gogh, so I switched on the coats. Sorry for confusing you.”

“So that’s what he’s been doing instead of practising at 5 AM,” you said, shivering as you remembered the way his steps brought more complaints in your sophomore year than the last generation combined. “You get used to the sound after a while. It worked wonders during exam season, I didn’t fall asleep one night.”

“It’s the same thing, he just has more audience now.”

You chuckled, police sirens going off in your head at the realisation that you were enjoying this, a little too much. With suspicion creeping up behind you and a sense of urgency to cleanse yourself through group conversation, the need to end the conversation throbbed in your veins. “Well, thanks for that. See you!”

You felt bad for leaving like that, but a complaint appointment and anxiety generated from the possibility that he will ask you to bring them now were already keeping you locked towards your destination: the lounge.

“I heard there was an emergency,” you sat down on the couch as you bid hello to the group of girls, books, notes and flashcards scattered on the table and their laps. You recognised them as the girls from your floor, a few doors away from you, with whom you spent a good majority of your time at the beginning of freshman year before drifting apart, each focused on your own majors and forming groups there. Besides Sojung, your close friend you plopped next to, you’d see them on occasion and spend your time with them pretending to study and trying out nearby cafes.

“Yes, we ran here as soon as we heard about your struggle,” she said, expression serious as she petted your head. Not long after, her grin grew in time with yours diminishing, satisfied at how she stole your joke out in the open like this. Despite your opposite attitudes, Sojung’s deadpan humour was never far from your dramatic one and many times she was quick to outwit you. She already knew about the events at the party, having them narrated in an incoherent string of texts, followed by the conclusion that you were in need of pleasant company.

“You mean girl,” you pouted, “and to think I came all the way here to support you.”

The girl rolled her eyes, going back to her study material, forehead crease a little too obvious, and you welcomed the challenge to make her laugh.

“These exams shouldn’t exist. They’re stressing you out too much,” you complained, wishing you could do more when the light bulb flickered in your head. “I’ll change my major. I’ll get my diploma in being a wall so I can protect every girl from these assholes. See what they do then.” Catching a glimpse of the corners of her mouth rising, you pondered the occupation: not a bad idea at all if you considered it.

“This is hell. Don’t you have things to revise too, girl?” Seungyeon, the criminology major and girl you wish you could be, said. Serious yet sociable, a go-getter with elevated thoughts said at the right time, she was as close to a college model you had.

“It’s a few brackets and logic commands. Not a lot to grasp. Either it works, or it doesn’t.” If you had lived in a world of your own wishful thinking and didn’t stress out over these two months in advance, yes. Studying and trying out the material at midnight became incorporated into your routine, allowing yourself a two-day break every week. In spite of it, you were glad you didn’t have to memorize entire textbooks and that your field allowed for skill practice, adding the literature classes you partook in to exercise your creativity and widen your perspectives.

“Plus, I’m here to listen to any of you who needs help, since my girl here has other plans,” you said, tone honey-like as you encouraged your proposal. You were aware at that not many of them were bold enough to ask for help first due to fear of inconveniencing others, making you cautious in approaching the subject and with enough luck catching some friends. You didn’t know Seungyeon that well on a personal level, but you were striving towards having more people as ambitious as her, what was a little sugar coating? And as expected, she grinned at you, getting up to hand you her portfolio, all written in cursive black ink.

“Can you quiz me on these terms?” You nodded, brows furrowing at the thesaurus language.

Close to thirty minutes later, coat discarded and your head spinning from the new information, your hand froze on the foiled page as your phone started buzzing in your back pocket.“Pits of hell, main demon speaking.”

“Please stop doing this whenever you’re answering me in public.”

“There’s a price to pay if you’re making me participate in a phone call.” you smiled, delighted by Yuna’s whiny tone, already picturing her desperate eye roll. “No, it’s ok. Keep going.”

“I talked to the receptionist and he said they can rent us the place March 30th. Some TV broadcast will host a reality series there from the fifth onward.”

Blood drained from your face.“T-that’s. In two months,” you stammered, shoulders already slumped at different heights from the stress building and slapping each bone at varying times. “Why not April first so you can say psych? Please…”

“Minho thought it’d be funny too. He has a spring collection in Portugal on the third.”

“What kind of thing is he modelling on your wedding week? Lord.”

“Tuxes.”

“Forget I asked,” you said through your teeth as your nails dug into the cover of Sojung’s manual, threatening to fold the piece and rip its remains. “And you want me to do what? Mhm… A few errands, right, close family wedding. Thank fuck for that at least. Sure, I don’t have anything else. Yes, I’m serious. Love you. Ok bye.”

Shifting your eyes to the group, you stared each of them in their pupil with solemnity as your body slumped on the couch till it met the criteria of a shapeless blob. “I’m doomed,” a sigh left your lips as your hand travelled to meet Sojung’s, craving physical affection in this time of need. Might as well get it from a pretty girl. “Here’s my end, cheers. Please raise a drink in my memory next time you go out.”

The girl cooed at your dramatics and squeezed your hand, reaching to caress your cheek and pull your head to her shoulder. She was not the one with words, but she never minded offering you physical comfort to remind of her support. Your eyes closed by themselves, wishing to drape yourself over her long legs and hide your face in her neck, a place where no responsibility could haunt you as you were hidden by her styled hair and comforting arms. In your crisis, you thanked heaven for women’s existence and for your luck to be surrounded by so many of them before you continued.

“She wants me to help with the wedding and I-I don’t know anything about this shit. I’m not good at the whole aesthetic thing.”

And a little part of your heart broke, the truth of your statement ringing in your ears. Although you learnt how to be confident in your abilities as you grew out of teenage years, you still had more to go through until you were comfortable with the unknown. Enthusiastic willingness existed, but it wasn’t always enough, and it hurt to be aware of it once again, having your stomach throb from the fear of disappointing or ruining things with your input.

“But you have style,” the girl added. “I love those tennis skirts you wear.”

“Yeah, but I don’t know about colour coordination, or materials, hell I don’t even know what a chiffon is...”

“Then why offer to do this?”

“Cause she’s busy you know,” you peeked at the biology book in her lap (the one you threatened to snap mere moments ago), thinking about how great it would be to exist as a paramecium.“She has a career and all while I’m here considering majoring in being a wall. And I don’t want her to carry such a burden alone.”

“You have time to learn. And if not, I know someone who can help with that. Namjoon is amazing with these things. I’ll talk to him, okay?”

“Hi, I hope I’m not interrupting anything-“

A part of your brain lit up in recognition, but you ignored it, not bothering to look-  too busy wallowing in your misery to be bothered with chats.

Sojung moved, making your head snap off her shoulder and have you grasp your surroundings–to be specific, their new addition to it: Beanie Boy from Gender Studies, sat on the folding chair with a stack of books in his lap. “Namjoon, you’re here, I have to ask–”

Time ticked as gears turned into your brain, throwing the information in every angle until you processed it. You nodded, mouth agape, thinking what you should put inside a conditional command to make this situation look better, hopeful as you were. It ended up something like this:

if (disasterhappens) { pleasedont(); }

Squeezed between the timeline of a Data Structures course and the unforgiving cold, you stepped out of the bus the same pace as Namjoon, whose name you picked after your last encounter. In your classroom, he’d often remain quiet, thus your conscience didn’t feel too bad about making an excuse for your pea-sized memory. Faces were easy to memorize, but God forbid, hold on to a name and your brain threatened explosion. This time, true to his word, he ditched the coat, going for a padded jacket.

It worried you the slightest, as it had him open to the attacks of the weather, but you kept it to yourself.

“What are we doing?”

“They got most of the stuff done, so I don’t have to bother with calligraphers and shit to send out invitations or find photographers, we picked the dress three months ago... it should be easy.” You flicked open the cover of your pocketbook, proud of the doodles you managed between the tasks. “I have to rent the tablecloths, organise the seating positions, order the flowers, argue with the guy at the venue, other useless stuff, then- oh! Get the cake- that’s her taking pity on me for sure.”

“Do you have any specifics? If not, we can work something out. I know what women like.”

You squinted in suspicion, tone rich with all the certainty you had the ability to muster. “I bet you do.“

His eyes widened, “No, I didn’t mean it like that-”

Keeping your mouth shut for the first time in your life, you stood to realise he was helping you; he didn’t look like he signed the petition to buy you a tinfoil hat. By law, you were obliged to restrain the second nature which leaned towards hostility- for men. The notion made you sigh, wishing for a way to tell him it was fine without it becoming weird or turning into a race for apologising. “Either way, I have no escape. Might as well drag someone to hell with me.”

Namjoon said nothing, stirring and adding salt to the soup of guilt you were harbouring for the last minute which boiled in your gut and threatened to overflow.

“Schedule comes as planned: be back at the station by 4 to take the 4:03 bus. That’s a 15-minute ride till we get to Yuna’s house where we’ll drop these, and from there it’s a 30-minute walk to the building.” With that, you sprung into action.

“You got this figured out, huh?” his voice rang with a tint of impress you picked up on.

Your lips pursed to suppress a smile as your pace slowed, “I mean, of course I do.” It was little before you changed your mind, thoughts running wild between your responsibilities and morals because of them battling out. The whirlwind made you move with more speed, your words almost matching the fastness of your legs.

“Thanks for coming with me and stuff. This will be a piece of cake, but still.” you shrugged, a little awkward to be running errands with a guy at 3:15 PM like one of those middle-aged couples. Hence why you resorted to Conversation 101, mastering it in time to deal with such an unfamiliar situation. Truth be told, your wished for a method to express your gratefulness now that he doubled it by he was accompanying you in the time between classes, a holy period marked by relaxation– not picking out from thirty shades of silk red.

However, by itself, the ‘thanks’ had remained stuck in your throat, in need of an extra push to make it sound nonchalant instead of a word of relief which decreased the anxiety blood levels.

He didn’t seem to mind. Namjoon walked behind you without struggle due to your bulldozer walk, eyes fixed on his steps and hands in his pockets. “Yeah, it’s no problem. I’m happy to help.” You turned your head to look back at him, a pursed smile lingering on your features making you repeat the action every five seconds. Turn, stare, square up with your facial muscles.

“You must really want those notes, huh? Is the class that important?” you joked as the two of you approached the store, hand reaching out to open the door with Namjoon trailing close.

“Well, I-” Namjoon paused, startled when your feet came to a halt at the doorstep, body spinning to make eye contact with him. The grip you had on the door handle twitched as you watched him come closer and closer, releasing right as he was about to step inside. In a perfect impersonation of an ostrich, his head pulled back as the door closed in seeming slow motion, reminding you of how much of a bad fanfiction your life was every time you went outside.

His widened eyes bordering on mania met yours through the glass, breaths living him as if he was trying to deflate and disappear from you as soon as possible. You gasped and bowed your head, moving to open the door, tugging it towards you with no result before his hand enveloped the handle, yanking it open. The force sent you aiming towards the pavement before strong fingers gripped your forearm and pulled you straight.

Straight into him.

Your mouth gaped, arms flying out to his biceps to push him away from you and save yourself out of this situation–that’s what you were planning. Instead, you froze, fingers still gripping the muscles because, despite the accident, you were touching him. A man.

The best part was that Namjoon seemed as frozen as you felt, his gaze busy tracing every feature, never leaving your face. Your heartbeat became more erratic by the second as embarrassment crept upon your cheeks, but you were not the bitch without prior experience to trainwrecks like this- after all, you made codes. Thus, you laughed and tightened your grip, slowly shaking him before the pace increased. “We have to be very precise! Do you understand me? This is for a far greater cause, we need to pay attention to every shade and detail, point blank-”

“Period. I wouldn’t have been here if I didn’t know,” the words come out gentle as he tilts his head, fingers trailing forward to pet your shoulder before distancing himself. He gave a curt nod, signalling for you to move, and if this was any other time you would’ve protested, you took it as an opening to flee.

“Yes, of course,” you mutter as you walk through the variety of fabrics. Yeet. The notes app on your phone came in handy now, as you had an excuse to focus on anything but him. Most of the instructions were clear, silk fabric, ask for the rented option because buying requires to iron them and none of you knew how to use a household object like that, stick to the theme and pick-

“Apple red?” you said out loud to the cloned shelves adorning the entire store, each inclined in a different way for aesthetic purposes, or to make your life difficult. “She’s so pretentious. What even is that, they all look like fucking red.”

“Couldn’t a professional do this?” Namjoon inquires from beside you, scrutinizing the interior design before settling on a banner painted on the wall. “Live laugh love. Very suburban.”

“Dunno, maybe this way they thought they could get away with spending less money. Not like they’re lacking any, goddamn family-oriented capitalists.” you rambled, being used to inserting dramatic lines in your speech with your girlfriends. Nevertheless, this territory had boundaries on pending left to be established. From your knowledge, guys weren’t used to interacting with language innovationists, so you had to sweeten the deal a little to avoid feelings of inferiority. “They could’ve counted on me finding a hero since men and all are sooo good with details.”

You sighed. Way to go, sarcasm.

Namjoon only chuckled, continuing to study the store’s organisation system. “I’ll go look for what we need, and we’ll get back in 10 minutes to compare. Hope that’s okay.” He dashed by you, your brows furrowing before realising it was time to roll, stomping away to browse through foldings.

After forgoing the opportunity to give up halfway, you returned to him with six different shades, raising each hand to present it to him, starting with the first option at hand, a deeper shade of red.“I think I found it. How’s this?”

Namjoon licked his lips.“Uh, well, it looks a little-”

“A little what? It’s red.” you pointed with your head as if it was obvious before lifting the others up. “All of these are red.”

“That is wine red,” he explained as he scratched the back of his neck. “We should pay more attention to details if we want to do a good job.”

Your left eye twitched. Namjoon had been kind to you (human standards, not male ones) in the time you spent together. Guaranteed, his timing was off during most of your meetings and in objective standards, he did nothing wrong, but your conscience didn’t enjoy subtle reprimanding. In fact, she felt threatened, ready to have you bring out the big guns. You had some logic and attention to detail too in any state of tiredness; it was a matter of whether it wanted to be exercised.

Despite your lack of knowledge in colour theory,  blamed on your monochromatic wardrobe, at first sight, it looked like apple to you! Yet, determination rose in your chest and now the world shed new light upon your sight- you would pick the best goddamn apple colour in this store.

He did nothing wrong. Still, you weren’t at fault either because your competitiveness flared over the most useless reasons.

“Huh, seems like I’ve been eating the wrong apples.” You wanted to drop the fabric onto the floor for dramatic effect, yet your common sense stopped you, too worried about the workers that would have to clean up after the two of you. “How about this one?”

“That’s burgundy.”

“How do you even know those?”

“My mother has that hair colour… Every lady over forty in our neighbourhood uses that.” Chin tucked, he looked down at his pile to avoid your gaze. “I think this is more accurate.”

You inspected the piece with the attention of a fine painter, ready to create your own Starry Night with tablecloths and future flowers.

“Looks like candy. That apple’s full of chemicals. Yuna only likes organic, farm stuff,” you chirped out of pure pettiness, and Namjoon must have sensed it, because his pose turned frigid, glare with raised eyebrows aimed like an arrow towards you. “I’m sure this one is right-”

“That’s crimson,” his voice interjected. “There’s no way this is good for a wedding unless we’re talking the Red one.”

Both of your tones grew sassier and the man you sassed at the end of your course morphed into a reflection of yourself. Nice but ready to cut if you’d open your mouth in the next three seconds. Bad for both of your sakes, you had no qualms about passing whatever limit because you were the tear in the system–for fuck’s sake, you made the system. “Lucky for me, I have no idea what that is. I don’t watch hipster shows.”

Let out a sound similar to a laugh meant to be suppressed yet it escaped anyway. “That’s the farthest thing possible from hipster.”

“Fine, I’m not supposed to care about those anyway.”

A passive-aggressive smile. “Yes, we should go back to our task and try to solve the problem.”

Another one. “There’s no problem, I’ll look for more and then we’ll go on our way.”

“Of course,” Padded boy retaliated before sitting in front of another shelf. “This?”

“It’s blinding my eyes. It’s not gonna match. She also wants freesias, let’s just find something similar,” you said as you dug through the packages on the bottom shelves. “Ha, how about this?”

“It... “ He tilted his head, letting out a deep exhale, “it looks good.”

“Yeah! Let’s go!” You clutched the fabric to your chest, ecstatic to leave colour combination to the experts and never return again.

With crossed arms and hostility radiating off him, Namjoon, the image of attention to detail, looked as if he was about to launch into a rant about nihilism and why shit like this shouldn’t matter at your smallest gesture. You mastered the same fixed stare, as your friends told you several times and you focused on the floral details at the empty cashier’s spot, scared of what might happen if each of you directed it towards the other.

“Hello, how can I help you?” Both your heads snapped to a man in overalls, flower crown resting on top of his head and grin beaming on his features- until he saw the both of you glaring at him, “Oh. I apologise for the delay.”

You broke out of your trance, gesturing at the packaged cloth. “We’d like to rent uh… ten of these.”

The man returned with your fulfilled request and you hurried to get a hold after swiping on Minho’s smiley-face covered credit card. You gave an awkward smile which you hoped he saw before switching to Namjoon, who was a bit difficult to interact with due to the messy way you were holding the items.

“I’ll hold them myself. Help me out with the door,” you muttered from under the mountain of fabric, feeling a little self-conscious of being this authoritative in a fabrics store.“If you want to.”

“It won’t move. Hold on.” From outside, he clutched the handle and pulled it back with his entire body, leaning half-suspended in the air. His leg, like a whip from God, stretched out over the pavement in pointé position to reach the other door and fight to push it as you squeezed through the minimal space.

Ignoring Namjoon still stretched out trying to open doors for you, you checked your hand watch, the image making you gasp.“Oh no! It’s 4:10 p.m.” You turned to him, eyes wild and devoid of any humanity as he got into standing position at last.

“We had to be at the bus station at 4! The next bus is in 6 minutes and it’s going to take us 15 minutes to get there and I can’t afford a taxi.” You sprinted with the most speed, but after an entire fifteen seconds on the clock your feet planted on the ground, hands on your knees and throat constricting as you struggled for air.

“Why do I never do cardio I-” you panted to no one in particular as Namjoon’s figure passed you, increasing the distance with controlled steps. “Oh fuck. Hold on. Wait!”

Your body did its best to maintain your equilibrium as you chased after him, tablecloths in hand.“How on Earth are you moving this fast-”

With a gaze at his wit’s end, he waited till you advanced to him before snatching the packed items from you and digging through his back pocket to get his wallet out. “Hold this and pay,” he said as he intertwined his arm with yours, hitting the acceleration button full force without warning, “There’s no time for little legs.”

Once again, your heart joined the marathon.“Hey–wait! Wait, I didn’t plan a sprint in this, my hair’s going to be ruined!” The wind’s presence smacked you at once too, even air attacking as you tried and failed to keep up with his pace. Thus, all left to do was whine about it. “Move slower! My hair, I–I can’t let people know I’m ugly–hey!”

“Spill.”

“Quite interesting that you assumed I’d have anything to complain about when I never did it in my life.”

Sojung quirked her eyebrow, pausing her scrolling to turn her head and judge you properly, to which you pursed your lips- fighting hard to not burst into laughter and blow your cover.

With the aid of a motivational discourse about the balance between studying and having fun (the most you can have in said weather), you managed to bribe her into watching a movie as long as you made the sweet tea and let her pick. A problematic duo, Sojung and these choices, since she had a torturing streak going against your brain cells, but you followed her rules, ready to rumble by immersing yourself into whatever character you deemed the dumbest. Now, warm cup in hand, there you stood, squeezed to her side due to the bed’s size, looking like her disciple, or at least a very starry-eyed novice.

How else were you supposed to be, as you were cuddling with an objective image of temptation under the blankets, bare feet ducking under hers to steal her warmth? A woman who radiated daintiness without effort, the tips of her hair still wavy from Saturday’s party enough to create the aura of an Aphrodite of Science who pulled you in, who charmed you into wanting to feed her grapes and braid her hair.

“You haven’t talked about it in days. I’m worried,” she stated as if you broke our friendship code by avoiding the wedding topic, which you thought you were doing a pretty good job on. Yesterday you even stuck to the manners code while convincing the photographer not to reschedule, reminding him with the required politeness of who he was dealing with. Your sister didn’t like to flaunt her status and neither did you with yours (whether you had one was arguable), yet you never minded reminding people who she was in case she got too humble.“You’re not like that.”

“Fine, don't look at me like this- there’s a reason why I should’ve said no. I made a fool out of myself.” your friend nodded, giving you the gesture for ‘go-ahead, confess your sins’. “So we got to the store, I walked first right, cause you know how I move, and I opened the door and you know I’m not an animal so I wanted to hold the door open for him but-”

“But he’s a man.”

“Yeah and I can’t-” you closed your mouth, opting for indecipherable gestures with your free hand, “fraternize with the enemy, for lack of a better word. And I almost hit him with the door.”

With a temporary interest, you watched as the beginning credits for whatever movie Sojung picked. This way you could postpone the pain a little. Deep breaths.

“I didn't know how he is with these things, I- we argued a lot. Over tablecloths.”

“Of course. Like me and Mino when we had to do that project together. The cells we had to analyze looked like cones to me but he insisted they're joints.”

You laughed, a full sound that came with you shaking your head, “The bar is on the fucking ground, God.”

“Mhm, but I'm sure Namjoon wasn't like that. He's very immaculate and detail-oriented with his work, not thinking about joints,” she emphasised on the last words. “He’s an alright guy. A little passive-aggressive sometimes but he'll get over it.”

“Yeah, he’s-” you sputtered, an adequate definition of Namjoon still foreign to you. Good would raise suspicions, not bad would have Sojung urge you into detailing. “Bearable.”

She gave you a look you couldn’t decipher. “Right. And his Insta shots are cute. You should follow him.”

You sighed, reaching into your pocket to retrieve your phone and obey her request. After a search lasting less than a few minutes, you caught sight of familiar fashion popping into your recommended. You clicked on the profile, pictures of animals and outfits for the day welcoming you, his trademark coats fitting perfect with his long legs.

Compared to the rest of his feed, his fifth picture was a close-up one, with him sitting on the ground, a deer on each of his side. At the display taken from a Disney picturesque, there it was: guilt drowning you again, this time sour edition. Why were you like this.

Granted, despite your differences and mutual pettiness, he tried to be patient for as long as he could-bless his heart- while you started out colder and less optimistic than usual and let your attitude get the best of you. Grumpiness was not a trait of yours, it was by chance you let it take the wheel again as you pressed the follow button. Bold of you to think he’d notice with his 1.3k mark, coming from the girl with 70 followers and three pics of you smiling.

Cuddled up to your friend, you settled on forgoing this matter, focusing on the movie and hoping the guilt soup would simmer down. Later swearing as your insides turned to mush, you buried your head in the pillow, groaning as you re-imagined the scene with the male lead trespassing for the girl- risking fines for plucking the rose and jumping back the same gate with no effort. A hundred other similar scene to this one came back to you, and yet your reaction was impossible to control- half-way between an eye roll and batting your eyelashes, brain alternating between commands. Old, young, there were reasons cliches were cliches, and the public's feelings were what made them popular from the start.

This love was the exact movie love which would never be possible in real life, where the oh-so-young hero gave roses and heart attacks to an innocent girl having no prior experience with motorcycles. Thus, you didn’t bother to fight against indulging a little in whatever trope the movie was displaying. It mixed the leather jacket and typical bad boy vehicles with a retro type of romance.

“Why do you always insist on this kind of movies?” you asked, pleading with your girl to cease these activities but also hinting to her you wouldn't mind another one. Especially for this week, a time where love and capitalism went one on one. Valentine’s day was a sensitive topic for you, anti-capitalist and all, but you were aware of the loneliness some friends of your experienced. Hence why ever since you were a freshman, you bought envelopes and red paper, brought your trusted heart stapler and got to work. You had close to no criteria for your choices: close friends, people you had pleasant interactions with, girls under stressful situations. Random people on hallways who made you smile and later got a letter with a lollipop and your attempts at a cursive: ‘Someone’s thinking of you! Please buy chocolate on sale this year!’

“Wanted to get us in the mood.” She winked at you as her hand found yours under the blanket, laptop propped on her legs, “It’s fun seeing you squirm.”

“Come on, men in real life are not like that. There’s not one dude out there who will be this attentive to you, and if he does he's gonna get you in debt. You'll have to bail him out of jail.”

Sojung shrugged, yellow turtleneck brushing adorably against her chin. You didn’t know what offended you more: her silence or how cute she looked without even trying - making it impossible to stay fake-mad at her.

“My judgement’s been rotten, but if I said one fair thing in this world is that one.” An accusing finger was pointed at her, “You should agree. I haven’t seen you talk to any of the guys in your classes outside of school.”

Sojung took one long glance at you, taking her time to answer. “I guess I’m too busy right now.”

Your brows furrowed, “Yeah… college’s a bitch. But this time it’s doing you something good, right?”

“Eh. Another one?” she asked, seconds away from your definite yes.

After two more hours of cringing and containing your cooing, you remembered today’s goals: find Namjoon and consult him about the next weeks’ schedules, establish a proper plan. Of minimal interaction, if possible- in which both of you secured efficiency and less trivial arguing. You shook your head, finding the thought’s beginning ridiculous- going to his room, seeing him to tell him you didn’t want to see him.

Wasn’t a complete truth either.

Sense of responsibility and need for order aside, this was a bad idea. You didn’t check in with him, part hesitation part not having his number and being too awkward to write to him on Facebook (you were friends, you checked). Yet, you stood at his door, fist hanging in the air.

Three raps, a deep breath to calm your nerves- what nerves? Why would you experience that? You could do this. You knocked on doors before, thank God.

With newfound confidence, you smacked said door with all you had, positive that Namjoon would hear and you’d have no way out of it then. Bag on your shoulder, you fiddled with the letter hidden behind your back, hoping the glue dried enough not to move the heart from its middle. Earlier today, as you were bracing yourself for your mission, you saw Hoseok heading for practice. It eased you a bit, doing this in front of Namjoon alone.

The door opened and your mouth curled to the sound of it rattling from its hinges, “Hi, are you busy?”

Namjoon, in all of his bear pyjamas and bedhead glory, eyes round and wide stared at you with uncertainty. “I’m… not doing much. You can come in.”

“Were you sleeping? Sorry I didn’t say anything, I don’t have your number and-”

“No, no, we can solve that. I-” he paused, seeming to struggle, “That’s how I sit when I don’t study or go outside.”

Following after him, you watched as he sat back on his bed, same lotus position and brought his legs closer together to make space for you. Soon, he must have realized his mistake, tips of his ears turning red as his gaze moved back to you. “I mean! You can sit in Hobi’s bed. I’ll-” He rolled out of his bed, crouching next to his roommate’s bed so he was next to you, “yeah.”

“I don’t want to take away too much of your time-”

“I don’t mind.” He licked his lips, head dropping down, “Well, not that much. Please continue.”

You bent to show him what you’ve been working on- a logical scheme to ensure productivity without spending too long on a destination, tying together similar events. One which you ended up doodling on for illustration, marking the points where you might have trouble later and the way to approach them. “This is the battle plan. Minimum effort, maximum fun. I fucking hope.”

“Cute,” Namjoon said, a close-mouthed smile on, and you were right in the radius to get a glimpse at the true depth of his dimple. Oh. You pouted, mouth opening and closing as you tried to form a coherent thought at his words. You were not cute. “I mean the sketch.” 

Chest deflated, you pursed your lips at the geometric owl you drew, not pausing to catch the amused glint in his eyes or how his grin was growing. “Ok, first destination. So I searched for Google reviews, right, and the guy at the venue is a total asshole.”

“What’s the plan then?”

You breathed out, “I was… I was hoping that you can help with this one. I, err, struggle with being diplomatic around guys.”

He nodded, signature dimple popping out again.“Sometimes.”

Your mouth gaped in mock offense before you caught his gaze again. You cursed under your breath, looking down at your chest in indignation then switching to his desk chair. It resembled the one in the lounge to the point it was suspicious–making you squint at the offensive object, recalling the image of Namjoon last sat on when he was pulled into this mess.

“…And I’d appreciate you giving me some tips maybe, on how to deal with the guy. I’m desperate.” The option of going there and listing everything you and your family wanted without a compromise was tempting, but there were several warning bells pointing towards the opposite result.

“To begin, don’t judge his colour combination outfits.” He chuckled, lifting your mood a little. “Be assertive, but don’t make him feel out of control. Bring your demands in as suggestions.”

“Look intimidating but polite,” he said softly. “You already have half the part down.”

You puffed, “I breathed.”

“Doesn’t matter if the situation seems bad, don’t bend down to whatever he may tell.” He extended his palm towards you, and you gave him the sheet. “You think he stands a chance against these?”

“I was planning on that, but-” But it was difficult for you to do these without becoming snappy, without attempting to have the fucker trip with the power of your glare. Your voice died down in your throat as you stared at the bullet point tasks again.

Check in, talk about catering options and suggest food for their catering team to serve, confirm the guest list and the number of hours spent. Return a month later to assign the seats and assist the decoration process in case there was any need for changes. All that came as an obstacle was the man. The little devil impersonator you head so much about on hidden google reviews.

If you lost your cool it meant sabotaging one of the most important tasks of the entire scheme, which would guarantee a disaster in case you messed up. Here you were, with a possibility of rivalling Cinderella and getting expensive shoes stuck on stairs, only you’d lose the entire place instead of the shoe. It wasn’t like you could hold a wedding under your local drawbridge either-why did Yuna leave this on you? Why not pick Hyoyeon or Minho? Was this the time for you to develop a diplomatic streak?

Namjoon interrupted your impending existential crisis, “I’m free this weekend.”

Using the rational side of your brain, you submitted to his request, crossing off your earlier decisions. No interaction my ass, you thought. “Fine. I’ll pick you up on Sunday.”

As he meant to return your plan, you got up. “Actually, that is for you. And also this.” You pulled out the blue envelope, heart left intact to seal it.

“Oh?”

A rush of panic hit your gut from how he was looking at you, expecting you to go on. Did he want you to spell it out? God, no, you–“…found it at the door.”

As he got a hold of it, he let out a fake gasp; yet you weren’t so sure about the excitement which came across real, urging you to check the letter again for things you might have missed.

“Woah, it's right in the middle! Very sharp with the details,” the man tilted his head, not giving you any time to breathe. Like he was testing your reaction.

You tried to keep any tint of emotions at bay despite your body naturally adopting a more confident pose at the praise.“Mhm, agreed.”

“This is very thoughtful. I should thank the person when I see them. Even though it came four days earlier,” he said, biting his lip.

“Yeah-”

“Must have messed up the date.”

“Hey!” You paused, mouth closing shut. “Who cares? They made an effort.”

“You’re right, I’ll make sure to let them know.” He nodded with solemnity. “Was that it?” he asked and ended up mimicking your previous gesture, not meaning to come out like that.

“Uh, I have to go anyways.” You laughed to try and mask how startled you were. “I’ll… see you in a few days. Have a good one?”

I’ll try, he wanted to say, but instead he nodded, following you to the exit.

After you found the most bizarre way to ask for his number again, he meant to return to studying, thoughts of his appearance forgotten now that you left. He didn’t do much else since he woke up, neither he could say he expected anything to happen today, and he was long accommodated to the sturdiness of his chair to be bothered by sitting there for hours.

Settling on his usual space, he placed the papers you gave him under his stationery, focusing to remember the line he remained at. Though, it was no easy task, the little heart and doodles pulling on his attention and disregarding his work ethic. Damn them.

Before he registered his actions, Namjoon grabbed the papers again, taking in every piece of information laid on the battle notes he started out with. One thing that stood out to him was the contrast between your big personality, which appeared effortless to him, and your writing. He sort of expected messier handwriting taking up space on the sheet, similar to the way you acted each day.

Meeting you didn’t happen often, but he was neither blind nor deaf, he heard the degree of familiarity you used in speech even with teachers, had seen you in passing comforting people from the same dorm. He felt like a witness to some of your antics by the vividness Sojung described them with, complaining that kids at the volunteering centre would spend more time with you, attacking you with kisses to as you screeched and swore revenge.

Your writing was smaller and much more organized, taking up half the A5 paper you gave him. He didn’t know why he was even thinking about this, or why he felt like he found something new about you through it. Next came the letter, which contained a heart-shaped lollipop and a note attached to it, this time written in cursive but bearing the same letter size.

He chuckled as he read. Chocolate on sale. Ha, he bought that February second.

Some of the regrets for your experience together washed away as he spent more time re-reading, an impulse having him reach towards his stationery and take the scissors, cutting your schedule plan in half. You, in particular, were not the main cause for said emotions, he knew that much. Often he had a hard time telling people no, wishing to help as much as he could even if it came at his expense and a disappointed look from his friends who pleaded with him to listen, to stop caring so much about other people’s situations and turn his attention to him. Be selfish, take a break, practice self-care or whatever he wanted to call it, they told him. Look at you for once.

He still struggled with that. This time, like many others, his conscience was telling him he’s doing the right thing, but there was a slight change. Something pleasant stirring up in his loins, a level of contentment with his decision to accept. He could at last witness you rip that fucker to shreds.

The anatomy book was still open, but for the time being, he had no motivation to continue studying. He wanted to prevent losing your indications too, so he put the paper inside the book before closing it, only image available being the freesia you drew next to the first circle. No more information for now, he thought. After all, he could research plenty in his surroundings for the current chapter.

The cardiovascular system.

Based on your poor approximations, it had been more than a week since your last encounter with Namjoon, and a part of you wanted to scream because you had kept a lot of secrets in during this time. There was no date from when you began classifying your life as before and after Namjoon, but as the timeline stretched out you started talking to him more and more. To the point where you’d have inner monologues about it and whether you were doing the right thing, like the case in point.

You forgot about yourself on several occasions, swimming in special mathematics and the burden of college life which nearly drowned your optimism alongside that of your friends’. Yet, to your surprise, at least twice a day you’d find a lifeboat to lean onto which came in a package with a hose to swallow the water. Weird metaphors aside, in other words, you and Namjoon started texting a few days after he gave you his number and you managed to deliver the notes. And not just one phrase here and there, but multiple messages that had you debating food choices, new courses and the density of your literature teacher.

It turned into a habit, checking your notifications between classes because of him. Those close to you knew you preferred real-life communication to texting and made efforts to hang out as much as possible, so your phone hardly buzzed most of the time.

With the exception of him, of course. You discovered hidden opinions with the help of your flair for complaining and progressed on the stages of your friendship enough to be comfortable with the idea of him helping you. Well, calling it a friendship could’ve been a stretch, but development is development. Difficulties still arose in the eye contact department, but you discovered he opens up far more when he didn’t have to face you. Were you scary like that? He even followed you back on Instagram before liking all of your pictures, it mustn’t be the case.

Though, you couldn’t be the one to talk, because you ended up seeing him in passing once and got an existential crisis from waving at him, unsure whether you were at the stage for it or not yet. Ready to duck into a bush and never speak again, your eyes widened as you spotted him waving back and smiling, pointing at you to whoever he was with. Even bigger was the shock coming from him walking towards you and striking a conversation, asking you about your studies and the week you had. He was the same as always, shy grin on and ears listening with diligence as you fumbled for words and gaped like a fish at his interest in your well-being.

It was hard to hate him. There, you said it. Hard to despise a person of his type when all he did was-

Ping!

Driven by habit alone, you wet your lips as you unlocked your phone, thankful for the distraction of the thoughts causing you to be distracted in the first place.

[beanie boy] 8:50 a.m: you know, if that photographer keeps being an asshole, i got this friend that can replace him real quick [beanie boy] 8:50 a.m: his style is a little more middle-aged art teacher than mine, so it might be hard to accept him but he’s great [beanie boy] 8:51 a.m: promise?

The corner of your mouth curled, recalling the recent discussions of the guy throwing a fit because Yuna wanted a shot near the lake outside of the ceremonies, followed by one at the central park and how she went on to pay his fuel to shut him up. You didn’t even realise the lecture was close to finishing, and from what you heard, Thursdays around this time they’d let him go a few minutes early. According to calculations, he must’ve been texting you right as he got out of class.

[you] 8:52 a.m: you have ties in the photographer industry? [you] 8:52 a.m: is tht why you know so much colour theory…,, Damn

Where did he have ties though, it occurred to you. What was his major? During the time you spent talking, you felt like you knew a lot of trivial information about Namjoon that most of his classmates didn’t, but the origins of his passions stayed foreign to you. The notes app in your head updated with the urge to find out about it.

[beanie boy] 8:54 a.m: i held his light in the art museum as he was developing pics. We bonded then

You furrowed your brows, thoughts that Namjoon might have more titles around the campus except for the one you gave him foreign to your conscience. To this photography guy, he was light Boy, who helped him through hard times- was it his thing? Help random people, make them feel special and then never meet with them again?

[beanie boy] 8:54 a.m: his art is also weirdly motivational. Idk what it is about dog paws and noses that moves me to tears but it’s very helpful when i have a hard time [beanie boy] 8:55 a.m: are we on for today?

[you] 8:58 a.m: yes i hope so

He told you he didn’t have plans for the upcoming week starting today, and the venue devil reserved your discussion for the same days. Still, a part of you grew anxious from his lack of reply and agreement as you moved to the next class. Scurrying for your phone, you began typing again.

[you] 9:09 a.m: i mean, it’s ok if we don't Do it now. [you] 9:10 a.m: there’s still time. Idc

You put your trust in one man and look what happened. He hated you. He wanted to ditch you-

[beanie boy] 9:14 a.m: what? yes i want us to go today [beanie boy] 9:15 a.m: for the record, i ignored a ppt presentation to answer this [beanie boy] 9:15 a.m: and ouch, that’s cold. you really hurt me this time. [beanie boy is typing…]

[beanie boy] 9:19 a.m: maybe you can make it up to me with some tea later?

Your breath hitched as you read the notification on your phone. Too dangerous out there to open it.

[beanie boy] 9:19 a.m: heard it’s good for the soul

Yeah, the fucking soul alright. Glad he was preoccupied with his as he was toying with yours. Half pettiness half need to pay attention to your surroundings, you put your phone back in your pocket, ready to concentrate on your lecture.

Immersed in the new information and ways to solve presented to you, you forgot about your feelings regarding the matter and came back more energized and ready to take on the day. The day in which--oh no.

[you] 11:23 a.m: we’ll see about that [you] 11:25 a.m: meet me in front of the art building in three hours?

You didn’t mean to come out mysterious or cold, but now that it was done you were starting to embrace it, showing how much of a layered person you were. Bet photo guy didn’t keep him on his toes like this.

Bet photo man didn’t have to wait in front of a building looking like a sheep lost from the herd, no shepherd in sight to calm your nerves. Its new-age design and uneven blocks brought all the space for doubt to slither into your heart, no answer from Namjoon as of yet. You were hoping for the best, self-esteem steeling itself for you to erase the idea of him ditching you.

A hand fell to your shoulder, his face leaning into your range of sight and you let out the breath you were holding. “Hey, sorry I’m late. The professor wouldn’t let me go.”

You didn’t bother to turn to him, pout ever present as you rubbed your shoulder to get a bit of warmth. The wind was ruthless. “Wouldn’t want to keep such an artefact from discovery. Bet they had a lot to say.”

He still hadn’t let go of you, fingers instead tightening on your shoulder and bringing you closer to him, continuing to rub your grey jacket. You took a peek at him and he paused, cheeks puffed before he burst into laughter, making you look at him in wonder.

As he came back from it, his grin was still present, wide and shiny and rivalling the sun. The kind of expression that’s overwhelming, that makes your eyes crinkle and your mind foggy. It’s merciless in the way it lets the feeling seep through, surrounds with the sensation of allowing your defences to drop. It pulls you in and caresses your thoughts into melting, urging you to enjoy the moment. An endearment which is too familiar to you, but which had never risen from your essence and left drops of warmth and honeysuckle in its path.

Then, as an offence against your well-being, he said, ‘I’m glad you think so’, pulling you out of your daze.

You shook your head. This couldn’t be happening.

“Are we taking the bus this time too?” he said as he resumed to his usual distance.

“Uhh… that’s the plan.”

“Great! Let’s go!” he raised his eyebrows, challenging you with his power walk once again. The chances of you wearing the crown for the fastest walk were slim now that you had met Namjoon.

You didn’t even register the walk to the station, too preoccupied in trying to keep up with him and answer his questions about the guy at the venue as he was blurting out random ‘what an asshole’s. Paying for the ticket and squeezing between a swarm of people came as a blur as well until you were forced into Namjoon’s personal space, close enough to smell the wavering scent of his fabric softener. His gaze turned to you, face getting closer and making your eyes widen.

Namjoon opened his mouth to apologise, but you cut him off by reaching out and plugging one of the earbuds he removed to hear you back into his ear. With that, you turned around so your back was facing him, letting out a deep breath to even your heart rate. You didn’t remember crowded places having such an effect on you, though you supposed crowding anxiety developed at any age.

“How do you feel?”

“Focused,” you said. “I’m estimating the chance I’ll fail this.”

“Failure will never overtake you if your determination to succeed is strong enough.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” Namjoon seemed to switch back to his shy persona, avoiding your gaze before his head snapped back to meet your eyes. “Just something to remember. Quotes like that usually calm my thoughts.”

It did make you calmer, just because you imagined Namjoon with his own suburban quote room. Maybe he was the type to read the quotes and meditate after, do a little yoga? Stretch those long legs and kicking other planets while he was at it? “Oh… thank you? Do you read them often?”

He nodded as he brought his cap down, bravery vanishing as the both of you entered the venue.

You grasped the modern twist that brought so many people in, that created a ballroom atmosphere even with the ordinary white curtains closed shut. Lines bloomed from the root of a crystal chandelier and served to separate the rose tones in pleasant shapes. Near their end, they were pulled from their seams and moulded to create another rose-gold halo, which reflected the light of the diamonds and poured right onto the glass-like floor. The thought that you’d be spending at least a day uninterrupted here was thrilling–it made you hide your hands behind your back, intertwine your fingers so you wouldn’t slip and touch.

If the place lured you into letting loose, the three-piece tailored to fit his frame posed a tightness to the chest area of the man waiting in the corner encouraged everything but. He surged forward with power stance and introduced himself to both of you, reaching out to shake Namjoon’s hand. You quirked an eyebrow as you exchanged names, sharing a confused look with him. Following his gestures, you studied both of their reactions with a careful eye as they shook hands, comforted by Namjoon’s lost gaze. At last, he moved to you, and you gripped with the biggest force your noodle arms could handle.

“Our pleasure.”

“We have provided a full course dinner with traditional dessert and listed our vegetarian options in the e-mail we sent. Our in-house catering accepts suggestions up to 10 days before the due date. You can only choose to switch a meal with another one that is available on our list.”

He led the two of you on a tour of the place, explaining the back door exits and pointing to the emergency pans plastered on the main hall. Alright. Positivity. It wasn’t so bad, Breast Man over there might’ve stored some sense of organization and compassion in those gigantic tits–

“The team will be available from the start of your appointment and continue till the end of the day. Anything after midnight will have to be covered by your service or paid for a fee.”

Your face fell.

“I–I don’t understand, if we paid for the entire day then how do they need to pay again?”

He beamed. “Nothing has been covered for the 31st.” Caught you without a reply and continued,

“The only thing ensured from one to seven a.m are the accommodations for the guests coming from abroad which will take place at our partners from Novotel.”

For fuck’s sake, were you about to argue with this asshole over the hours in a day?

“We reserve a full day of preparations, and it is recommended you visit during the week for a check. The rest, in case you want to you can reserve a date to establish the final changes to the menu, decoration, and other services that our team has covered.”

How you wished for the chandelier to drop down and split the earth so you’d never have to face this man again.

Despite the circumstances being turned against you and your temporary fluster, you tried to collect your thoughts enough to formulate an answer. In the corner of your eye, you saw Namjoon tensing. “Of course. I have some right now Regarding the main-course. Swipe the vegetables for carrot puree and add caramel soy sauce. And we’d like–”

And then the head gears that caught up to you made you notice how he was doing nothing but stroll around like a pompous poodle, not paying any attention to you. Did he insist on meeting so he could stay here and attempt to intimidate you? Very funny, how you’ll show him–

The suggestions. Right.

Or not.

“We provide–”

“Sir, with all due respect–” The rest of your cognitive functions not responsible for speech lounged to watch another episode of your embarrassment. “Having a set schedule for the guests is impractical since each plane has its own set-off time. Leaving them with no place to stay for possible hours on end is impolite, and I… I think that it’s not an image your business strives to have…” Your confidence was leaving you like your last hope, but by his face you were making some points. Namjoon remained quiet next to you, nodding on occasion and making little sounds to support your words. Being a beginner in the art of scamming, neither of you could find a strong enough argument for all of his schemes, but you remained tough, defending Yuna’s choices in front of this food and muscle growth connoisseur.

Annoyed from your end and sure to have picked on your guard dog behaviours, tight suit ended up noting the food changes and finalised the details for your next meeting, part of him left unsatisfied, from the way he was watching you and Namjoon. Maybe it was the chest. Then, as if struck with a revelation that will make his horns show at last, he smirked down at you.

“Business aside, it’s a little early to get married, don’t you think?”

Your eyebrows furrowed, body stiffening as you processed his words. You were doing your best, but the feeling was already weighing upon your chest at the mention of doubt regarding the couple. This guy. “Sure, a little early for me to–”

Without a word, you felt Namjoon’s pinky lock with yours before gripping your entire hand and enclosing it in its own. You stopped in your tracks, struggling to think of something else. “to… make a decision, but for them, it’s not. They love each other a lot. They’ll be so happy to be married.” You nodded to yourself, 100% sure of what you were saying as you squeezed Namjoon’s hand unconsciously.

With that, you got out of the situation in one piece, arrangement still intact but with a neon purple bruise to your ego. Devil man made you promise you’d call and schedule another meeting, this time with the staff for decoration as he seemed to milk the last seconds of his scammer persona.

As he was all jittery, you waited for him to release his grip, but, to your surprise, you found yourself pulled further from the building.

“I apologise,” Namjoon whispered, his hand hanging onto your open one.

“Huh?”

“That guy, ugh–he’s very good at making people lose their temper. That was ridiculous.” He puffed, at the limit of frustration and something you couldn’t decipher.“I didn’t know what to say or if you wanted me to say anything. I don’t know, I guess–I didn’t want to discredit you. Not in front of him. Not e-”

He switched to your still intertwined fingers and watched as the tips of your fingers dragged against his. You let them drop back to your sides as you watched his, curling around his denim pocket. You never looked at him, too focused on trying to pick each line running through your head to notice him getting lost in the distance between your hands.

“Namjoon?”

The words died on the tip of his tongue. “Mmm?”

“How was I?”

“Uh…You were fine, got a little carried away at the end. But that’s–we need to talk about–”

You shushed him, a rush of motivation hitting you. Blame it on sparkly eyes, your lack of care for yourself, the moon, Mercury in Retrograde. You were thirsty, and you were going to do something about it. Or that’s what you kept telling yourself.

“Forget it. Let’s go get that tea.”

a/n: and part 1 done! feedback means the world to me and i’ve been working on this for like two months so pleathe tell me ur thoughts! peace! its gonna get spicier in the next parts but we had 2 establish some ground...ehehe ;) thx to miss liana @yuengi for being the sexiest wife n beta possibol.!!!

[discomfort-food]

Terrible, Beautiful, Maddening (a Hegeleth fic) 1/?

Summary:

“The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear.” ― H.P. Lovecraft

The second oldest is love.

Canon-divergent at the end of Azure Moon.

Read on AO3

Chapter 1: Out of Enbarr

A rosy hue was just barely lighting the eastern sky when the mercenary left Enbarr, looking for answers to questions she did not yet know how to ask. 

The former capital of the Empire may have been under occupation by Kingdom troops, but for the common folk, life must continue as usual. The street vendors’ food tasted the same whether the shade of a red or a blue banner fell across their stalls. Kingdom horses left the same droppings on the cobblestones as imperial steeds, and they all went into the same street cleaner’s cart at the end of the day.

She clung to the edges of the streets, ducking her hooded head further down and slinking into the shadows when a patrolling guard came into view. If stopped, a quick reveal of her signature green hair would have sufficed to allow her to continue on her way unimpeded, but that would take precious time from her journey away from the city, and leave unwanted gossip that Seteth would no doubt have to clean up.

A pang of guilt threaded through her chest when she thought of Seteth. He had been shouldering the majority of the duties that came with leading the Church; although it was Rhea’s wish that she replace her as Archbishop when the time came, she knew very little of the actual tenets of the faith due to her isolated upbringing. Not that Seteth ever complained, of course. He was the type of person that thrived on being busy and having innumerable responsibilities, though he would be hard-pressed to admit it. 

Technically, she wasn’t even officially the Archbishop yet. Rhea had been found, deep in the dungeons underneath the palace, weak and in no shape to lead the Church. Plans to officially hand over the reins had already been put in motion; once Rhea had recuperated enough to be seen in public and crown the new King of Fodlan, the heavy mantle of the church would be laid upon her shoulders.

--

“Seteth. May I ask you a favor?” The question lies strangely in her mouth. She is not usually one to ask for favors.

“What is it, my friend? You know I will do my best to accommodate.”

Hesitation. “I need… I need some space.”

He frowns, not understanding. “Space? We do all need quiet moments to ourselves from time to time. I have found the palace gardens to be particularly peaceful when I am in need of respite.”

A sigh. “No, that’s not it. I need to leave. I need time to… process. By myself.”

“Leave? To where? For how long?” She winces at the slight tone of panic in his voice.

“I don’t know where, really. Anywhere where people don’t call me ‘Professor’ or ‘my lady,’ I suppose.” She hesitantly meets his eyes. “And it wouldn’t be for five years again. I can promise you that. Two or three months at most. Before winter arrives.”

He puts his forehead in his hand and exhales. “I understand the war has been hard, Byleth.” He is one of the few people who actually do address her by her name. “You, perhaps most of all, have been shouldering the greatest burden of all of us, between commanding the army and acting as a figurehead for the church. I sincerely apologize if your personal needs have gone unnoticed during this process, and I cannot stop you from taking a period of time to yourself. However, I would be remiss if I did not ask you to reconsider. There is still so much work to be done to repair relations between the Kingdom and former imperial lands. Not to mention it would be devastating to the church if anything were to befoul you and we had no way of knowing.”

“I understand your position, Seteth. And please know that I take no pleasure in adding to your responsibilities. But there is… something I need to do.”

He contemplated her words. Softly, “I don’t suppose this something has anything to do with the recent reports of mutilated livestock being reported from rural territories.”

She remained silent.

A defeated sigh. “Very well. You have earned my trust twice over, and I know once you set your mind on something, the goddess herself cannot sway your decision. I only ask that you refrain from leaving any… mess… that would have to be cleaned up.”

A nod. “Thank you, Seteth.”

--

The rosy hue in the sky had evolved into a full palette of warm colors by the time she reached the city gate. Most traffic at this hour was entering the city: farmers bringing cattle in to be sold at the butcher, merchants pushing carts of their wares to be sold in the marketplace. A handful of guards, clad in recently issued blue tabards, were busy inspecting carts as they entered the city. Accounting for persons exiting the city was not a priority, and a lone person travelling on foot would have no cause to be questioned. Dodging a pair of children, clearly excited to spend a day in the capital, and slipping through the narrow space between a carriage and the stone archway of the gate, Byleth stepped beyond the walls that she never wanted to be enclosed within again.

Ragged, unplanned settlements where the poorest lived spread out a mile or so from the gate. Most people living here worked in the city but were unable to afford property and safety within Enbarr proper. Life woke up early here, already she could see women hanging up the day’s laundry, men slurping down a lean breakfast before beginning their day of work.

A mangy dog chewing on a scrap of cloth thumped his tail at Byleth as she walked by. Dust kicked up under her feet and hung heavily in the air, painting her boots the color of a rusted sword. She knew the ground wouldn’t have to wait long for its thirst to be quenched, however; the angry red sky was a sign that late summer showers were soon to follow.

The patched and weary shacks gave way to fields of crops, or what was left of them. What hadn’t been harvested prematurely to feed increasingly desperate imperial troops had been trampled or burned by the zealous kingdom army on their march to Enbarr. Despite the destruction, Byleth could see farmers dotting the landscape, tilling the fields, guiding work horses, clearing destroyed vegetation. It would be a meagre winter in the south; efforts had been put underway to ration what remained of imperial food stores but it was a raw fact that many throughout Fodlan would not live to see the spring.

Byleth followed the road, rutted from centuries of use, as it lazily curved northward. She walked at a steady pace; she had a general destination in mind, but for once in many moons there was no imminent need to reach a particular location. She travelled light: a basic pack that carried survival necessities, and a humble sword on her belt, much like the blade she once wielded as a mercenary. The Sword of the Creator had been left in Seteth’s care. The attention that weapon would bring would certainly outweigh its usefulness, and she had a feeling she would not have need of its power for a long time.

--

“So… That grotesque creature was Edelgard…”

They stand just inside the palace throne room. She can see Dimitri’s in rough shape but he hides it well. Most people wouldn’t notice the way he favors his left side, the slight tremble in his grip on Areadbhar. She is not most people. If their comrades had been as perceptive as she, they probably would have not let only the two of them enter the throne room alone. As it is, they are busy holding off reinforcements coming from upstairs, downstairs, and several hidden passages no doubt designed to make the palace difficult to secure to those unfamiliar with it.

Despite her position, Edelgard has surprisingly little defences in her throneroom. That is, if the nightmarish figure standing, no- hovering just in front of the Adrestian throne could still be called Edelgard. If it were not for the golden horns atop her stark white hair, she would be unrecognizable as the student she taught years ago at Garreg Mach.

A twisted snarl echoes through the chamber: “These fools are caught up in the sacrifices at hand and cannot see the future ramifications at stake… We must bury them.” Each word is inhuman, a mangled echo of the calm, evaluating girl she once rewound time itself to save.

“We must trample the past underfoot, and move onward to a brighter tomorrow!” The words are forceful but ultimately hollow; it is but the snarl of a cornered and desperate animal. 

Nevertheless, her words have their desired effect on the remaining guards in the room, who begin to advance toward the intruders.

--

Just as she had predicted, by early afternoon the sky had opened to a downpour. Byleth trudged along, avoiding the muddiest bits of the road. Before leaving Enbarr, she had traded her signature fishnet stockings and coat for trousers and a hooded cloak that had been treated to resist water. Even so, a damp chill crept its way through her body. She stuck her hands in her armpits as she walked to keep them warm. 

The wet squelch of hooves in mud steadily came from behind her, slowing as they neared. A soft “Whoa, there!” and the snorting of horses followed as a cart pulled alongside her. Keeping a hand on her blade underneath her cloak, she turned her body to allow the cart to pass.

Instead of continuing, however, the cart creaked to a halt. The driver, a heavyset, bearded man, pulled up his hood, blinking rain out of his eyes. “Hello there, friend! Not great weather to be taking a walk in, is it? Hop in and we’ll give you a lift to Belfort.” He jerked his head to the back of the open cart, where a handful of drenched fieldhands sat. “‘Fraid it’s not much shelter from the rain, but it’ll save your feet some work, eh?”

Byleth nodded and let out a brief “Thank you,” before climbing into the back of the cart, where the others shuffled to make room. A few peered at her curiously when the hilt of her sword came into view.

“You a mercenary or somethin’?” A young woman with a dark braid sat on the bench across from her. Her face was lined beyond her years, a sign of a life of hard work outdoors. 

“I am.”

“Don’t see many of you guys outside of a company anymore, most I figure banded together to join the war.”

“I used to be in a company, but…” Byleth trailed off, leaving the woman to draw her own conclusions. It wasn’t exactly a lie anyway.

“Yeah, yeah, I get ya’. Well, we all do what we can to survive. Looks like the goddess was looking out for you.” 

The corner of Byleth’s mouth quirked up at the mention of the goddess but she did not reply.

“So where’re you headed now? I hear there’s a need for blades up north in the old Alliance.”

Byleth blinked and contemplated for a moment. “North,” she confirmed. “I’m tracking… someone.” 

She perked up at this; Byleth realized this was probably the most interesting interaction the woman had had all day.

“Oh, hunting for a bounty, eh? Tell me what they look like, maybe I’ve seen them. A lot of people pass through on the way out of the capital, you know.”

Byleth shook her head slowly. “They didn’t.”

The woman rolled her eyes, but a sly smirk graced her face. “All right, all right, keep your secrets. My ma always did say I ask too many questions for my own good.” She slumped back against the rail of the cart, toying with her braid. Her hair was a similar shade to what Byleth used to see in the mirror herself.

Byleth raised her eyes to the sky. The rain didn’t look to be letting up any time soon. “How far is it to, um...” 

“Belfort. About thirty minutes at the rate we’re goin’. Normally, most travellers from the capital push on a few hours more to Willsfeldt, but I reckon this,” she gestured towards the heavens, “is going to last into the night...” The woman chattered on amicably, Byleth nodding along but only half listening. The names of towns, cities, rivers, entered and left Byleth’s mind like dry leaves. She had never had to worry about the specifics of location names or borders when she was a mercenary. Even the odd times a job separated her from Jeralt, she would have no trouble navigating using landmarks and the stars. 

“... anyway if you’re looking for a place to stay for the night, my uncle’s inn is your best, well, only option.” The woman stopped talking, drawing Byleth’s attention away from her thoughts.

“Yes. That will be fine.” Byleth pulled her hood further down over her eyes in an attempt to signal that she was no longer interested in conversation.

Another grin. “Woman of few words, eh? Don’t worry, I can take a hint. I’ll buy you a pint at the inn to make up for talkin’ your ear off.” She chuckled and closed her eyes, not seeming to mind the rain in the least.

They continued the rest of the way in soggy silence.