#i barely draw cruel king sorry

[doomcvte]

im not a big fan of my father 30 30

[sharpsuite]

❛  chishiya ,  what  have  you  done ?  ❜ (you know what i'm thinking..... i had to)

↳ YOU HAVE NO POWER OVER ME SENTENCE STARTERS

GUNSHOTS still echo in his ears and the smell of gunpower lingers in his nose as he lays on the ground. The second shot actually hurt more ; shock had DULLED the pain of the first gunshot but this one had struck with an explosion of pain that ricocheted through his nerves. It had overwritten any pain of falling to the ground, and he fights to swallow and draw in steady breaths.

Niragi was right, and that PISSED HIM OFF. Not because it was Niragi, but he loathed seeing the ugliness of himself reflected right back at him. He hid it better ; it was just as vile though. Taking the bullet for Usagi was trying to see if he could act uncharacteristic...but wasn't that still SELFISH? Still for himself to see if he could do it? JEALOUSY sits on his chest, a pressure that threatens to crush his bones. He stares at the sky because he doesn't want to look at Niragi right now. That's when he hears a FAMILIAR voice that he hadn't heard since everyone had scattered. He barely turns his head, watching as Pat runs towards him with a blank expression.

" Ah... You saw that WHOLE thing, huh? " Chishiya rasps, a small GROAN of pain leaving his lips when he feels her hands pressing down on the wound on his chest. He should tell her its POINTLESS. Without proper medical attention, he's going to die. Alongside Niragi. Truly a cruel fate. ( He's refusing to die BEFORE him though, even if it's just by a single breath. It's only spite at this point. ) She's only slowing it down. For some reason though, Chishiya can't find his voice to tell her that. " It's not THAT BAD. " He offers instead, his voice rough but still his unbreakable calm tone. He shudders as he breathes in, lashes resting on his cheeks for a moment before they open again.

His lips twitch upwards into an exhausted smile. " What I've done is not win a gun fight. Guess I needed a lot more more practice with a gun. Sorry I didn't better show off your lessons. " His dark gaze searches her face, PUZZLED. The King of Spades is nearby, she should be running away. There's no point in wasting time trying to help him. He's dead unless the last two games are beat. And even then, he might still be dead. So...Why? Why is she HERE with him?

" I...." His voice struggles, wavering with pain as more blood stains her hands, his own hand barely pressing against his other wound. " You're not SAFE out here you know. " His free hand lifts with effort, feebly managing to grasp her wrist. He doesn't have the strength to push her away, he doesn't have the strength to do anything at all other than barely clutch onto her. / @cartelheir

[enigmamuse]

Devotion of an Apostate

Fandom: Pathfinder: Kingmaker (TTRPG) Relationships: Orson/Jaethal, Jaethal/Original Male Character Word Count: 963 Rating: T Content: Drama & Romance, Slow Burn, Developing Relationship, Canon-typical Violence Ongoing multi-chapter fic | Rating & tags updated as needed | Light spoiler warning for Pathfinder: Kingmaker TTRPG/Companion Guide Character line art by @transnashton​, color & bg by me

Read on AO3

Summary: In a stroke of strange fate, Orson Hargrave - holy Summoner of Pharasma and new king of the Stolen Lands - becomes entangled with the most unlikely of companions: the gracefully cruel, undead champion of Urgathoa. Jaethal's sharp wit and dark inclinations challenge the new sovereign as the pair grow closer, navigating the contrasts of their developing intimacy and warring faiths.

“Could you raise the blanket a bit higher?” Orson speaks in a carefully monotone voice as he averts his eyes from the curve of pale skin in his peripheral vision. He gingerly wraps bandages around his companion’s shoulder, making sure that his movements aren't too abrupt - his previous medical attempts having failed to account for the responsiveness that a body of Jaethal’s low temperature could have. He never suspected that she was fragile in any sense, but the slender arm he now held, usually similar in coloration to his own,  mottled brilliantly in the dim candlelight between them.

“I should be lucky a monster has not torn its claws near my breast, lest I would find myself bleeding out as I waited for you to overcome your delicate sensibilities,” Jaethal’s sardonicism bites, but she adjusts the modesty blanket as directed.

“I am not so prudish as–” the healer begins to rebuff, but feels his pitch raise as his thoughts flash to when the elf stripped away her garments as he set down his medical tools at her bedside earlier, the red silk of her dress falling off her shoulders and down her back in a way that had stilled his ill-prepared heart. He clears his throat discreetly. “I’m sure you can understand how this is different.”

“From today’s events,” Jaethal replies, “I would hope so. Your performance with the troll left much to be desir– ah!” she winces as a sharp pain shoots through her chest. Orson reactively draws a supportive hand to her side.

“Careful.”

“I know.” She shoots him a glare, but he takes her momentary contempt in stride.

“I know you know,” he sighs. “Sorry. Without using healing magic, the recovery process is… imperfect, to say the least. I could fetch Harrim–”

“Don’t.” Jaethal snaps resolutely. With an upturned nose, she postures herself in a way that, despite the vulnerability her exposure leaves her, carries a dignity more suited for portraiture than a medic’s table. “Contrary to your belief in my faith's hedonistic tendencies, I don’t care for people to see me like this. And your grimace at my own methods earlier did not go unnoticed.” A lump of shame turns in his stomach. There are times when Orson is able to push down thinking too deeply of Jaethal’s inherent truths, but there is only so much he can do to disregard the lingering smell of death that accompanies her magic - its thick, mocking saccharine scent just barely perceptible to a well-trained undertaker like himself. He wishes he could ignore it. With guilty eyes, Orson’s gaze falls to her half-covered form, and an extraordinary stillness overtakes him. His hand traces over several whitish marks - thinly healed lacerations and puncture wounds decorating her ribcage, sides, and back - the diversity and volume of which paints a violent memory of the exiled elf’s past.

“Admiring the handiwork? I’ve done what I could to mitigate their appearance. I think I did quite sufficiently on the front, at least.” She raises the blanket to show an almost imperceptible slash across her midsection. “It would seem Urgathoa had no preference when it came to the full restoration of my appearance.” Her voice echoes with the same jadedness typically reserved for those not providing her divine sustenance.

“I could look into taking care of these for you,” Orson murmurs, thumbing the scarred tissue. Despite her coldness, the soft raised edges and grooves of her scarring anchor him to the moment, once again reassured of how real and tangible she is to him. He turns to the assortment of medicinal reagents in his kit, but feels a pull at his sleeve.

“I take minimal issue with them.” Jaethal brushes her long hair forward to stroke it thoughtfully. “They are a minor inconvenience and, more poignantly, a reminder of others’ ignorance towards those who want more for themselves. Namely me.”

The summoner beholds his companion's unamused expression - a cold, uncanny silence which evokes memories of the stone effigies of saints and psychopomp ushers that served as familiar company in his upbringing. His own look of solemnity softens as he considers how fitting the elf’s countenance would be amongst the grim churchyards that he once considered home. “I think it’s brave of you to volunteer to talk with everyone about your…” his words stalled on the taboo between them, “condition. I know what this might bring up for you.” He speaks closely to her, slowly inspecting the faded remnants of a laceration that runs down her scapula.

“You may share your condolences after everything has been settled. Besides,” Jaetha tsks and straightens her back, and Orson corrects himself in return, embarrassingly aware of his bedside manner. “It was your convincing that we share these details sooner rather than later. Things went well with the clerics, but… I cannot afford to be comfortable right now. In the face of so many unknown variables, the disquiet I feel will carry me to survival.”

Orson finishes his work silently, but takes pause as he instinctively calls forth a bloom of divine magic to expedite the wounds’ closure. With bated breath, the lattice of pale light sigils falls apart before making contact with the elf’s skin, though she makes no sign of perturbation. He sighs.

“Done for now.” He turns to avoid watching her dress, adjusting his glasses before rolling down his sleeves and gathering his healer’s tools. Anything to busy himself. “I’ll check in tomorrow night for a follow up. Avoid anything too strenuous or moving unnecessarily– well, you know.” He halts midway through the tent’s closure, looking back to Jaethal as she sits at the edge of her makeshift bed. He’s left with the distinct feeling that something is unfinished, but quickly buries the curiosity that begs for speculation. “Goodnight, then.”  

“Goodnight.”  

[antiloreolympus]

7 Anti LO Asks

1. Do you know what really gets my blood boiling about this comic? Persephone and Demeter's relationship.

In the myths, Demeter and Persephone loved each other more than anything. Their reunion is so important - it marked the coming of spring and growth. A whole cult was dedicated to this for crying out loud. Yes, the myths were far from perfect, but the Persephone and Demeter myth showed the strength of a loving mother-daughter relationship with Demeter searching endlessly to find her child that was ripped away and had her innocence forcibly taken.

Now, RS is not the only author to make Demeter this over-bearing mother type in order to put more positivity onto the Hades-Persephone relationship. However, RS takes this trend to a whole new level - to the point where I would even consider it misogyny.

How is it, she takes this beautiful mother-daughter relationship and makes it out to be an abusive and controlling one, and then takes the Hades-Persephone relationship from a forceful one to a loving, perfect relationship with no problems? How is it ok to ruin one relationship to elevate another?

I understand that many versions of the myth try to downplay Hades' actions, and even make it so Persephone actually falls in love with him and there is no rape. But it doesn't change that this relationship was problematic, and meant to represent the loss of innocence.

Then fans have the gall to claim this comic is feminist and then claim on top of that that Demeter and Persephone's relationship was the same in the myth? These fans clearly don't know the myths, and neither does RS.

Making Hades a good person is fine. Changing it up a bit to make Persephone's loss of innocence something else is also fine. But ruining Demeter and Persephone's relationship? Especially when Persephone has to spend half the year with her? So horrible. 

2. im sorry, but rachel cant introduce KRONOS coming back and then dropping it for several episodes to focus on a stake-less trail and persephone not knowing what lingerie to seduce hades in. like thats too much of an earth shaking development and huge stake plot point to just ignore for months to focus instead on something as minor as hxp's relationship, which only points out a huge flaw: why is hxp's relationship so minor in this? isnt the whole point supposed to be about them?

3. I think LO completely dropped the ball over Hades’ characterization. 

From the first ep I thought ok, this is good, we have some bones to see he’s not that lucky in love and is just tired and lonely, and while ignoring the creepy actions towards Persephone, I thought ok, Artemis hates him, Hestia hates, even Ares hates him, maybe once Persephone finally sees the underworld and probably gets to know him it’ll be a clever twist and they’ll be proven wrong. The underworld will turn out to be fair and just, the citizens will love Hades, he’ll be revealed to be a good leader and king and not like his brothers, it’ll be like everyone saying Hades of myth isn’t actually that bad, and it’ll help reinforce why this sweet and bubbly Persephone wants him, she sees the real him, not the mean rumors and assumptions, this is perfect.

And then it just didn’t happen. The exact opposite happened, actually.

We’re shown the LO underworld is cruel and unjust, where the poor dead are forced into slavery and Hades created a harsh class divide with him and him only on top, the citizens hate him, the underworld gods don’t trust him and openly seem ok if he’s taken out of power, he’s not a good leader and king and doesn’t even want the job yet keeps it for his own ego and grip of power m, and on top of it all he is just like his brothers, if not worse. He loves to get violent over any little slight against him, he hoards wealth and resources to enrich himself while his citizens starve and struggle to survive, he’s corrupt, he controls all the media and laws to bend to his will, sleeps with his brothers wife for centuries behind his back while claiming to be holier than thou, he has sex with his secretaries who are made dependent on him for any way to survive, and now he lusts after his barely legal intern who is also now dependent on him for her way to survive, and that’s only what I remember off the top of my head.

LO perfectly set up to prove Hades isn’t the devil or the false pop culture assumption that he’s evil and to show some actual facts from myth, and yet Rachel only ended up reinforcing exactly that and even making him even worse with her made up ideas, all while thinking having Persephone ignore or excuse it somehow makes it not bad or even a good thing. It’s honestly kind of impressive just how bad of writing that actually is. 

4. Chapter 172 is not that interesting. It’s setup had me excited to see Hephaestus and Hera and learning more about echo, but it’s cut so short. Because again the story can’t leave HXP out for 2 seconds.

I can also see why Zeus is gonna go insane. 

5. i agree w/ other anon. LO should have pulled a PJO or a BoZ and just made up OCs and have them interact with the gods than whatever Rachel thinks shes doing, which is lying she's being accurate and faithful while completely changing all of it, removing what is needed, and adding what isnt so that it lines up with no actual myth besides like, various 50 shades fanfic she read in 2015 and some popular tumblr text posts.

6 . the animation studio behind blood of zeus literally can only draw one face for the men and one face for the women and they were still able to make the gods all look distinct and hot while LO can't even bother to use more than 6 colors and can only have the women look as tiny as possible with the biggest boobs while the men are all just lego men.

7. ////FP SPOILERS////

Okay so like I stopped reading LO way back before season 1 ended, and a majority of my knowledge of the series comes from what I read here on your blog which is enough for me lol and I decided to read the latest 5 chapters just to see what's up (on zahard. I refuse to give the actual series any views)

And I just. Could not take the whole scene with Daphne running from Apollo seriously? The anatomy and art inconsistency was so distracting that i genuinely could not find it serious. Even when Thanatos discovers her hibernated body I couldn't take it seriously because of how she looked?

And when Hades had that call (??? Was it a call? Or his inner dialogue? I couldn't really tell ngl) with Zeus and said he's causing Persephone unnecessary distress, and that she didn't pose any threat. B!tch??? She killed a ton of mortals??? She has no control over her powers???? She's literally a fugitive for the aforementioned things??? She apparently woke Kronos up? (Idk if anyone knows about that, again my knowledge only spans to whatever I read here) Hello????

And I have a lot to say about the chapters starting the trial but I'll only mention one thing; Hades saying "I don't think blindly supporting my little brother would be doing him any favours (as a ruler)" had me cackling. This is coming from a guy blindly supporting a girl he's literally only known for a few weeks, who's like what, only recently turned 20? Sit tf down Hades you're not cool, you creepy ass overgrown smurf.

Overall I still hate this series lmao. Regarding art though I feel like I wouldn't be so miffed about the anatomy much if the character designs were consistent and the story was compelling. They literally change hairstyles and body types frame by frame, and it's distracting.

The timeline from what I read here is laughable. 4 years in publication with almost 200 chapters and you're telling me only like a month has passed canonically. That's wild and such poor writing.

And as someone who literally will sympathise with any lead character pretty quickly, the story makes me hate them. It makes me want to root against them. I also hate the fact this trash is somehow top ranked on webtoons when so many other stories are far better then it.

Anyway, many thanks to this blog for existing and allowing me to dump so much text here to vent out my hate for this series lmao. You the mvp fam, hope you're having a good day 🥂🥂🥂

[beauty-brains-braun]

Toxic

18+ ONLY. 

Originally published on AO3 under my username there: connielingus

warnings/tags:  Smut, PWP, Spanking, Name-Calling, Spit Kink, thigh riding, No Aftercare

You hated Naoya more than anyone, so why did he turn you on so much?

Naoya Zenin was the worst kind of man. He was rude and sexist and disgusting. Every word out of his mouth was toxic and you hated him more than anyone you'd met since becoming a sorcerer. If only your cunt had gotten the memo.

He had you dripping and shaking, riding his thigh while he smirked, gripping your hips. “Look at you. You're so desperate and needy. I've never seen a more pathetic slut.”

You flushed and looked down, hating how his words made you drip faster and clench around nothing.

Naoya grabbed your hair and jerked your head back sharply, drawing a soft moan from you. “Look at me when I'm speaking to you.” Your eyes met his cold cruel ones and you wanted more than anything to get up and walk out, faking some semblance of dignity. That was a lie. There was one thing you wanted more right this second and that was for him to bury his dick so deep into you, you wouldn't know where he ended and you began.

“You're making a mess, I'll have to get these pants dry-cleaned.” He frowned pensively. “Or you can, you're the bitch who’s so desperate for my cock that you've soaked me.”

“Fuck you” you snap. “I hate-” his hand shot out and gripped your jaw, forcing it open and pulling you toward. You barely have time to wonder what he's doing when he spits into your mouth and your eyes go wide. He closes your mouth and says “Swallow.” You do, burning with shame and he tilts his head to the side and asks “what were you saying?” but you're rendered speechless. That shouldn’t have turned you on, shouldn't have had you riding his thigh just a little harder. But it did.

He smiles and reaches up to play with your nipples and you moan. You arch back, your leg brushing against his straining cock when you do. That was the thing, Naoya could call you disgusting and pathetic but judging by the hardness of his cock aching to get out of his pants, he was just as turned on as you were. You let your fingers brush against it again and he hisses in a breath, reaching out and grabbing your hand.

“Impatient girls get punished” he stands suddenly and you would have been dumped into the floor if he didn't have a hold on you. He carries you across the room and lays you back on his desk. He strips off your soaked underwear, tossing them to the side and flips you over.

The room is still spinning when you feel the first smack on your ass. It stings but is accompanied by a burst of pleasure and you bite your lip hard to keep from begging Naoya to hurry up and fuck you. Another harsh smack lands and your back arches involuntarily. With the third smack, your ass is on fire and a loud moan is ripped from you.

Naoya tenses behind you and all is quiet for about ten seconds before he mutters “fuck” and you hear his zipper being undone. Finally. He grabs your hips pulling you back to him and he slams into your cunt with no warning or preparation. Not that you needed it, really, you had never been this turned on in your life and he slid into you like he was made for you. He pulls out and slams into you again and a scream of pleasure leaves you.

“Looks like I wasn't the only one who was impatient” you throw over your shoulder and Naoya growls. His hand comes up to your throat and he squeezes, pulling you back even further. The change in angle has you coming in minutes and he fucks you through it, never changing pace but when you're done, he lets go of your throat and you slump forward in exhaustion.

“Does everyone know you're such a slut?” Naoya asks. “I bet they do. You act like such a goody-two shoes but here you are screaming and cumming on my cock like a bitch in heat.” He reaches around and rubs your clit and you scream. “You claim to hate me. Say that I have an antiquated view on society but you're begging for my dick and proving me right.”

“I’m not begging” you spit out. You're nearing another orgasm and you can barely think. His thumb was circling your clit and you were trying not to grind into him. You were so close.

“Oh?” Naoya said, voice full of amusement. “My mistake.” Then he pulled out and away, leaving you on the edge. “No!” You shout before you can help yourself.

“No?” He asks. You turn to glare at him with eyes filled with tears of frustration. He does that annoying head tilt again and you want to smack him.

“Keep going.” His brow arches and you hate yourself when you add “please?” He chuckles and walks back to the chair you were in earlier, sinking into it.

“I think you can *beg* better than that.” He crooks his finger at you, summoning you closer and you go to him.

“Please, please fuck me. Please, Naoya” you beg and one of the tears slips free and down your cheek.

“Please sir” he says. And you immediately correct yourself. “Please fuck me, sir. Please make me cum.”

He pulls you closer and licks the track of the tear that had fallen and you shudder. Leaning back he gestures to his cock and says “go ahead”. When you look confused he smiles and says “you want to cum? Make yourself cum.”

Your face flushes. Why was the idea of riding him more embarrassing than any other ridiculous thing you'd done that night?

Naoya sighs, “I don't have all day, slut, if you're not going to do it” he starts to tuck himself back into his pants and you yell “no! Please”. His eyebrows raise and he leans back in the chair, lounging like a king on his throne.

You let out a deep breath and straddle him, sinking onto his cock and letting out a small sigh when he’s completely inside you. His hand lands on your ass and you jerk forwards in surprise. You take the hint and start riding him. He doesn't help at all, just watches you as you chase your release.

Minutes pass before you find it but when you cum, you almost black out from the force of it. It seems to go on forever and you're left shaking when it’s over. Except Naoya isn't done with you. He stands with you inside him and turns, so that you're in the chair and he's back in control. He fucks into you forcefully and you're so sensitive from coming twice that each thrust feels like heaven and hell at the same time. He grabs your throat and squeezes, dragging you to him so that your lips meet his and you kiss each other desperately, completely lost in pleasure. His other hand reaches for your clit and when his thumb presses into it, you cum for the third time gasping his name. This time he cums with you, spilling his release and pulling you close.

The room is suddenly quiet except for the sound of both of you gasping for breath. Naoya releases you and stands straight. You lower your legs shakily and he tucks himself back into his pants and straightens his shirt. He turns and walks to his desk, grabbing a box of tissues which he tosses at you. You barely catch them.

“I’m afraid the Zenin clan will be rejecting Gojo’s proposal. Sorry you came all of the way out here but please feel free to pass on my regrets.” Naoya walked out of the room without another glance. God, you hated him.

[omegaobeyme]

I've been obsessed with Lady Gaga's, "Judas" Song...and it gave me an idea for a short Fic. A Devil's Angel Tags: PG13+, scene of violence/death, Angel/Human!MC, DiavoloxMc, Spoilers for lesson 16 Part 1/?

Diavolo was a glorified demon, rivaling strength to only 2 other realm leaders. Of course, if you asked any obedient servant of the throne, he was naturally the obvious winner. So what happens when you have all of the strength a being could dream of and more? You "make friends" apparently. There was no way this all-powerful man could be up to such a light-hearted task. Perhaps it was his butler, Barbatos, with such knowledge and time who guided Diavolo to urge such a conclusion. Had the green-haired demon known a war was to commence? Was Diavolo truly unfit to win such a battle, and therefore needed another way out? These questions filled your head as you stepped into your new dormitory. You were a human, just not too human entirely. Angels essence filled your being thanks to your ancestor, Lilith. You had even met Michael himself years back when her memories flooded yours as the angel essence was supposed to take you to heaven. Long story short, you were in a temporary coma after a car accident. Simeon shook you out of your head with a hand on your shoulder, "remember why you're here." He said, with the same smile he always gave. It was too suspicious for a soon-to-be demon lord to be asking for unity, and god wanted answers. This is where you came in: a seemingly innocent human whose in an extremely unique position to gain an advantage; and more importantly, knowledge. Solomon joined you for your first tea with Barbatos and Diavolo, time allowing. Knocking on the door, you were met with the tired eyes of the butler. "Welcome, over this way." Barbatos guided the pair of humans and you couldn't help but notice how unnervingly perfect this man was. It was as if a board has been placed against his back, perfectly aligning his spine starting at his hips, threaded through his neck. Finally, he motioned towards a satin couch placed within an openly lit common area, decorated with lavish antiques, artwork, and instruments. Solomon broke the silence, "Ah, Auguste Allaire?" "Indeed." The green-haired demon replied, understanding his question without having to look at the painting Solomon was referencing. "I would like to clarify this meeting is to get to know our human exchange students," He began lifting a tray off his serving cart, finished with matching teacups and plates for the both of us, "As humans, it's of upmost importan-" Doors burst open, featuring a particularly muscled demon prince. "Barbatos!" Diavolo smiled so wide his eyes managed to shut. Not only was his personality loud, his laugh was louder. "Sorry, sorry! I'm late, aren't I?" If you were embarrassed, you can imagine Barbatos' reaction in his own mind. He simply sat down and motioned for his Lord to follow suit. It was at this moment you thought it was a horrible prank you somehow got involved in. Months would pass, much like the meetings you had with the royals. During these moments you were allowed questions pre-approved by Simeon. "Why do you want to unite the realms?" and "What happened to the king?" All of which never satisfied any angels curiosity. It seemed for that you'd continue this way forever, until the day you knew of him. The sun gently glazed over your skin, sending shivers at the unexpected warmth of the devildom morning. Of course, it was Lucifer. "I know you better than to sleep in, MC." His gaze shifts to your own, as his back turns to face the now opened curtain of your room. "I'm sorry, I don't usually sleep in unless I'm sick." You weren't lying, it was unusual. "Oh? Perhaps it would be best for you to stay home. I'll have Satan take notes in your stead." Lucifer retorted, sparing you no opportunity to argue back. Then again...this would give you an opportunity to explore the house, especially to find anything Diavolo's "right hand man" might be keeping. Simply nodding, you rolled the covers over your head and set the alarm for another hour, knowing well a mostly human like yourself couldn't escape their well-trained eyes to watch them walk away. At 8 a.m, you awoke to find breakfast in a tightly-sealed container. However, hunger

could barely invade the anxiety creeping upon you. First in priority was making sure everyone was gone, no one in the kitchen, bedrooms, studies, or observatories. Now it was finally time...you took the steps towards Lucifer's room, each slower than the last. Lifting the back of your hand, you knock only to realize the door opening upon contact. The air was noticeably cooler, and his record player opened, as if suddenly stopped. You draw your attention towards his desk, the obvious choice. As you go through paperwork, you realize you can't find any, despite the mountains on his desk every night. Of course. They must've been brought to RAD along with his briefcase he brings every day. But there had to be something. Anything. Go through his bookshelves: nothing. Flip through his records: nothing. The closest lead you've got is a sticky-note in his book with a quote. You take off, looking for any other places he could possibly be storing such sensitive information, then it hit you: the upstairs. Lucifer had made it such a point to not venture upstairs, could he have been more oblivious of such a hint? Honestly, it was still scary to think about going up to an unknown part of the house, but you had no other choice. After checking the time, you begin making the climb only to find a hallway with one door. A loud bang comes from an unknown direction, and you flinch, thinking someone had come home. Then a low chuckle comes from the room in front of you, nearly taunting. Once you gather your emotions, you continue onward to face whatever lay in front of you, only to find a normal-looking human. "who-" "oh, are you the new playtoy?" he responds, "excuse me?" You step backwards, out of reach from his hands, "I don't know what you're talking about." His smile fades, "oh, you must be another human.." He's human, too? "I know what it looks like, but you're not safe here. Ask about Belphegor. Meet me again when it's safe. He's coming back." the blue-white haired male shrinks back into the darker area of the room, and before you can process, your feet run down to your room. Not too long after, a knock fills the empty air. The handle turns, and Satan makes his appearance visible. "Wow. You do look bad. Maybe you should get back to bed." you shake your head, attempting to mask the heartbeat in your chest. "No! No, I'm fine, I swear. What's in your hand?" attempting to avert his attention, you point to the notebook in his hand. "Oh, that. Well I came here to study with you since I heard you missed the day." Satan moved in towards your bed, laying the notebook on your bedstand and flipping to the nearest filled-in page. "Here's the theories we went over, and the elixir's following. I've already taken geography so I brought my old textbook to help, and then there's realm science." You hold your hand up for him to pause as you look over each notes. "Wait, Griffins horn? I thought it was powdered unicorn hoof." He smiles, "Nice catch. We go over it next semester, some things can be substituted for higher-grade materials depending on the molecular structure. If you take a look at..." Satan proceeds to take your mind off the previous situation for the next two hours. That is, until you get lost in thought. "MC? MC, snap out of-" "Who is Belphegor?" you interrupt, leaving him speechless. He clicks his tongue, hand on temple. Everytime he attempts to talk he groans in frustration. Panic settles upon your face unsure of what you had just asked. Had he just set you up? Was he another demon out to steal your soul? What will they do when they find out. "What do you know?" Satan manages to find words, "I-" you begin to lose yours. What does Belphegor mean? It seems like a name but what if- "You know what? I don't want to know. Keep it to yourself." He gets off from the edge of your bed and slams the door behind him. This wouldn't be the last time you heard of him, nor the last you saw. The next morning was eerie. You weren't dead, but..it somehow felt like it. No one came to let you know of breakfast, even after a few minutes of waiting. It

wasn't like you wanted to show your face either, you felt naked. When you did arrive, everyone at the table remained silent besides minimal conversations. Beelzebub no longer tried to steal your food, and Asmodeus wasn't trying to flirt with you. When Lucifer announced it was time to head to RAD, a weight had been lifted from the silence. After opening the door, you noticed another figure beside him. "Good morning, Mc. May I trouble you in taking you out of classes for another day?" Barbatos lightly tilted his head as his eyes looked upon your soul. "O-Of course." You took the hand provided, as he lead you to the castle. When you arrived, Barbatos told you to make yourself comfortable in the first living room. Before long, Diavolo appeared alongside him. "Mc! It's good to see you!" he beamed, arms opened for a hug. "And you as well, Diavolo." Quick to your feet, you met his courtesy. He brightened further when you returned his affection. "Do you by chance enjoy flowers?" Thinking back to the celestial realm, you nod. Taking your hand, he shows you to the garden out back. "Out of everything I was not expecting a garden.." "Really? What did you expect?" His arms crossed and he moved closer towards you, watching your expressions as you gathered your thoughts. "Well, for a demon, maybe stone statues or torture devices." He chuckles, shaking his head. "Is that what humans think now? Are we that cruel?" Diavolo jokes, until Barbatos chimes in, "Times have changed since young masters reign." as he finishes, you notice the plate of gourmet sandwiches prepared for the two of you, placed on a garden table not too far off. Together, you shared the next two hours together chatting alone. Without distractions clouding the brain, things seemed to appear as usual. The brothers began talking to you as normal, including Satan. Simeon hadn't brought up any information or lack thereof since the last meeting with Diavolo and Solomon. In fact, Diavolo seemed to be taking more time out of his schedule to spend with you alone, rather than the two human exchange students. It was nice, for a change; until you remembered what occurred with the Belphegor situation. "So, why did you ask me here in the first place?" Diavolo noticed your body language shifting for a few minutes now, but he knew something was coming at this point. "Today? Well, I enjoy the company of-" "No, Dia. When you first brought me to this garden." It couldn't be helped, you had now formed a friendship with Diavolo. He knew too much about you and how you truly acted when you were yourself, rather than the puppet an angel could use. Emotions conflicted, parts of you yearned to let loose, yet at the same time, what if it was all just an act? What if you had fallen right into his trap, and he knew all along? Just like the dictator Michael had expected. Putting his cup aside, he took a brief pause before answering. "Satan told me that day what had occurred. I thought it best to ensure my exchange student's --" Diavolo stopped as you stood up, allowing your exit. "Tired. So fucking tired." You thought to yourself as you made your way home to the house of Lamentation. Of course, not only did the oh-so-friendly prince take you out of classes once a week, he adjusted your course schedule to reflect such changes. All you could think was how pathetic you are for allowing this to happen under your watch. You never felt fit for this job, but never more so in this moment. Hesitation couldn't be found as you made your way up the stairs into the room. "You're back. Angry. Cat got your tongue?" He was obviously trying to rile you up and it was working. "So who is Belphegor? Are you trying to get me killed?" At this point, he bursts out laughing, "you think this is funny?!" you scream out. "Very." He stops, looking directly into your eyes. "And you're only helping me escape. How about I tell you a secret? I'm not even a human. I know you understand that by now, but I'm Belphegor, the last brother. And you just helped me escape." Before you knew it, hands wrapped around your neck. It was

gentle enough to find release, running downstairs and towards the front door. It was always apparent there was risks, but that's why you had the angels blessing! So why are you so close to death?? Before you could turn the handle, it moves itself. Belphie takes the chance to knock you off your feet, immobilizing you and landing you upon your back. The door opens as Belphegor protrudes claws into your most vital organ, and cold rushes over you, processing the last visuals of Lucifer's shock with Diavolo behind him. "Open your eyes." You wince. He's on top of you, how could you look? There's no way a human could escape the wrath of a demon. "Did you forget about me?" the voice echoes. What? Opening your eyes, you find nothing but white space. Suddenly, a door appears in front of your body. "Don't waste it. And don't forget where you came from." Lilith? There's no way...but then, this couldn't be a dream. It felt too real. On the other side of the doorframe was your last visual before you died, from another perspective. Glimpses flash from her own memories as it floods into your own.. in a flash, your perspective of yourself and the brothers around you changes. You could see the door Lucifer held opening in mere seconds. He froze, in shock of seeing Belphegor out. What's more, the man behind him couldn't see. The red haired demon pushed through, to find the worst fate. Immediately transforming, he flies to your dead body's side. Anger wouldn't be enough to describe what you witnessed in his eyes, nor the grief he was going through. This wasn't normal. Nothing in your body felt that what you were watching was normal. A king's priority should be on subduing Belphegor, and here he was at your deceased version's side. Suddenly, Belphegor's words filled the air. "DON'T FUCKING DARE, FOR THEM? HAHAHA!" You've never heard such a deranged laugh before. Lucifer's eyes opened even further upon processing what Diavolo was accomplishing. Tears couldn't be found in Diavolo's face, he was far beyond it. Whatever was happening, Belphegor didn't dare interrupt. "L-Lord Diavolo, you can't sacrifice yourself for-" Diavolo paid no mind to his right hand mans attempt at stopping him, taking a deep inhale, hands at his horns. "I apologize mother, but I can assure you I won't be wasting your gift." time slows further as Diavolo begins to pull away at his horns. "STOP." Every head turns to look at you, including Diavolo. It wasn't until you died that it hit you. The moments before anyone realized you came back you saw his selfless actions for yourself.

[onmykneesforhotdilfs]

jealous

guess who is back, that’s right, ME. anyway, this was not a request or anything but i needed to do this in order to get back on track. there are bunch of requests sitting in my box over there but i am working on them, i promise. if not in august, then you will get them all in september. k? now that this is out of the way, i hope you enjoy and as always, if you guys wanna talk about my fics or anything really, feel free to message me, i’m always available.

“Are you absolutely sure you want to go?

Bloom sighed and winced as Stella pulled a strand of her fiery hair too hard, sharp pain from the tug settling in her temple lobe making her regret her decision to have her blonde friend help her get ready for, yet another, Eraklyon ball.

“Well it seemed like a good idea to me at the beginning… but judging by the number of times I have been asked that question, I am starting to think it is not such a good idea after all.” Bloom responded sarcastically.

“Look Bloom,” Stella began as she took another strand of Bloom’s hair and curled it around the curling iron, “I get it. You guys broke up on friendly terms, but no one is going to blame you if you choose not to go.” Bloom frowned and she was about to open her mouth to protest, but Stella paid her no mind as she continued to curl her hair. “It’s his engagement party at the end of the day and the one that could turn rather messy considering who the bride-to-be is.”

“I know this might seem slightly unorthodox Stell, but I honestly have no hard feelings towards Sky.” Bloom shrugged one of her shoulders. “Besides, I’ve moved on.”

Stella snorted and tried to cover the sound (not befitting of a royal) with a cough but Bloom saw right through it as she leveled her best friend with a flat look. “Sorry Bloom. But you’ve got to admit that the situation is slightly absurd.”

Bloom sighed, her shoulders slouching forward in a clear sign of defeat. “Well, yes, I admit that the situation might seem weird-“

“Weird?” Stella laughed. “Sweetie, I hate to be the one to break this to you, but the situation ceased to be weird when you decided to spare the bastard.” Bloom saw Stella raise one of her perfectly shaped eyebrows in the mirror but an amused smile full of mirth was present on her lips. “This right now, this is insanity at it’s finest.”

Bloom rolled her eyes. “Okay now you’re exaggerating. Besides, the two of you are getting along quite well. With the way the two of you strive to get on my nerves, I’ll even say, you get along better than him and I do.”

“Okay, that’s just hurtful.” Stella pouted, her bottom lip sticking out and Bloom laughed at the puppy dog look her friend was giving her.

“I’m just kidding Stell.”

“I don’t know Bloom. I now might have to tell your boyfriend you find him annoying.” Bloom never quite considered Stella as a snitch, but the devils dancing in blonde’s eyes reminded her that she needed to thread carefully unless she wanted to be eaten alive by the devil himself and his accomplice.

“Now, don’t be twisting my words. I never said I find you or him annoying…” She stopped for a second to debate whether or not she should say the next sentence. “No matter how true that statement might be.” She mumbled at the end.

Stella burst out laughing and hugged Bloom from behind. “That’s ok Bloom, you annoy us too.” At the red head’s confused look, Stella continued. “Between your constant rushing into danger without thinking and doing the exact opposite of what you’re told, it’s a miracle neither of us has a set of gray hair from worrying too much.”

Bloom felt the heat rushing to her cheeks and she lowered her head to conceal the blush that was climbing up her neck. “I’m not that bad.”

“No, you’re not.” Bloom’s eyes met Stella’s in the mirror. “You’re even worse.”

“Thanks a lot.” Bloom mumbled but she had to bite her lip to stifle a laugh as Stella’s sharp elbow stabbed her in the back making her bend forward slightly.

“Speaking of the devil, how is Valtor?” Stella asked as she started tucking delicate curls into a bun with an elaborate pattern. “I mean, you did leave him with your parents, your real parents, after all. Aren’t you worried that there will be nothing left of him when you come back?”

Bloom grinned. “I’m sure he’ll be fine. He knows he should stay away from the throne room when I’m not there… He had to learn that the hard way though.”

“That hard way wouldn’t happen to be an angry king of Domino with a magic sword?” Stella asked through her giggles as the mental picture of an aristocratic wizard being chased across the hall by Bloom’s father popped up in her head.

“Who blabbed?” Bloom asked with genuine interest painted across her features.

Stella shrugged. “One of the maids that has a cousin working in Solaria’s palace happened to be at the right place and at the right time.” She pinned the final curl to the right place and stepped back to admire her work. “And I happened to be at the right place and at the right time to hear it being passed directly from one person to another.”

“Well, aren’t you lucky?” Bloom mumbled as she stood up from her chair and stretched her stiff muscles.

“Yeah, I guess I am. I never had the misfortune of being chased by your dad with a sword after all.”

Stella laughed as Bloom pushed her slightly, slight grimace present on her face. “Thank you for your help.” She leaned in to give Stella a hug. “I’ll see you tonight?”

“Of course. Wouldn’t miss the show for anything.” Stella smiled and wiggled her eyebrows.

Bloom laughed. “You know, it is not nice to rejoice in someone else's misfortune. Dragon knows I would rather jump off the bridge than marry Diaspro.”

Stella waved her arm dismissively. “Each to it’s own. He should’ve sucked it up and come clean right away instead of preventing you from moving on and just prolonging the misery. A bit of suffering might be good for his soul.” She stopped for a second. “Though I’ll admit, marrying Diaspro might be too cruel of a punishment, even for him.”

“Well I am certainly not going to pull a Diaspro card tonight. I just hope he will live to see himself get married. After that, he is beyond my care.”

“Honey, he was beyond your care the moment you ended things, don’t pay too much attention to him.” Stella wiggled her eyebrows playfully. “Valtor might get jealous if you do.”

Bloom shook her head. “He’s not necessarily the jealous type Stell.” When Stella raised an eyebrow and her face morphed into an expression of disbelief, Bloom frowned. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Are you completely blind or something?” When Bloom’s face continued to show nothing but plain confusion, Stella continued. “Are you seriously telling me that you do not see the glares he is sending to other people who look at you for two seconds too long?” Bloom shook her head negative but a stunned expression tensed her facial muscles and if Stella focused, she could probably see the cogs turning in Bloom’s brain.

“I’ve… honestly never noticed.”

Stella smirked. “I’m not sure why I’m even surprised. The two of you separately could conquer the world, but apparently when you’re together your brain cells eat each other or something because you are stupid for anything and everything besides for each other.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Bloom, honey, if there was a picture for ‘crazy in love’ in the dictionary, it would be a picture of the two of you.”

Bloom rolled her eyes. “I’ll have you know that we actually talk quite a lot.”

“I’m sure you do… when you’re not too busy getting lost in each other’s eyes from across the room.”

Bloom exhaled and pinched a bridge of her nose. “Okay I think that’s enough of that. Don’t injure that fashionable brain of yours by thinking too hard about me and Valtor. I’ll see you tonight.” She gave Stella another quick hug, ignoring the ‘Hey!’ she got and opened a portal to Domino. She threw a quick ‘I love you’ to Stella before stepping into the portal.

Shining rays of sun almost blinded her and she had to squint her eyes as she stepped into the throne room, making the people in it stop what they were doing to greet the princess. Bloom dismissed them all with a wave of her hand and a friendly smile as she climbed the steps to greet her parents.

“You look gorgeous honey.” Her mother said as she kept Bloom at an arm’s length to examine the hairstyle. Marion brought her hand to Bloom’s face and twirled a lock of fiery strand that framed her face.

“It’s all Stella mom. But thank you.” Bloom laughed cheerfully and tucked the lock behind her ear. “Have you seen Valtor by any chance?” She ignored a dangerous growl that sounded next to her, courtesy of her father, and continued. “We should get going soon.”

Just as Marion opened her mouth to answer, the door to the room opened and Valtor, wearing classic black pants and white shirt, strode in. Oritel jumped from his chair and Bloom saw, in her peripheral vision, how Marion gripped his forearm when Valtor came closer and started to climb the steps. He acknowledged no one as his eyes locked onto hers and Bloom got a flashback of Stella gushing about him having eyes only for her. Bloom felt the heat rushing to her head but paid it no mind as Valtor’s hands finally wrapped around her waist and he leaned down to kiss her forehead in greeting. She collapsed onto him, feeling almost boneless, her knees barely supporting her. The dragon fire connection burned pleasantly in her veins, carrying even more heat into her cheeks but Bloom was too busy basking in the euphoria that their connection provided to care. His thumb was drawing lazy patterns on her waist and Bloom had to resist the urge to giggle quite childishly. Instead she distanced herself from his embrace slightly, only now realizing they were not in private, and looked up at his face that had the beginning of a genuine smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Someone (Oritel) cleared their throat and Bloom broke eye contact with Valtor as unkind lights flashed in his eyes, his hand tightening around her waist, a clear sign of sheer annoyance on his part.

“So…” Bloom began rather awkwardly, clearing her throat as Valtor and Oritel continued to shoot each other unkind looks from across her head. “I trust the day has passed without any incidents involving swords and other sharp objects.”

“That only happened once.” Both of them spoke at the same time, a similar grimace painted at both Oritel’s and Valtor’s face.

“And once was enough, thank you very much.” Bloom said as she looked between the two men, trying to suppress her laughter.

“He started it.” Both men mumbled at once and turned an evil eye to each other.

“Very mature.” Sarcasm was dripping from every word Bloom spoke, her teeth nibbling at the bottom lip as she felt that exploding argument was about to commence and she really had no time for such shenanigans.

“If I remember correctly, your majesty,” Valtor began, sugar coating his voice but his face frozen in a sour expression, “you were the one that chased me with a sword, not the other way around.”

Bloom mumbled an ‘Oh no.’ and pinched Valtor’s side warningly. She squeezed her eyes together as dull pain began thumping against the walls of her skull. Her eyes met the worried but slightly amused eyes of her mother, and the queen shook her head clearly referring to the childish argument between the two grown men.

“Next time I’m simply going to break one of the hardwood chairs against your back then.” Oritel continued with a sheer, his frame slowly molding into one ready for an attack. The men leaned towards each other dangerously, and Bloom was afraid that sooner or later lightning will shoot from their eyes.

“There won’t be a next time. Your luck is that I chose not to defend myself, because otherwise, the outcome of that meeting would’ve been very different.”

“We can test that theory right now!”

“Bring it!”

The two were about to rush at each other, Oritel’s hand reaching for his sword and Valtor’s hand already lit with a spell, but an explosive spell rushed between their faces and forced the two to close their eyes and turn in the opposite direction. When the searing white finally retreated from their retinas and they were able to see clearly again, they turned to the women standing on the side, Marion’s hand raised as remains of the spell still sparked at her fingertips.

“Gentlemen. Please, behave.” The queen’s tone bore no traces of jest and Valtor and Oritel straightened their clothes in an effort to compose themselves, both coming to a conclusion that the continuation of a quarrel could result in serious bodily injury provided by none other than Marion.

Oritel cleared his throat and looked across Valtor’s shoulder towards the open hall. The servants were frozen in surprise, some were even huddled together as numerous whispers passed through the room. He looked towards his wife who was shaking her head in disbelief as if to say ‘Look at what you’ve done now.’ He once again cleared his throat and turned towards the people in the room. “Go back to your duties, there is nothing to see here.” The servants scattered across the room, fearing the wrath of their king, but amused chuckles still broke through some mouth.

“If you’re quite done,” the queen began, “maybe it would be for the best to go separate ways for today.”

“But Marion he-“ what was undoubtedly about to be another epic rant about whose fault it is was put on hold by a simple hand gesture. Marion crossed her lips in an universal ‘Zip it.’ motion and king’s mouth snapped shut. Seeing such scene, Valtor opened his mouth to say something but a sharp elbow to his ribs made him rethink his decision. He cleared his throat and grabbed the owner of the said elbow, a girl who was red in the face and almost had steam coming from her ears, and pulled her towards himself. Bloom struggled against his hold for a second but relaxed fairly quickly when Valtor sneaked his arm across her waist.

“I agree with mom.” She looked at Valtor and the hard look she gave him indicated that there was no room for refusal. “We should go get ready.”

As soon as the door to their room closed, Bloom snatched the shirt she was wearing over her head (weary of her hairstyle) and flopped face first onto the mattress. The dull ache in her head was turning into a full fledged migraine and she had to resist the urge to rip out all the bobby pins Stella placed into her hair. A sigh sounded somewhere next to her and a bed dipped slightly to the side due to the added weight. Bloom reached across the surface of the cool bed sheets blindly until her fingers wrapped around a gloved hand. She tugged on the hand slightly, a chuckle sounding in the room, as Valtor leaned above her to place another kiss at her forehead.

“Are you sure you want to go?”

“If another person asks me that today, I am going to scream.” Was her muffled response as she rubbed her face into the pillow she found laying around on the bed. “I’ve sat in the chair for hours, Stella practically tortured me with how much she pulled and tugged on my hair. There is no way, and I cannot stress this enough, no way in hell that I will miss Sky’s engagement ball just because I’d rather stay in bed.”

“If you say so.” He ran his thumb over her knuckles. “But in that case, we should probably start getting ready.”

Bloom groaned and pressed her face harder into a pillow. “Five more minutes.”

Valtor huffed a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a sigh but moved towards the middle of the bed, one of his arms planting in between the bed and Bloom’s head replacing her pillow, while the other arm rested at the curve of her hip, his fingers drawing patterns at the soft skin. Bloom shuffled quietly on the bed as well, her head settling at the space where his neck met his collarbone, while one of her legs settled across his stomach. The hand that was mapping out the skin of her hip trailed teasingly upwards and Bloom twitched when his fingers ghosted over her ribs.

“That tickles.” She whispered against the skin of his neck, her lips brushing over the sensitive nerves with every letter.

“All the more reason for me to keep doing it.” Bloom pouted and lifted herself up on her forearms, her weight supported by her arms placed at his chest. Valtor huffed jokingly when she shifted her weight and he was rewarded for it with a slight punch to his shoulder. She ignored the fake ‘Ouch.’ from his side and moved to straddle his legs. He moved to meet her halfway when she leaned down for a kiss, the movements slow and gentle but no less passionate.

“Maybe we should just stay in.” He murmured when she broke the kiss only to descend down with short pecks to his neck. His hands took hold of her hips, fingers squeezing the tender flesh harder than necessary in a fit of passion.

“Mmmmm no. No. No, we don’t have time for that.” She groaned when his hands reached for the clasp of her bra.

“We can make it quick.” He huffed, annoyed and frustrated, when Bloom reached around to grab his hands and stop his movements. He fell back onto the bed as she moved up towards his face, his hands still held captive by her small fingers.

“No, we can’t.” She giggled and kissed his cheek quickly before swinging her legs off his lap and walking to her closet to pick up her dress.

“You always have to spoil my fun, don’t you?” He groaned and sat sup in bed, his fingers threading through his hair.

“Don’t sulk, we’ll have time to play later.” She didn’t even look at him as she continued rummaging through her stuff, but a teasing note and a promise was very much present in her voice. She let out a victorious ‘Aha!’ when she found the dress. “Besides, as my partner, I want you there.” The dress was tossed carelessly across the chair as she moved to stand in front of him at the foot of the bed. “Are you telling me you’d let me go all alone?” Her voice took on a slightly higher pitch and her lower lip wobbled slightly with every word. “You’d let someone else dance with me, put his hands on me?” She was playing a dangerous game and that was evident by the low growl that escaped from deep within his throat and by the darkening of his eyes.

She squeaked, slightly startled by the sudden movement, as his hands took a firm hold of her thighs and pulled her to him, his mouth attaching to her left hip, his sharp teeth leaving a bruised bite in the area as she wiggled in his hold, the pain from the bite sharp but not unpleasant. He soothed the tender spot by placing gentle, barely there kisses, no more than a brush of lips against the flesh. She hummed and ran her fingers through his hair, making him look up at her mischievous eyes. “You’re jealous.” It was not a question, but a statement and he groaned as he buried his face in her stomach, his arms circling her hips, hands resting on her behind. Bloom chuckled and tapped his shoulder twice before she pushed slightly on them, a clear sign he should let go, and grabbed her dress before she retreated to the bathroom, locking the door behind her.

She emerged ten minutes later, silky turquoise dress sitting on her frame perfectly, loose curls placed behind her ear. Valtor, in the process of buttoning up his vest, stopped what he was doing and smiled at her. She mimicked his movements and stood right in front of him as her hands smoothed out wrinkles on his sleeves before straightening the collar of his shirt. No words were spoken as his large palms took hold of her delicate ones and brought them to his lips. The intimate moment was broken with the loud blaring of a cellphone and Bloom moved to answer it, Valtor’s hands letting go of her.

“Hello Stella.”

“Hey, where are you guys? We just landed. Are you going to be here soon?” Before Bloom even had the chance to answer either of the two questions, Stella continued. “Please say you will, because Bloom, I cannot promise I will not do anything if I see Diaspro.”

Bloom laughed, her hands rummaging through her makeup bag in search for lipstick. “We’ll be there shortly Stell, don’t worry.”

“You’re teleporting, right?”

“Mhm.” Bloom hummed absentmindedly as she continued looking for the lipstick.

“Okay, I’ll see you soon then. I love you.”

“I love you too Stell. Don’t do anything stupid.”

Stella laughed. “No promises. Ciao.”

Bloom threw her phone to the bed as she finally dug out a lipstick from a black hole that is her makeup bag. She leaned over the desk to apply it and she was about to turn around to ask Valtor if he could carry it in his pocket but gasped in surprise when two hands came up from behind and something cold was placed on her neck. Bloom bit her lip when she noticed that the cold object was a beautiful sapphire necklace, the color of the precious stone matching her eyes almost perfectly. Valtor’s hands moved from her neck, following the line of her spine, before settling on her hips. His lips ghosted over her hairline, down the line of her jaw before they settled in the junction of her neck and he placed a proper kiss there.

“You look stunning.” He whispered in her ear, his lips barely touching the shell of her ear, but the hot breath washing over her face made the goosebumps erupt across her skin.

“Thank you.” She spoke, her voice shaky, her fingers twirling the necklace resting at her sternum.

Colder breeze passed over her the very next second as he moved away from her to look at the mirror, spell words already on his lips and his appearance morphed back into perfection, not a hair out of place and no wrinkle on his clothes. He cleared his throat and turned to Bloom, who was still quite red in the face, and offered her his hand.

“Shall we?”

Bloom took his hand as his other one was already busy creating a portal, she moved closer to him, one of her hands searching for a pocket in his blazer. She smiled when she found it and looked up at him with a twinkle in her eye. “We shall, good sir.”

Valtor smirked as his free hand landed on Bloom’s left hip, his thumb tracing the bruise he left there, before the two stepped into a portal and disappeared with a flash.

[butterfly-giggles]

Bratty Indulgence

Just a reminder that this is aged up KiriBaku and A bit of NSFW feel since it does have BDSM tendencies.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, OUR FAVORITE ANGRY BOY!!! It just HAD to be the MOST stress-filled day that Bakugou had ever had to deal with at his hero agency. First, the morning started out with the barista messing up his order of a Frappuccino and blueberry scone. He did his best, this is Bakugou we are talking about, to not fly completely off the handle. With a sincere apology and promise from the manager of free beverages for the remainder of the week, Bakugou was satisfied. Then when he had arrived at the agency, Denki was his usual bright self and it was just TOO early to deal with right now. "Morning, Kacchan! It is such a beautiful day on your Birth - MMPH!", Kaminari's eyes widened at the sudden hand placed over his mouth. "Keep that mouth of yours shut, Dunce. None of these extras need to know that it is my birthday." , Bakugou glared as he pulled his hand away. "Right right! Sorry man!", Kaminari held his hands up in submission as Bakugou turned and headed into his office. Bakugou closed the door behind him and moved to sit back in his chair at his desk. He sighed in frustration at the long day that was ahead of him. In all honesty, he regretted not taking the day off like Kirishima had told him to do. Sometimes his stubbornness really did work against him. He then decided to pull out his cell phone and text his boyfriend. "Did you really have to remind the extras that it is my birthday today? Now I am going to be bombarded by shitty "happy birthdays" all damn day.", Bakugou wrote Kirishima, not as angry about it as he was proclaiming to be. Kirishima rolled his eyes fondly as he read over his boyfriend's aggravated text and replied back as he formulated a plan in his head. "You will be fine, grouchy pants. We all appreciate and care about you so just get to deal with it ;)." "Fiiiiiine……. But I am still going to bitch about it the ENTIRE time :P. Thank you…….very much, ya loser." Bakugou smirked at the last text message he had sent to Kirishima. He knew his brattiness was going to get him into trouble. Luckily for him, that is exactly what he had wanted. It had been about 3 weeks since his last "correction" and he much needed the outlet. The rest of the day had gone unbelievably uneventful, which had just upset Bakugou more. The only thing that really sated his aggression was the "Happy Birthdays" that he had complained about earlier. Now he was pleased to FINALLY go home to Kirishima and to what awaited him when he walked in. With a quick change into a black tank top, black sweat pants, and slip-off black shoes, Bakugou made a beeline for home. Opening up the door, Bakugou was greeted by Kirishima, arms folded with a smirk upon his face. "Loser, huh? That is not a very nice thing to say to your boyfriend." "Heh…and what are you going to do it about, loser?", Bakugou began to walk past Kirishima, smirking as he let the brattiness take full reign. Kirishima unfolded his arms and quickly grabbed Bakugou's wrists and pulled him to his chest. Kirishima chuckled at seeing Bakugou's smirk and shook his head. "Seems like you just can't wait for some correcting, can you? Well then……..since we can't just ask for what we want, like adults, this isn't going to be very nice." Kirishima had then led Bakugou to their room, under-the-bed cuffs already visible and waiting for the guest of honor, on their king-size bed. Giving a firm nudge and stare of not to push his luck, Bakugou crawled onto the bed and set himself up in the bounds, except for his left arm. "Good boy", Kirishima stated as he walked over and sat at Bakugou's left side, finishing his restraints, "Rules remain the same as last time. "Green" is good to go, "Yellow" is I need a break, "Red" is if something is wrong, "Quirk" is done for the night. So then, color?" "Green. Just get on with it already, Ei. ", Bakugou fidgeted as the on-setting nerves began to take over. "Ever so eager for your destruction, aren’t you?", Kirishima replied as he placed his fingers under the shirt and upon Bakugou's

bare sides, drawing teasing caresses along the goose-pimpled flesh. "Sh-Shuhuhut up! D-Dohon't call mehehehe out lihihike thahat!", Bakugou squirmed at the teasing, both verbal and physical. Kirishima smirked at how easily Bakugou had caved and immediately started giggling. Normally there was just a bit more coaxing but it had seemed Bakugou truly did want this. Happy to indulge, Kirishima fluttered and goosed along the sides and stomach of his giggly boyfriend. "Oh? Sooooo don't call you out that you are just like your childhood best friend and LOVE being tickled into oblivion. Ooooooh I would never do that." "Gehehehehe! Y-Yohohou are suhuhuhuch ahahahan ASS! Ahahahaha! NO! No no no no nohohohahahaha!", Bakugou pulled at his bonds to protect himself, but it was fruitless. He could only shake his head as those teasing fingers moved to his oblivion. Kirishima grinned with playful evilness as he laid his weight over Bakugou's stomach and wiggled his fingers upon his uppermost most ribs. The sight before him was something to be greatly treasured. He watched Bakugou, head thrown back, back arched. and cackling up a storm as his worst spot was tasered without remorse. "Heh heh heh! I am an ass, huh? Fine then…..I will be the ass that is going to make you sorry.", Kirishima chuckled as his fingers continued their assault on the tender spots upon both sides of Bakugou's ribs. "SHIHIHIT!! NOHOHOHO!! Y-YOHOHOU CAN'T!! HAHAHAHAH!! YOU CAHAHAHAN'T!! AAHAHAHAHA!!" "Oh? But I can, you see? You just can't stop me at all. Maaaaaaaybe some nice words will make me go somewhere else." "PL-PLEHEHEHASE!! I DOHOHON'T WAHANT IT TOHOHO EHEHEND YET!! PLEHEHEHASE!! "Since you have asked so nicely I will move somewhere else." Kirishima smiled fondly down at Bakugou as he caught his breath. He pulled away from the blonde and moved higher up on the bed. The balled fists of his angry boy caught his eye and he nodded to himself, having chosen his next spot to play with. Kirishima reached forward and took Bakugou's left fist in his hands. In turn, Bakugou looked up at him and whined at Kirishima's next target but willingly opened his hand. Soon as the fingers were held back and an index finger drawing figures eights in his palm, he was lost to giggles again. Bakugou would never forget the day when his loveable boyfriend had found out that his palms were quite soft and incredibly ticklish to light touches. That whole night was filled with helpless giggles as his hands were held captive to teasing thumbs caressing while cruel arms and fingers held him captive. "Gehehehehehe! Why? Why thahahat spohohot?", Bakugou tittered out as he shook his head side to side at the feather-light sensations. "Because you have such adorable giggles when you are teased here. It is such a shame you don't let others hear you this happy.", Kirishima stated as he kept a steady pace on Bakugou's palm. "Nohohoho way aham I lehetting anyone else hear mehehehe gihihiggle." "But if you did, you probably would get tickled a whooooooole lot more. Obviously, this would be the only way to hear them so freely after all." The whine and deep red blush that dusted over Bakugou's cheeks were so worth it. Kirishima knew that there was little to no chance Bakugou would ever let anyone have him this vulnerable. This was his and his alone to treasure and enjoy. To be fair, he often went back and forth himself about wanting anyone else knowing that Bakugou was such a tickling masochist. About 45 minutes had passed, filled with switched spots along Bakugou's upper body and legs as well as playful banter mixed with laughter, before the code word "Yellow" was spoken. Kirishima had quickly stopped and given Bakugou a much-needed breather with comforting strokes through his hair. "Doing okay, Bakubabe?" Bakugou snorted at the silly pet name but nodded his head with a smile. He was beginning to reach his limit which meant Kirishima would finish him off by going for the soles of his feet next. Kirishima had stupidly called

it his "head to toe" treatment and it was a satisfaction guarantee. Bakugou knew he was going to be dead ass tired after this, that was for sure. He had contemplated coming home in his Hero boots just to see the look of sheer pouting upon Kirishima's face again. That "correction" had been spent completely on his feet after Kirishima stubbornly unbuckled each buckle and slipped the boots off. The whole idea backfired for poor Bakugou after having realized WAY too late that those boots of his made his soles much more susceptible to teasing. Kirishima enjoyed the hell out of it greatly. "Heh heh heh….yeah….I'm Greeheeheen…..I aham about dohone though." "Finale time it is then." Kirishima then moved to the end of the bed and slipped off Bakugou's last remaining shoe. It seems one had been dislodged during the beginning of the session. Giggling at the silliness of that, Kirishima had begun to stroke his fingers along the arches of Bakugou's soles. The reaction was instant. "Hahahahahaha! Dahahahamnit! It TIHIHICKLES!! Hahahahahaha!" "Oh, it can't possibly tickle THAT bad. You are not even laughing as hard as you would be if I were tickling your upper ribs." Kirishima playfully antagonized Bakugou, fingers caressing at the inner arch and instep. "Why dohohoes thahahahat TIHIHICKLE sohohoho much!! "Oh, I don't know. Maybe because your feet are a close second to your upper ribs." "Thahahahat was RHETORICAL!! Aahahahahaha!! ASSHOHOHOLE!!" Kirishima shook his head and smirked, now wiggling his fingers slowly upon the wiggling toes. "You never learn, do you? That mouth of yours will always get you into trouble." "AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! FUHUHUCK! AHAHAHAHAHAHA!" Bakugou had tried his best to stay strong and tough out the extreme sensations, but he was exhausted. "AAAHAHAHA!! QUIRK!! QUHUHUHUHIHIHIHIHRK!! AAHAHAHAHA!!" Kirishima stopped once again and let Bakugou out of his restraints. Pulling him into a hug and holding him close, Kirishima rubbed Bakugou's back and whispered that he did such a good job. "Happy Birthday, my Dynamite." Happily worn out and relaxed, Bakugou yawned out a "Thank You". Soon after, he was out like a light using Kirishima's shoulder as a pillow. Kirishima smiled fondly down at his boyfriend and decided a nap together was just what they needed.

[lovelivingmydreams]

My king au headcannon Part two

So this is the follow up to this post  Which is a headcanon for this au created by @rondoel Enjoy!

Something to think about The king was meditating. He was trying to familiarize himself with the mindscape again, get a better feeling of it and see what his halves had done since the split. He was sorely disappointed. There were pages upon pages of ideas, but he found no evidence of them in the fantasy realm. No traces of the epic quests the ‘light’ half had envisioned, despite how well worked out they appeared. An ‘Ultimate Storytime’ should have left traces in the kingdom. Remus at least lived out his ideas even if they were only ever half formed and lacked substance beyond the initial impulse that brought them about. The results of these outbursts weren’t all that impressive either. He didn’t examine the ideas too closely. Obviously his perfectionistic half had abandoned them for a reason and so they weren’t worth his time. The one named Roman had spent some time in the fantasy realm, but he didn’t considered it his main duty. Instead he’d wasted time on crafting ‘ideas’ and ‘bonding’ with the others. Even the impulsive Remus had prioritized interacting with Deceit over expressing himself. Disgusting. Not that he could truly fault either of his halves. Other than his purpose every trace of him had been purged from their minds during the split. They hadn’t known to distrust the others the way he knew they should’ve. Obviously the others were to blame for all this.

As he thought of them he could feel his minister’s energy surging and subsiding in subtle burst and raging waves. One of Roman’s nickname for him ‘Stormy Knight’ seemed to suit the boy quite well at the moment. The minister was mostly alone, aside from morality. Someone had to babysit him he supposed. Suddenly he became aware of music… something strange yet familiar. “Disney. Medley.” A faint memory offered him. He remembered Disney. It was his aspiration to create worlds and adventures just as amazing for Thomas to escape to when the real world inevitably bored him. Clearly he hadn’t been gone long enough for that to change. Though he didn’t recognize the melody that was currently playing, even though he could tell that it wasn’t something obscure and nearly forgotten to Thomas. The entire imagination responded to the melody as if it was an old friend. Almost as if it was born here even. There were voices singing, a magnificent harmony. Powerful and foreboding. He followed the sound of the voices and soon saw a structure appear. As he approached he found it was a massive statue expertly carved from marble. Center stage stood a figure he recognized as Thomas holding his hands in front of him to form a heart. A brilliant smile on his face. It was heartwarming to see his boy like that. To Thomas’ left stood grown Morality with one arm thrown over his shoulder and another pulling the hooded side, Anxiety, his minister, into the group. The young side allowed it with a small smirk and gentle eyes directed at their protégé. On Thomas’ right stood Logic, a steady hand on the boy’s shoulder as he adjusted his glasses, which did not conceal the fond look on the man’s face. On Logic’s right stood Deceit, his back slightly turned to the rest and adjusting his hat, but also with a soft, caring expression gracing his features. Then right behind Thomas, standing slightly taller than they would have in reality, seemingly standing on a stage behind the group, but close enough to still be part of the ensemble, was him. Or the two sides that had been him for a while. Roman looked regal and was posing as though he had not a care in the world, his eyes proudly overseeing his subjects. Not minding the presence of Remus who was hanging of his ‘brother’s’ shoulders and making a face. It was an idyllic picture that never was and now never could be. There was beauty in it’s tragic impossibility. At the feet of the stone depictions were stone letters. Fam in cursive and then in big bold lines ILY. And leaning against the L was the minister, singing the song that had lured King away from his meditation. The shadows around him were aiding in his musical endeavor drifting around him and the statue. King took in the marvel once more, wondering how the nervous side had managed to create such a blessing with what should’ve been a cruel curse for at least a few more days before King would grant the young one his council and guidance. He hadn’t enjoyed being cruel to him. Not entirely. Sure, he had opposed creativity in the past and deserved to be disciplined. But king also knew how integral he was to the process. Roman’s discoveries regarding that weren’t lost to him. He couldn’t silence Anxiety completely. He would not get Thomas to go on adventures at all if he did so. But he had to teach him his place now, before he got any ideas of fighting him. The minister had been about to try just that and might have been successful too if he’d gone all out at once. But luckily he seemed unaware of his own abilities, or at least unwilling to use them on what he still thought to be the twins he’d known all his life. Alas he’d never get the opportunity again. “It all can be sold!” the shadows chorused around the teen-like side, captivating baby Morality with their movements as the little one clutched to the dark uniform and distracting King from his musings. “As a specimen yes I’m intimidating!” One voice continued, drifting around the side who was swaying to the music playing in his headphones with his eyes closed, holding onto Morality and then the dark clad side sang himself. “You can blame my friends on the ooootheeeer siiiiiiiiiide.” And just like that the shadows dispersed. Mostly anyway. They still swirled around the minister, but they were more of a dark aura than when they originally manifested. Anxiety seemed to be in better spirits than when he came to offer his ridiculous apology to Roman. King barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the memory. What a waste of time. Still it had been sincere, at least it seemed to be. And King wasn’t completely insensitive. He could understand that it would be hard for this young one to let go of his halves when he had never known them as one. Perhaps, King could cut him a little slack. Though he would have to remain vigilant… Hmmm, why did that word feel so odd when thinking about… Right, Virgil. Everyone had names now. Not that he cared much for those. Names were too… Names were for friends, allies. He didn’t need a name, nor did his subjects. Lest any of them forget who was in charge. King wouldn’t. Never again. The infant noticed that they were no longer alone in the room and tugged at Anxiety’s hair to get his attention. In response Thomas’ guardian pulled off his headphones and looked down at the heart. “What’s wrong popstar… or… Well, doesn’t really fit right now I guess,” Anxiety chuckled a little sadly. “Guess I’m more the dad now than you, huh?” he mused. “When this is all over, I promise I’ll never complain about you treating me like your kid again.” There was an uneasiness forming in King’s stomach. Anxiety was close with Morality, both Roman and Remus remembered that. But… how close was Morality with Anxiety? King knew that their ‘moral compass’ could be as two faced as Deceit. No, this could be part of an elaborate plan to gain his trust, he’d fallen for it once before. And of course they’d send Anxiety to do their dirty work now that all of them had already shown him their true colors. Little Morality pointed at King and Anxiety looked up, curious at first and then his eyes widened in fear. He put the child behind him and stood in a strange mixture of a respectful bow and a defensive stance. Arms slightly spread to shield his friend and head raised so he didn’t quite let his eyes leave King’s frame. “I…I’m sorry if I was too loud,” Anxiety offered with trembling voice, assuming he’d angered his king someway. Good. King approached, not sure if he was in the mood to scold or to praise just yet, but stopped about three steps in front of Anxiety as his foot hit something. He looked down and saw that the floor surrounding his minister was covered in sketches. He looked up at Anxiety with a raised brow, curious to hear what had brought on this little storm of creativity. And he found him staring at the sketches around them in horror. Then he seemingly felt the structure behind him, he turned and looked up in horror, trembling even harder. He looked back at King with wide eyes. “I…I didn’t mean to…” he started. “Then I look forward to see what you create for me when you intend to do so young one,” King mutters calmly, as he bids one of the drawings to come to his hand. As far as he can tell it’s two children playing in a forest. “Tell me about this one boy,” he instructs as he shows Anxiety the drawing. The side takes the sketch with a frown and looks at it for a moment before a small smile of recognition appears on his face. “I’d manifested for about two months. Remus felt it was about time I came on an adventure,” he starts explaining, and as he does the drawing rises up and gains colors and details that weren’t there before. Anxiety didn’t seem to notice, too captivated by his own memory as he described how freaked out he was by the forest and all its creepy creatures. Remus never let a single one touch him though. Still, it was stressful for him and he didn’t come along as often as Remus would like. The painting showed two preteens, Remus and Anxiety, the later clutching a comfort item, pillow or blanket, King wasn’t sure, maybe it was a stuffed animal. They were running around and laughing. But in their shadows Anxiety was curled up in a ball and Remus was making a gesture as if he’d just popped out and screamed ‘boo’. A lovely memory with a shadow side. But that was the nicest thing Anxiety could create with the power King had granted. Once the story was done and the painting finished, King snapped his fingers and conjured a dark wooden frame with a vine pattern around it and hung it on a non-existent wall. “I’m sorry, I know you said to get rid of the feelings, but I… I can’t… I always mess up like this please I…” Anxiety flinched when King reached out for him. Curling into himself, expecting another curse or some other punishment perhaps. Which is probably why his posture relaxed and his face was overcome with confused surprise when all he received was a brief pat on his hair. “You may not have gotten rid of those feelings but you did something even better,” King laid a hand on Anxiety’s shoulder and looked down on him. “You made something out of them. I am very pleased with you,” he informed his disciple. Anxiety looked up at him confused. “Really?” he asked, his voice breaking over the single word. Before King could answer, a displeased cooing pulled Anxiety’s attention away. He turned around and picked up the infant who immediately latched onto his neck and stared at King over his shoulder. Clearly the infant retained enough of Morality’s adult thoughts to be wary of him. Good it wouldn’t be a proper curse if the traitor wasn’t aware of the danger King posed to him and his precious family. King grinned menacingly at Morality, hoping it’d confirm the child’s worst fears about his intentions for who he apparently considered a son. What could be worse than agonizing over the fact that your sins would result in an innocent paying for them? For that innocent to be your child of course. “Please Pat, behave alright?” Anxiety muttered as he got up and turned back to the king. “Sorry… Your majesty. He’s a bit clingy,” the young man offered nervously. “Not your fault. I don’t quite understand why Logic and Deceit would leave the care for such a fussy child to their youngest.” Not quite true, King could perfectly see how they thought they had to concentrate on finding a weapon against him that they hadn’t tried already. But still. One would think that the two oldest should be in charge of protecting both their young ones, instead of letting them wander off into the territory of their enemy. If Anxiety had failed to entertain him with his tale, who knows what he would’ve done to amuse himself during this second visit? Maybe he’d put morality in a bit of a dilemma… He might still do so if he ever needed for Anxiety to see that his ‘dad’ didn’t love him as much as he always claimed. “Taking care of him keeps my mind occupied. I don’t want to give Thomas nightmares or anxiety attacks. He doesn’t deserve to suffer for our messes,” Anxiety explained. King might be mistaken, but that almost sounded accusatory. He elected to ignore it. Once his rule was properly reestablished, he could revisit the subject if at all necessary, which he doubted. “Well, creating art seems to do the trick just as well,” he mused as he called forth another picture. Anxiety guessed what he wanted, looked at the picture and started to talk about the movie night and a popcorn fight, then a duel with cardboard swords and laughing about memories of middle school. The colors once again revealed a pleasant day, with a shadow of self-doubt and fear of abandonment. The shadows showed Anxiety pleading on his knees while Roman threatened him with a sword. This time the frame King made was golden and held roses. “C…Can I ask something milord,” Anxiety asked timidly. “Questions are always welcomed in the realm of creativity,” King decreed. Questions created possibilities. “What happened? Before the split I mean? The other’s won’t ever tell me.” That surprised King. And from the way Morality stiffened, he had to assume it was the truth. They’d really not taken the chance to sway Anxiety’s opinion in their favor? For a moment he considers spinning a grand tale of betrayal and heartbreak, but he found the very thought of recalling the details of the events leading up to the split… unpleasant. “I trusted them and they turned against me because they disagreed with my vision for Thomas,” he informed Anxiety calmly, hoping it was enough for now. “I’m sorry. That… That is terrible,” he whispered hugging Morality closer. The young minister couldn’t see it but there were tears in Morality’s eyes. Which pleased King. Let the bespectacled traitor be afraid this may end up being the last hug he’ll ever receive from his precious Anxiety. Was this why they didn’t tell him? Because they knew that there was no spin they could give to their deeds that wouldn’t destroy the trust they’d built with the one among them who already feared being betrayed. “I… It was a long time ago. I think… Logan seemed very ashamed of what happened. Even Janus seems to feel bad. I’m sure… can’t we all…” Anxiety struggled to express his desires, but a new drawing showed what he wanted. King and Logic shaking hands amidst the others, all back to normal and smiling relieved. Faint shadows of Roman and Remus with an arm around one another’s shoulders right behind King. The fact that his minister’s powers had conjured it showed that the desire felt impossible. King dismissed this drawing in favor of another. Anxiety sighed, accepting that the subject was finished, and continued to regale him with stories of the twins. Sometimes it was a sad memory where the shadows revealed his care and worry for them both. Like a fight over a failed audition where shadow Anxiety was trying to patch up shadow Roman. Or a fight about a nightmare where the shadow of Anxiety was embracing Remus. Then memories of the other’s came. A debate about negative thoughts where shadow Logic laid a hand on shadow Anxiety’s shoulder as a gesture of pride. A staring match with Deceit but their shadows were reaching for each other. One memory had no shadows. The ‘lights’ were in Anxiety’s domain and reaching out for him as he sat huddled in on himself on the ground. The image was conflicted enough on it’s own. Then King picked up a drawing of Morality. “That’s the first time you came to talk to me remember Pat?” Virgil coed to the child who’d been rather quiet during the creation of this gallery. Anxiety recalled how he’d been upset about another fight with Roman and he’d come over and sat with him in silence. Then he’d offered him one of his cookies. It had surprised Anxiety, he knew how much Morality loved his cookies. Sharing one was his standard gesture of love and appreciation. But Anxiety felt like he didn’t deserve either at the time. He felt trapped in a role he didn’t want to play. And because of Morality talking to him that day, for the first time, he thought that maybe he didn’t have to be. Anxiety talked more about how the thought was quickly dismissed as unrealistic but King found that it was hard to focus. The colors revealed a painting of a side being offered a hand by Morality. He didn’t even notice the shadows this time. It was like he was trapped in his own memories. Then suddenly, he was back in the present and heard something beside him. A wailing child and someone gasping for air like they’d ran a marathon at full speed. He looked down and found Anxiety curled up in a ball, rocking back and forth with a crying Morality sitting next to him clutching onto his arm. Before he could wonder what had happened he could feel the others approaching at high speed. He stepped back, not wanting to be found too close to the distressed side. He could not allow them to think for even a moment, that he felt a second of worry for the minister. He didn’t, but he didn’t need the implications of such a show of weakness to bring his strength into question. “Patton! Virgil!” Deceit called out, causing Morality to calm down and just let out a few more sniffles. King set up a disinterested mask and turned to the approaching sides. “Oh good, deal with this. They bore me,” he drawled calmly as he stepped aside. He was barely acknowledged which he normally would take offense in, but he’d let it slide until he knew what had happened just now. And if it had anything to do with that terrible feeling that had struck him when he saw Anxiety’s drawing. Logic kneeled next to Anxiety and Deceit spoke with Logic’s voice. “Virgil, can you hear us?” The boy nodded. “May we touch you?” Another nod and Logic placed his hands on the side’s shoulders. “Breath Virgil, in for 4, hold for 7 out for 8, you can do it.” One more nod and the side started to follow the rhythm that was tapped on his shoulders, stuttering trough the 4th count of holding his breath. “That’s alright, try again.” King observed as the two patiently helped Anxiety to breathe normally again. Somewhere along the line the troubled side started to whisper ‘sorry,’ and ‘so stupid’. “You are not stupid, your feelings are valid and we are here to help you with them. We shouldn’t have left you on your own. Especially not with him around,” Deceit growled, now in his own voice, before turning to King. “I don’t care what you do to me, but leave Virgil out of this! He has nothing to do with this.” Before king could retort. Claim the responsibility and remind Deceit that he’ll play with his minister however he likes, the boy spoke up himself. “Not his fault. Just, random attack,” he muttered. Deceit and King looked down and found Anxiety holding onto Logic with Morality trying his best to stand on wobbly legs while holding onto the purple sash adorning the minster uniform. Logic and Morality were staring at him accusatory, but Anxiety was pleading with Deceit. “You don’t have to defend him Virgil. We know what he’s like… And we’ll do a better job at protecting you now. I swear. Let us look out for you for once, please,” Deceit pleaded. So interesting. For all Anxiety’s fears of being abandoned and betrayed, the others seemed to fear for his safety before their own. Had they changed? Or had Anxiety not yet given them sufficient reason to be muzzled? Or was it his drastic decision of muzzling himself that had made them cautious of messing with his part of their duties? “I’m not. Jan look at me. You’d know if I was lying. He was just listening to me. He didn’t do anything bad. I promise.” Deceit frowned confused. “He didn’t do this to harm you? To cause you to create…” Finally Deceit really looked at what King and Anxiety had been working on and the statue Anxiety had done all by himself. “Virgil what…” “I don’t know, I was listening to music and all this just sort of happened. His majesty was helping me finish some drawings,” he explained, confusing King. Was he… what’s the term? Covering for him? Then Anxiety got up, picking up Morality and looking at Logic who followed his movements, hands hovering around him. As if he were afraid that the younger side would fall apart at any moment. “Please, just go back alright, I’ll be fine. Thanks for helping but you should focus on making sure Thomas is alright,” Anxiety explained bravely, not quite looking at the others. Had recalling all his doubts and fears made him suspicious of the others? This could benefit King greatly. “Run along now. And take Morality. I have matters to discuss with my minister. In private,” King informed Logic and Deceit. Anxiety looked from King back to his tutor and confidant and offered him Morality. Logic shook his head with wide eyes. “Logan, it’s alright. You look after Pat for a minute. I’ll be back soon. Just… Please trust me?” Logic hesitated, sighed in defeat and took the child. He moved to leave, but paused. He turned and laid a hand on Anxiety’s shoulder, a moment passed while the two held each other’s gaze. Anxiety nodded and patted Logic’s hand. “I will be safe. When am I ever not?” Something that would have been a chuckle rippled through Logic’s chest as he stepped away and started walking back to the commons, glancing back every ten steps or so. “Virgil… I…” Deceit started, unable to finish the thought. “I know. I’ll be okay.” And with that final assurance and a distrustful look towards King the last of the traitors left. “Why?” King wondered. It seemed obvious to him that whatever Anxiety just went through was actually meant for him. And not only had he taken the hit, he had covered for him as well. “I’m anxiety, taking on the insecurities and fears of the others is part of my job. I don’t take it all, just the really bad bits when I can take it. And… it took me forever to open up to the others about my own attacks. It wasn’t my place to share about yours. It’s nothing personal. Just me being professional I guess,” he shrugged casually. King allowed himself a small smirk and once again reached out to pat Anxiety’s hair. Once more the boy’s first instinct was to flinch, but he still let him do as he pleased. “Well done my boy. You have potential,” he told him before returning his attention to another drawing, leaving the one of Morality frameless. Later he might tell the little one a bit more about the betrayal. But first. He needed to get to know him better. “Now how about this one.”Being petted like a dog was degrading, humiliating. Trying to not just be civil towards him but formal and respectful was torture. But it was better than what he feared would happen every time the King moved his hand towards him. Virgil didn’t like being changed against his will and this king would do as he pleased with him. Which is why he had to keep him happy and away from the others. He ignored the urge to smile every time he received the king’s praise. He is not going to develop Stockholm Syndrome just because off a few half-baked complements. This guy is still a threat to Thomas… Even if the others, maybe made a mistake in the past and have a hard time owning up to that right now. Fact remained that Virgil’s job was to keep everyone safe. That meant making them not want to decapitate the king over an anxiety attack he hadn’t triggered on purpose. Still… What had triggered the attack?

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: A King’s Wrath.

Word Count: 1.8k 

Pairing: Yandere!Overblot!Leona/Reader

Synopsis: Last time Leona lost control, you had help. Back-up isn’t a privilege he seemed intent to give you, this time around.

TW: Graphic Violence, Blood and Delusional Mindsets.

Overblot was a terrible thing.

You should know, you’d been around it enough to see the signs, to recognize just how depraved it could make the people you thought you knew. It was messy, it was desperate, it was an affliction you couldn’t fight off until it’d already ravaged your peers and hurt your friends. It was a curse, in every sense of the word. You were almost glad you hadn’t been born with magic, somedays, when you got a chance to see what it could do if it got out of hand.

Leona, in particular, was not a man to be underestimated. Even before you really knew him, when you were still confused and lost in a world you barely understood, you hadn’t been able to recognize the monster he turned into at the slightest hints of imbalance. You could barely stand to watch, the sight bringing tears to your eyes as surely as the sandstorm he’d summoned, but you’d figured that would be a one-time offense. It was over, and his childhood strife was behind him. He’d grown from it, and you’d helped him. You were proud of him, even if you’d never dare to say that outloud. He didn’t need the ego boost, and you didn’t need to deal with another cocky, self-satisfied lecture on the vastness of his superiority. 

Well... you thought he’d gotten better, at least.

You were starting to think you’d gotten your hopes up too soon.

You could feel it. The electricity in the air, the searing warmth mingling with a distinct, sudden chill, neither feeling managing to completely block out the other. You were sweating, but you were shivering. You were scrambling backward, searching for ground that wouldn’t fall out from under your feet, but you were frozen in place, rooted to the soil that wanted so badly to push you away. It’d been instantaneous. One moment, he was guiding you into the forest surrounding the academy, your hand in his and a whine playing on your tongue about his bone-crushing grip or his unmatchable pace, and the next, you were like this, his expression fallen and his confident confession crushed and discarded by your awkward, rushed rejection. It’d been too blunt. It’d been too harsh.

It’d been honest, and you could never be honest with Leona.

You weren’t dumb enough to try to talk him down or take him on. You were alone, painfully, stupidly alone, out of the reach of the Headmaster or Malleus or someone who could help you, not that you had the right to be picky, at the moment. You wished you’d insisted on taking Grimm with you, or Ace or Deuce or anyone you could’ve convinced Leona to bring along, but you didn’t. Your only chance was to flee, to push yourself to your feet and run for it, even if you doubted you’d be able to make it. Still, it wasn’t much of a choice. Cramping lungs and sore legs were far preferable to the creature you’d left behind you.

Leona wasn’t one to be neglected, though. Already, you could hear him catching up to you, recovering from his blind rage and falling into a targetted, pointed wrath, putting your suffering above the destruction of trees and flowers that’d only witnessed his humiliation. Dust hung in the open air, fragrant and overwhelming, your eyes stinging and your throat going dry, although you couldn’t be sure whether that was Leona’s magic or your own suffocating fear. Each crushed leaf made it worse, every noise sending a jolt through your chest, giving you a new reason to run faster, to scream louder. Somewhere in the distance, Leona laughed, the noise throaty, threatening. Easily drowning out your voice.

But, he could laugh all he wanted. You could see a soft glow, the lights of a dormitory, although you couldn’t guess which it was. It didn’t matter, though. Soon, you’d have help. You’d be safe--

Without warning, the ground underneath you fell away, turning to something malleable and pliant. You slipped before you put a name to it, falling into the shallow pit of sand that’d formed between you and a kneeling Leona, a single palm carelessly pressed to the ground. You tried to get up, but even like this, Leona was faster than you, moving like a predator seeking out its prey, his fist closing around your wrist and wrenching you to your feet before you could stand on your own. The pain was immediate, burning. As if your body was trying to tear itself apart, and you just had to stand back, watching as defined trails carved themselves into your skin. There was blood, but it disappeared as it washed over his hand, mixing with the blank ink that already stained his fingertips. You wondered if it would leave a mark, when he turned back.

If he turned back.

A low, wordless groan forced its way from your grit teeth, and Leona pushed his shoulders back, taking on the air of a victorious warlord as if you’d already admitted defeat. You supposed you had. “Does it hurt?” He asked, a cruel lilt heavy in his voice. You didn’t think before nodding, hoping for the smallest hint of mercy, but Leona only cocked his head to the side, the gesture unnaturally angular, drawing attention to the lopsided smirk pulling at one corner of his mouth. Rigid and symbolic, not unlike his touch. “Good. I’m not wasting my time, then.”

Claws found their way into your skin, and it dawned on you that he might want a response. You didn’t have much of a choice than to give one to him. “Leona,” You forced out, his name half a gasp and half a mumble. “This isn’t who you are, you’re… You’re in danger. If you don’t snap yourself out of this, your body’s not going to be able to--”

“I think this is exactly who I am,” He growled, cutting you off with little more than a snarl and a narrow-eyed glance. “I tried to be nice. I tried to be your friend and play your little, oblivious game and be patient. Do you know how long I spent sitting back and waiting for you to come around?” It was a question that didn’t warrant an answer, a single talon driving itself into your flesh, nearly cutting to the bone. You screamed, and he rose his voice to speak over you. “I spent so long acting like your friend, you don’t have the right to--” He interrupted himself with a hitched breath, his mouth closing and his jaw locking into place. And yet, he wasn't any more rational when he decided to continue. “It was pointless. You denied me, and you made it pointless.”

“I-I’m sorry.” An apology felt right, albeit manufactured. He’d told how he felt, and you hadn’t shared his sentiment. He’d said he loved you in that lackadaisical, noncommittal way of his, and you hadn’t known to take him seriously. There was nothing to be sorry for, not from your perspective. Leona was just a brat who’d never been turned down, not by someone he considered so far below himself. Still, you were the one who needed a reason, an excuse that would calm him. A selection blended together on your lips, forming something more incoherent than soothing. “I didn’t know you were… I don’t know what I was saying, I want to be with you. We can be together, but first, you have to stop, alright?” You did your best to sound sympathetic, letting your words draw out into something tender. Something compassionate, despite the pain slowly spreading to your shoulder. “You have to let me help you.”

“You’re the only one that needs help, herbivore.” You were used to the pet name, the playful jab at his place on the food chain, but it didn’t sound like a buy for your annoyance, not when he was standing behind you, his brute force only outmatched by the sweltering heat that surrounded him like an aura. It was a warning, now, a reminder that he had fangs and strength and magic and you didn’t. “If anything, I should’ve done this months ago. It’s so fucking easy.” You can practically hear his sneer. It wasn’t like he made an effort to hide it. “It’s not like you would’ve been much of a challenge, even without the extra blot.”

At that, Leona let you go, more out of disgust than concern. Automatically, you reeled back, bringing your injured arm to your chest as you moved to run, but your freedom was short-lived. As soon as you managed to turn around, his heel made contact with the back of your knee, sending you crashing to the ground with a new ache forming in your calf. In the blink of an eye, his fingers were entangled in your hair, his magic thankfully, thankfully neutralized but his grip so tight, you almost wished he’d just put you out of your misery.

Unfortunately, Leona had never been kind.

You couldn't speak, but he didn’t seem to mind. Rather, he was content to jeer and grin and laugh as you writhed, your hands clamped around overgrown grass in an effort not to lash out and anger him further. But, not fighting back was a double-sided blade, one that gave Leona the authority to assume he’d won. “It’s my fault,” He admitted, abruptly, his faux-empathy layered on so thickly, you didn’t have to wonder if he was trying to be honest. “I should’ve known someone like you would be too dense to understand. You’d never give me what I want, not unless I force it out of you.”

You stiffened. You felt him pull back, letting go of you entirely, but you didn’t dare try to get away. “I don’t… What do you want?”

“I can’t have a throne, can I? I can’t have your heart, and I doubt you’re going to hand it over now.” He sighed, the sound a wistful thing. One that left you more unnerved than his threats ever could. His hand came down again, petting over your hair so gently, you were tempted to melt into it for a brief, fleeting second. “But…”

He was gentle, then he wasn’t, his foot pressing into the small of your back, shoving you to forward without a chance to prepare yourself. Involuntarily, you glanced over your shoulder before yiu could hit the ground , taking in the shadows that danced around him for the first time. The brightness in his eyes, golden and unfamiliar, the shape of something primal and animalistic looming behind him. The cruel, possessive smile on his lips, a smile that only broadened when you failed to look away.

“You can still bow.”

[britishassistant]

@emyluwinter submitted: Hi!!With you again a freelance newspaperman who writes about the reporter Yuu and the Prefect!! I am very glad that you liked my little stories so much that I wrote earlier!!! It's very encouraging that my work is appreciated.

So today will be a small addition to the latest events related to the villainy of Crowley in the form of the kidnapping of Yuu's "family" and friends,and after the final" conversation " of the Prefect with Crowley.

Because of the noise and shouting, opening the room with a spare key, several henchmen cautiously look inside. Yuu had already changed back into civilian clothes and put on extra gloves to hide the knuckles on his hands that had been cut from the blows. - Um....chief, how are you? Yuu takes a deep breath. - Your boss should call a doctor. - So we were talking about you, micro-chief, - one of the minions adds, almost in a whisper. - Huh?Why am I a micro-chef? - Yuu looked at them in confusion. - Well...it's like you've just "talked" to the leader of one of the most powerful villains in the League of Villains.. - Plus your uncle, Mr. Cruel. - Your' family ' and friends are all right. We're not crazy enough to hurt them. - I don't really want to have a walrus's heel sewn on my forehead, - one of the henchmen added ruefully. Yuu couldn't believe it. - Are they really all right? - That's right, micro-chief! But please leave before Mr. Cruel breaks us down into test tubes. We want to live. - And I have a cat at home, how can I be without it. So we'll show you to the exit. Yuu chuckles uncomfortably.It was the first time he had felt so strange. Perhaps it was a mixture of shock, fear, and despair, laced with anger and rage. But for a second, he felt all the power that Crowley held in his hands. But now all this was not necessary, only his loved ones were important.

- Thank you..no, really, I'm grateful that they're safe and sound. - Yuu felt that all these minions were no different from civilians, and they just worked wherever they wanted. And now they are worried about the fact that their superiors have made a lot of mistakes. - Your cameraman friend is a great word player! - I lost three rounds in a row to him. Minions distract Yuu with simple and cute conversations. Some of them showed their pets. Yuu was even asked to sign an autograph as their favorite reporter. They were very moved by their understanding. Although for the most part, they behaved so as not to run into even more trouble. ***

TWST Anita hugged her baby tightly. - Oh Yuu, I was worried if you were okay. - Sorry, Mom - Yuu could barely hold on, they were terribly tired for this day and the last thing they wanted to do was go back to the kidnappings and villainies. TWST Roger patted their hair affectionately. - We were tied up just for show. The rest of the time off-camera, we sat on their couch. - He won four games of cards with the guards,- Anita added, chuckling softly. - Well, they're not stupid enough to harm us.- Roger chuckled. Yuu was just glad that they were all right. Yuuken held Grimm in his arms while standing next to them. - You held out well. - I should have burned all his feathers! - Grimm snorted. - And you cheated, Yuuken! You've made up more than half the words! - No, I didn't cheat, the guards told you the words. Yuu took a deep breath, the growing panic attack quickly passed in his parents ' arms and listening to Yuuken and Grimm. Uncle Divus arrived just a few minutes before the lair to make sure they were all right. None of the minions or minions were even willing to leave shadows in his path. "I sincerely apologize, Anita, that that idiot with the feathers would do something like that. Divus said guiltily, looking at his sister. - Don't take Divvy personally, I know that neither you nor Yuu will let us offend anyone. Everything ended well. - Anita said gently. Cruel relaxed a little at the realization that there was nothing wrong with the people close to him. Looking at the tired Yuu,Kruel just silently hugged him and hugged him very tightly. - You did very well, Yuu. I'm proud of you. - Thank you, Uncle Divvy...I think this time it's over once and for all. -I heard from the guards that Prefect beat him to the intensive care unit, but I don't know how he managed to get in. Yuu chuckled mirthlessly - yes, Prefect helped me out when it was most needed. Ah...I saw him get through the vent or something. Roger swore softly. - Damn it, I wanted to get his autograph! - Roger!Why do you need an autograph? - Little kitty King even has one, I also want an autograph!

Grimm uneasily climbs onto Yuu's shoulders and rubs his head against Yuu's cheek. He watched Yuu more closely than anyone else and saw the state they were in. - Hey .. Yuu. - Yes, Grimm? - Let you take a vacation, your hands are shaking like you're not letting go of a jackhammer. - Grimm glared at Yuu. - I absolutely agree with him, Yuu. Honey, you need a break, you have black eyes and you've lost weight since the last time we met. Being under constant stress is detrimental to your health. - Div, what about that country house you were talking about the other day? - Roger immediately joined in, taking up the idea. - I'm driving, so we can all go together. - Yuuken, you'll go too, no objection,- Anita smiled softly. - Yes, ma'am. I'll just talk to my superiors about letting us go for a couple of days. - Weeks at least,- Сruel added. *** Sitting surrounded by at least 15 pups, Yuu felt like he was falling asleep, they were really too tired for everything that had happened. The quiet snuffling of the pups around him brought him back nostalgically to the time when Yuu was just learning to play the piano with his father and, due to his age and height, couldn't reach the pedals below. How he and Uncle Divus would look at all sorts of fashion magazines, and Yuu would try to draw this or that dress or suit with crayons under his uncle's guidance. Even now, he could hear his mother and father discussing something with Uncle Divvy over a bottle of wine and quiet laughter. Grimm and Juuken fell asleep in a couple of minutes lying on the couch. Grimm climbed onto Yuuken's stomach and used it as a pillow.

Only in the evening, waking up from the doorbell, Yuu sleepily opened his eyes, they slept so soundly and well that they did not even notice how one of the particularly daring and playful puppies tried to gnaw his sleeve. - Who's, Uncle Divvy? - Yuu rubbed his eyes and yawned contentedly. Cruel carried several boxes into the room. - Courier with delivery, although it is strange that no one expected a special package. - What's is Divvy? - It came in the name of Yuu. - Me? - After getting out of the trap of the puppies, Yuu looked at the boxes with a puzzled expression. They were all in his name. And then Yuu noticed several small cards attached to the boxes. In the first box were expensive bagels with filling and frosting. It was a gift from Tsunotaro with an apology that they had to go through all this and Crowley had caused them so much inconvenience.

In the boxes from Tsunotaro there was also a basket of wild roses with a very pleasant and subtle aroma. Several varieties of very delicious tea and a letter was enclosed in an envelope. - "The items are very expensive and refined. Who is this secret fan, sweety? - Anita smiled softly. - From a friend, Mom...a very kind and good friend. - Yuu pulled out the letter and sat down on a chair and began to run his eyes over the beautiful written lines. Malleus certainly tried to put all his feelings and sincere empathy into the lines. The letter was very touching and full of grace, but the one phrase that caught Yuu's attention most was the one from the villain. "If you or your loved ones need help, please contact me first. It doesn't matter what the circumstances are, it doesn't matter who I have to stand up against, whether it's villainous or even heroic, I will always help you no matter what happens, my dear and sweet reporter. Your loyal friend and " pink ink was added "and the most important terrible villain" - this must have been Vanruge. ... your loyal friend and loyal fan. Enjoy your vacation, we'll probably take a break for a while, too. " At the bottom was another postscript in pink ink : "One of the minions had the temerity to fall asleep in a den with the windows open. And now in our shelter a flock of birds, rabbits, squirrels and other small creatures that need to be attached" Yuu choked on a laugh as he imagined the mighty Tsunotaro surrounded by all these cute little animals. Finally, this long day gave Yuu something good, at least they will spend a few days with their family and close friends. Finally, the long-awaited rest and a short vacation came. By the way, the bagels with stuffing that were sent were damn delicious. - To bribe me on an empty stomach, up villainy is not otherwise-Yuu grinned, finishing another bagel. Thank you for your attention!

AAAAAAAH, I LOVE THIS!!

The perfect little ending to ease the sad of the last submission!! Yuu getting away with beating up Crowley! Crowley’s henchpeople treating Yuu with more respect and kindness than birb dad does!! Yuu’s dad wanting the Prefect’s autograph!! Forcing Yuu onto a vacation because their family loves them and wants them to feel safe and happy!! Yuuken and Grim going home with them and falling asleep in the puppy pile together!! Malleus’ care package and Lilia’s additions to his note!! I LOVE EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS!!

Thank you so much for sending this in!!

[a-edgar-allan-hoe]

The Red Witch

Jasper Hale x Reader Part 5

A/N: Part 5 is here my lovelies! Bon apetit! Let me know if you want to be added to the tag list. 💕

Summary: Imagine being an immortal witch from the Middle Ages and being the previous love of Jasper before he was turned. You two were separated under certain circumstances and cross each other’s path once again, years later in the present era.

Warnings: Language

Part 1 , Part 2 , Part 3 , Part 4

It was the year 1862. You were sitting in the private carriage of the train that early morning, on the route to Houston. This was your first time in America and you couldn’t help the excitement in you as stared out the window at the vast lands before you. Unbeknownst to Charlotte and some others, you were a countess at the time, in courtesy of your father, Count Balthazar, who was long dead. But you tried to keep your family history as confidential as possible, considering your father was a sorcerer and your mother a witch. When you grew into a young woman, you left your family castle and went your own way, leaving behind everything that reminded you of your cruel father and donated all his wealth to charity. As for your mother, she was a beautiful sea witch. After the death of your father, she was able to gain her freedom and now lives happily in a humble cottage on the coast of Scotland, close to her beloved sea, and married to the local clocksmith who loves her more than your father ever could.

The reason you were traveling to Houston was because you were recently invited out here to preform at the local theatre for charity, to which which all the funds would go towards the families affected by the war. You were a known opera singer at the time and people fell in love with your clear and soft voice that held all the emotion and sadness behind it which was beautiful to their ears. You were also quite an exceptional pianist. It originally started out as a hobby, something you decided to test the waters with, but you didn’t know it would grow into something serious, eventually venturing you out into having a strong passion for the arts like singing, acting, and even painting. When your father was around, you were never able to pursue such things. He believed they were nonsense, a complete and utter waste of time. While these activities were useless to him, they were your whole heart and soul for you. You breathed for the arts. You guess you had your mother to thank for that, she used to sing you a lullaby every night when you were a child to calm your nerves because of the visions you would have. Thankfully, those visions ceased to happen as you got older.

The gentle rocking and sound of the train had lulled you to sleep as you currently had your head leaned against the window and your feet thrown up on the seat of the train. Your hair was tied up in a bun with a peridot green ribbon while a few loose pesky strands fell about your face. A leather bound Wuthering Heights book was tucked neatly in your hands on your lap. You were wearing a simple grey long sleeved gingham linen dress with delicate black lace trim at the sleeves and your collar. A peridot green velvet ribbon was tied around your waist, your neckline sat at the bottom of your neck and covered your collarbone, and a few black buttons ran down the front of your bodice.

Your dear friend at the time was sitting across from you with her fiancé. Her name was Charlotte Griffiths, the daughter of a governor. And though she was mortal, you absolutely adored her, for she took you in when you nearly did not have a home and cared for you as if you were her own sister. Then again, you always adored mortals. This was before you had known Melanie whom you had only met in the 60s. Charlotte’s fiancé was Lord Ernest Thompson, the owner of a estate and a businessman. He was a kind, charitable, and respectable young man, and you thought he was the perfect match for Charlotte. They both were kind and gentle souls.

“Isn’t this exciting (Y/N)?” Charlotte squealed, waking you from your nap.

“Hm?” You opened your sleepy eyes to look at a blur of what most likely was your friend. “Oh of course.” You yawned, giving yourself a minute to adjust your eyes and mind to reality. “Technically you’re the one who begged me to accept the invitation for performing here and practically dragged me along.” You smirked.

“Oh admit it. I saw your face light up when you received that invitation. Anyways, isn’t this a wonderful little adventure for us? You’ve told me how much you liked to travel.”

“Well I wouldn’t quite call a civil war a wonderful little adventure.” You snarked lightheartedly, letting out a scoff before starting to dwell upon what sort of mess you’ve just gotten into.

“My god woman.” Ernest chuckled playfully, lifting his eyes from the newspaper he was reading, his glasses sitting at the bridge of his nose as he glanced at Charlotte. “Can’t you see (Y/N) was asleep?”

“Well I....I’m merely excited my love.”

“Merely?” He raised a brow.

“Oh you’re being harsh on her Ernest.” You joked along, smiling to yourself as the lovers started to lightly quarrel.

You stared out the window again, watching the scenery blur past. You have seen many lands in your time, how they have changed over the course of years, how some have come and vanished to dust. You have seen kings rise and fall. But you haven’t been here, to America. This was all foreign to you.

The train finally came to a stop at the train station and you quickly grabbed your things, desperate to get out and stretch your legs. You hastily threw on your matching bonnet, not caring that it sat crooked on your head. You rushed towards the door and hitched up your skirt, struggling with the petticoat and making sure not to go past the ankles of your boots and expose your stockings or else Charlotte would have a heart attack. You grabbed the handle and stepped down from the train and onto the wooden platform as Charlotte and Ernest followed suit.

Right when you stepped out you could feel the hot and thick damp air surround you, and you couldn’t help but bring out your fan and fan yourself vicariously.

“My goodness it’s muggy. It’s like the devil’s bollocks out here.” You breathed out.

“(Y/N)!” Charlotte exclaimed, smacking you gently with her fan. “Mind your manners!”

“Sorry.”

“You forgot your parasol by the way.”

“Oh. Right.” You took your parasol from her hands and opened it up, putting your fan away. “Wouldn’t want to forget my complexion guardian.”

You were so used to London weather, now you had to get used to this, and your corset was not helping either.

“Would you look at that Charlotte. The sun.” You made a point to her, only making her shake her head.

Once you were all settled and had your things you all headed to the nearest bed and breakfast and checked into your rooms. You and Charlotte shared one while Ernest had his own. You had just set your belongings inside before Charlotte decided now would be a good time to go to the local tea house, despite your slight dismay as you would much rather be taking a nap. You were sitting out on the tables in front of the local tea house, your head propped up by your hand and a cup of tea in your other, while chatting with Charlotte as you watched the local people pass by.

“My goodness. This heat, it’s nearly disgusting.” Charlotte fanned herself as she wiped her forehead.

“I’m sweating in places I didn’t know I had. I might as well be stripping myself bare to the bone.” You added, fanning yourself with your hand.

“I told you to wear a crinoline.”

“What? Those ghastly looking cages for your legs? Never.”

You stared off into the distance in a sort of dazed state, thinking about your comfortable bed back home, and your collection of books you left behind. You were also starting to miss your mother, wishing you were in Scotland watching the waves with her, before noticing that Charlotte had gone awfully quiet.

“What’s gotten into you?” You asked her, seeing her stare at something behind you. “Charlotte?”

“My my, I think you have an admirer.” She giggled, her youthful face lit up with giddiness as she tried to contain her laughter.

“What on earth are you babbling about?” You turned to follow her gaze and saw a tall stranger wearing a military uniform staring in your direction. You straightened up in your chair, your face firm as you started to feel yourself get anxious. You were silently hoping he wouldn’t come over to your table to strike up a conversation.

“Oh! He’s a rather fine looking gentleman I must say. Annnd he’s an officer.” Charlotte was now leaning in to whisper noticeably in your ear. You can practically hear her next you, trying so hard to contain her giggles.

“You’ve gone daft Charlotte. He’s obviously fancying you. You’re the pretty one.” You turned back around, completely disinterested.

“I think not! You know I’m engaged!”

“And how would he know that detail? Hm? A man who sees a pretty woman without any knowledge as to who she is, is most likely to approach her, without any assumption as to whether she is engaged or not. To which he’ll find out sooner or later I must add.” You ran on before taking a sip of your tea.

“Oh come now (Y/N). You know I wouldn’t.”

“I don’t know, you seem to be a little too excited upon seeing other men. I don’t hear you speak of Ernest as such, as I might recall, a rather fine looking gentleman.”

“You know I love my dear Ernest more than anything. I’m just trying to find you a suitor.”

“I honestly wish you wouldn’t.” You sighed inaudibly. “What I’m trying to say is, that gentleman over there does not know that. So just.....oh bloody hell. I don’t know. Just be prepared to decline his advances towards you.”

“You lack faith my dear.” She gave you a pitiful look before looking behind you once more. “Oh look! He’s coming this way!”

“He’s what?! Charlotte!” You hiss as you lightly slap your hands down on the table as to not draw attention. “Don’t just invite him over.”

“Ladies.” You heard the man now standing beside you as he took off his hat and lowered his head in a polite greeting.

You had gotten so nervous in the mere matter of a minute that you couldn’t stop yourself from letting out the next word that slipped your tongue. “Fuck.”

There was a brief silence as Charlotte and the stranger stared at you in utter disbelief at what a proper lady like you had just uttered. A few others who sat at the other tables near you in earshot stared at you in displeasure before looking away.

Oh just wonderful. You wanted the world to eat you alive right there so you could escape their peers.

You locked eyes with the officer for a brief moment before turning away and fixing your gaze on something else, doing your best to seem preoccupied. You wished you brought your book with you so you could bury your face in it.

Charlotte let out an uneasy laugh befor turning to the man. “Well hello officer! I’m Charlotte Griffiths.” You caught your friend extending her gloved hand out to him, to which he kissed lightly.

“Pleasure to meet you.” You heard him say in this thick southern accent you were definitely not accustomed to.

“This young lady here is my dear friend (Y/N) (Y/L/N).”

“Charlotte. Stop this instance.” You leaned closer to her only for her to hear.

You were starting to feel embarrassed more than anything.

“Ma’am.” He now turned to you, to which you gave a short reply without making any eye contact.

“Good day.”

“You know (Y/N) here has come to preform for the opera tomorrow night. You should come!”

Charlotte you did not just.

You sat there with your arms folded and glared at her. She loved getting you into these predicaments, innocently enough. If only she knew how much it bothered you.

“Really?” He turned to you now, smiling. “I thought I heard that name somewhere.”

“Oh, well she’s only one of the best sopranos in England.”

“Ehem. Charlotte that’s quite enough. Thank you.”

You almost felt ridiculed at the moment as you felt the stares of everyone around you weighing in on you. And then that sensation started to creep on you. The same one you felt when you were a child. You glanced around, seeing and hearing the blood flowing through everyone’s veins and their hearts beating in their chests, glowing like a red ruby. You squeezed your eyes shut and pinched the bridge of your nose, silently muttering to yourself and remembering the meditation your mother taught you. Earth, fire, water, air, and spirit. You glanced up from underneath your bonnet as the sensation died down and you could finally hear Charlotte calling out your name.

“(Y/N). Are you alright?” Charlotte was reaching out a hand to clasp your gloved one, gently shaking them.

“I’m fine.” You breathed out while rubbing your temple. “It’s just a migraine.”

“Do you need anything for it?” Charlotte questioned you.

“No. God no. I don’t need any of that poison.” You got up from your seat and dusted yourself off before grabbing your parasol. “I’m going to head back to the inn if you don’t mind Charlotte.”

“Do you want me to walk you back?” The officer asked you, his voice laced with concern as he took a step towards you.

You took a step back away from him in response, still avoiding his eyes. “No. I’m quite alright. I’m pretty sure I can walk back to the inn without any assistance thank you.”

“Good day.” You nodded your head at him before turning away and heading back to the inn.

The officer was the most surprised at this situation if anything. He never received this sort of reaction before. Growing up, he always appeared to have a way with words and an influence over people, they always seemed to like him. His father called it charisma. And yet here you were, this woman he had barely just met, and you didn’t have the slightest sway from him. He was a bit perplexed at this, since he was now the one that was drawn to you.

You on the other hand, you found him to be rather bold. This had happened plenty of times before. Charlotte would bring over someone to introduce to you and it always ended up with you turning them down since everyone of them had been a cocky arrogant arshehole. But the one thing you didn’t want to admit to yourself was you were scared of falling in love. The last time you did, it didn’t end well. Ever since then, you tried to keep your distance and your emotions locked up. After all those years of isolation, you eventually led yourself to believe your curse made you incapable of love.

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[kinnoth]

Thor knows the end, but he has always known the end. Ragnarok has never been a mystery to him, to any of them. Every story ever told of Asgard ends in fire and in the darkness of nothing if one lets it go on for long enough. The Aesir have always been a doomed people: blood-loving, battle-loving, ever scratching for one more piece of glory to hold onto before the lights go out.

In truth, Thor had never expected to make it so far, and, perhaps, looking back on the trajectory of his life, he had never deserved to make it so far. The story of his life, as it has been charted, was ever one in which he would burn for a little while, then blaze for a while more, and then fall in a streak of fire, celebrated by his armies and ill-remembered by those he had conquered.

He was meant to have burned with his kingdom. His father would have burned with his kingdom. It is what is said of him in every attestation, that Odin Allfather loved his people and his kingdom until the end of both: because it was rightful, it was honourable, because it was foretold. Because Odin Allfather understood the sacrifice of kingship and the beauty of things that end.

Only greedy Thor, arrogant Thor, could have denied these people their rightful, honourable deaths. Only Thor could have snatched up these people from the glory of their own fates, and for what?

Space is cold after the fires of Asgard, cold and empty. The spiralling arms of the world tree cannot house a houseless people. All the sparkling stars that hang like fruits from its branches cannot feed them.

Thor leads his people to their doom, but he can find within himself no remorse for it. He has his brother back, standing tall and proud again beside him. Thor is not a stupid man, for all his great faults. He knows that his brother is dangerous and that he is disloyal. He has proven himself to be cruel and selfish and vain.

And yet, Loki moves beside him like his shadow as he circles through their huddled masses. Loki is good with them in a way that Thor isn't, in the way that their mother was good in the times after calamity. He touches their blackened hands and he talks to them lowly, with soothing words and gentle manner. He spins amusing tales for the children and listens, soft-eyed, to the lamentations of their mothers and fathers. They are Asgard's potters and weavers, merchantmen and clerks. They carry with them nothing but the clothes on their backs and the children in their arms. Had they been warriors, Thor might have led them and paid their way across the worlds with their swords, but as they are, they have nothing and want for everything.

He passes what assurances he can on to them. He tells them that they will be safe, that their children will not go hungry. He tells them tales of Midgard, of its glass cities and its gleaming black roads. He tells them of the rich, green hills of the Norsemen that Odin Once-King had declared would be their new home.

He feels Loki watching him. Somehow, he had forgotten how that had felt -- Loki, moving his head and his hands in subtle enquiry when emotion catches his voice; Loki, rephrasing his soldier's brusqueness into something easy and smooth; Loki remembering the details to his stories where he had forgotten. They had had a thousand years of companionship between them before these past ten in conflict and yet somehow, Thor had forgotten how it had felt to hold the weight of Loki's attention, familiar and following, as steadying as any hand.

Thor watches him as well, and, in the liminal moments in between, he drags them away from their duties and cloisters his brother away from the others. In private, Loki wears his quiet differently: his rounded shoulders find their angles and his tired eyes grow sharp and ready. Thor has him read for him the obscurities in their astronomical maps that Thor does not know enough to understand. They discuss the merits of various courses through the terrain, how to balance the preservation of their fuel next to the dangers of the shipping lanes. Loki is as studious and serious now as he is in Thor's memory. As he listens to Thor and thinks on his answers, his hand drifts absently up to his chin in a gesture he has not lost from childhood, and Thor feels again the stirring fondness he has only ever felt for his careful brother, lost in thought.

But Loki has not yet fully returned to him. It is clear in the way he stops in his sentences before they disagree and cuts away his gaze, the way he avoids Thor's hands in moments when he would not have before noticed Thor's touch. Perhaps he never will return, not wholly, and be as he was once, but Thor makes himself glad for what company he can have of him. Certain things have changed between them now in ways that he cannot hope to recover, and so Loki, though never a stranger, is perhaps more courteous than he has earned the right to be, blunter with his rebuke and shallower with his smile than Thor remembers. It is the measure of distance that Loki holds that serves to remind him always that, while Thor may again have a brother, he does not have a friend.

Perhaps that is for the best. Perhaps that is enough. Perhaps they can work together and they can lead their people, and Thor can put aside his ache for a better world and content himself with what he has. Because for all that he would like to do it, Thor does not trust his brother, even as he knows that he would not want to endure this long life without him. And perhaps he, too, is vain, but -- for this fragile truce between them, this makeshift peace -- he would have damned them all a thousand times without a second thought. Loki is here, and Thor believes again, as he did when he was young: that with his brother at his side, there is no quandary in the universe that the two of them cannot conquer.

Still, he startles when he feels a hand lay across his back. He is half-asleep, hunched over their star maps and logbooks again, looking for ways through disaster as though, if he looked long enough, he could divine new meaning into the numbers. He looks up to see Loki drawing his white hand back into the shadow of his cloak, a plaintive expression clearing quickly from his face.

"You are tired," Loki says. His voice is soft and unreadable. "You should rest."

"Yes," Thor replies. He had been dreaming, but of what, he doesn't remember now that he is awake. Impressions of fire and shadow splinter under the weight of waking until all that remains is the metal taste of urgency and guilt in his mouth. He sets his palm over his eyes and scrubs until all he sees again are stars. They are twenty-two jumps points outside of Asgard and he doesn't know how they are going to make it to twenty-three.

When next he looks up, Loki regards him with a look nearing sympathy. "Come with me," he says, and it is a testament to how truly tired Thor is that he follows without question. Loki leads him through a warren of utilitarian back rooms, storage spaces and servants quarters stripped bare of the Grandmaster's glitter and sculpted luxury. There is a narrow wire staircase twisting up past the rafters, and then Loki brings him into a room.

Something about the arrangement of it strikes Thor as immediately familiar, though he cannot place how. There is a low bed pushed against the wall and shelves built above it. From the ceiling hang bundles of scented dried things wrapped in scrap cloth, and on the far wall is a wide window, looking out into the void. Pale flame flickers to life in the brazier by the door and this is Loki's room, from back home, Thor realises, his private royal chamber scaled down to fit this space the size of a pauper's cell.

Thor touches the brutally bare wall. They are so close to the engines here that he can feel them humming beneath his hand. He steps after Loki into the room and passes his fingers over the fire as he walks. There is no warmth and so he reaches into the centre of it and picks up a glowing ember. It pulses like a living thing, faintly green around the edges. Foxfire, he recognises, Loki’s magic used for the crude banality of lighting a room. "Is this where you've been sleeping?" he asks, unable to keep the reproach from his voice.

Loki has opened a hidden compartment and is unpinning the cloak from his shoulders. He looks strange and unguarded for a moment, and Thor is sorry to have spoken without thought. Loki looks away. "You did not wonder?"

Thor shrugs with deliberate disaffectedness. "I didn't think it was any of my business," he says. He peers around the corners of the doorway. There is a bath beyond a half-closed door and, next to it, a meagre kitchen. It is odd to think of Loki, imperious and supercilious, cooking meals for himself off of one small hob. It is odd to think of his brother living sparsely, when their mother’s one enduring criticism of him was how he spent too freely. How much more of his life has Loki concealed from him? How else has he lived that Thor does not know?

Loki emerges from his closet, much the same but with all his dignity drawn about him once again. He plucks the coal from Thor’s hand and uses it to light the other lamps around the room. “This used to be my room when the Grandmaster took me out on his excursions," he explains. "I didn’t think anyone would mind it if I took it up again. Of course, I didn’t spend much time here,” he adds as he gives Thor back his ember. “The rooms downstairs, housing Asgard's people, those were for his guests. They are much more comfortable.”

Thor takes the glowing coal, holds it in his palm again for a moment before tossing it back into the brazier with the others. “And what were you then?” he asks suspiciously. A species of confusion mated to a kind of rage creeps up into his chest, but he pushes down on it with the ease of long practice, until naught but a faint abhorrence emerges into his conscious thought.

Loki smiles. ”Household.”

"Here,” he says before Thor can unravel his unease. A dark, ornate bottle appears between his fingertips and uncorks itself with a pop. He presses it into Thor’s hand. “Have a drink with me."

Thor twists his mouth. “Are we out of clean glasses again?” A fragrance at once sweet and sharply medicinal wafts up from the open neck. The liquid itself is nearly black.

Loki gestures as he folds himself onto the ledge by the window. He pulls a knee up to his chest and leans his cheek up against it. “Would you accept a glass from me?” he asks demurely.

Thor snorts. ”You are right, I would not.” He hesitates a moment longer before crossing the room and going to stand next to his brother. The universe spins out, endless, outside of their ark, colours of a bruise casting ghostly lights against Loki’s back and the side of his turned face. “It used to be one of your favourite tricks for your guests to find some nasty surprise at the bottom of their cups.” He offers his brother a wry look as he hands the bottle back.

Loki’s smile is small but not fully unhappy. “That was childish of me,” he agrees.

”You put snakes in my cup at my coronation.” Thor points out. “We were not children then.”

”Weren't we?" Loki asks lightly, and Thor's hackles rise, the prickle on the back of his neck like static before a storm. Loki is in some sort of mood tonight, not wholly hostile, but unsettled somehow, and Thor has ever known him to be changeable. He lifts the bottle in a sardonic salute and, smirking, tilts back his long throat and drinks deep. The glass slowly drains to clear as Loki finishes, gasping with satisfaction. He holds up the bottle, still three quarters full. "There, brother, you see?" he says, as he wipes the corners of his mouth. "Nothing to fear."

Something about the dark stain of Loki's mouth perturbs Thor in a way that strikes him wary and short of breath, but he takes the bottle back. His voice pitched low, he asks, with a cheer he does not truly feel, ”So what poison do you intend for the both of us then?”

Loki shakes his head and laughs. “No, not even poison.” His eyes are wet and a little unfocused. "Will you not drink?"

Thor hesitates a moment more but then, he too smiles shallowly and drinks. The liquor is hot on the tongue but surprisingly light, fruited like wine but without wine's cloying sweetness. He swallows. ”That is very fine," he says approvingly. The drink’s warm fingers spread down his throat and into his chest where they begin to pick at the knots tied up there. "I did not know we had anything near so fine on this ship. Is there more of it?" He tilts the bottle to read the label.

Loki scoffs. "Not enough to water your entire kingdom, if that's what you mean."

“A pity then.” Thor takes another generous swallow and the warmth spreads. These Sakaarian spirits are stronger than Asgardian mead, and Thor is beginning to think that he prefers it. “The kingdom could use a good watering after what it's just been through.” He raises the bottle. “A salutation then, to -- what are we drinking for?”

“A victory?” Loki shrugs. He moves to make room as Thor gingerly lowers himself down onto the seat next to him, careful to keep his distance. “Anything you like.”

Thor laughs hollowly. “That was a poor victory then, if that's what you'd call it.”

In the flickering light, Loki’s pale eyes shutter and he grins his brief and bitterly mirthless grin. He looks away and drinks, then leans again on his folded knee. “Do you grieve?” he asks perfectly without inflection.

Thor stops. He sees Loki’s fingers flexing white at the knuckles around each other even as his face remains impassive. His shoulders are set in perfect right angles to his spine. “You know,” Thor says contemplatively, “if you would have asked me that ten years ago, around the time you were still putting snakes in my cups, I would have said yes. I would have drank for our golden halls and our gleaming city and all of our sun-loved fields. But now." He sighs. Loki glances at him, the only indication that he is even listening. His eyes are wide and waiting. Around the room, the pale fires sputter in their wicks and spin. He has stopped his breathing. Thor reaches for him and lays the backs of his fingers lightly along his arm. Loki winces, takes a breath, but does not pull away.

Thor feels his own misgivings be gentled, and says softly, "I suppose that's what a loss as great as this shows you. When you have no choice but to choose, you pick out what's really important from the rest and you are happy that you get to keep it. We have lost so much, but it could have been more." His hand slowly flattens to curl around the lean muscle of Loki’s arm. Thor can feel the heat and the solid weight of him, welcome and familiar in a way that little else has been in these recent years.

"Brother," he begins softly. "Will you not grieve--"

"But what of all your worshippers?” Loki's expression when he turns is hard and terrible, red-rimmed eyes above a hooked sneer, and held in such rictus as if he were an animal trapped under thick ice. “Your great armies? Your Warriors Three?” he intones, as he yanks himself away from Thor’s touch, drawing back into himself once more. "Your Lady Sif?"

Thor draws his hands back into his own lap, stricken. What feats these hands have wrought, what power they hold, and yet he cannot claw back into them an ounce of his brother’s confidence. Has he not tried? Has he not let Loki draw near, examine every part of him and find him wary and uncertain, but sincere? He remembers the tentative proximity they had devised in the first night aboard the ship. Loki had asked and Thor had allowed him to draw him down, to examine his disfigured eye and to cleanse it and close what he could, to touch his fingertips through his shorn hair as he did it. What had that been but Thor's hopes laid bare? What had that been but Thor's soul beckoning: look at me; see me; recognise me; if we cannot be alone together then we will truly be alone.

Thor breathes deep and says, lowly, with a line of resignation understriking the words, “Have you brought me here to start a fight then, Loki?”

Loki's face, ruddy and savage with emotion, flinches violently. He blinks and then, as if swept by a great wind, his expression clears. “No, forgive me,” he says, his voice cool and easy. "I am." He shrugs, and, after a moment, waves his hand. The spinning lights right themselves. Another bottle appears between his fingers. He hands it to Thor and then he returns to himself, perfectly neat and self-contained.

Thor hates, suddenly, all of this, every measure of it: his brother’s carefully constructed dispassion and the way he will not fully meet Thor’s eyes; the choking fist of his own fear that this is how it has to be now, this is how they are going to be to one another from now on. Loki sits curled in on himself like a loose fist protecting a bruise and Thor is no more permitted to unfurl him to test his injury any more than he is to go back and undo Ragnarok. This he mourns, more than all else: that he used to know his brother, and he was known by him, trusted and was trusted. It used to be that when they were together, Thor had believed in immortality.

He is gripped by the sudden urge to touch Loki, as if that would make any difference, as if that would make anything better. It used to. He thinks it used to. Thor remembers how easy it had used to be to know where he was and how to make his way back because Loki would find his hand and guide him. He wants to take Loki by the shoulders and shake him, or to reach underneath the curtain of his hair and put his hand to skin.

But instead he is here, in this insatiable present that takes and takes and lets him have nothing back. Loki holds himself placidly as if nothing at all has been said or transpired, and Thor's despair turns to cold fury.

"Odin was right, you are devious and disdainful and difficult to love," Thor says icily. Loki looks at him, properly, finally. His eyes are open with surprise and confusion. Good. If Loki wants a fight then Thor is more than happy to give him one; he is hungry for Loki's pain, if he can have nothing else. Thor spurs on, heat rising up his neck and behind the sockets of his eyes, "You've found reason to hate everyone and everything that ever had the misfortune of crossing your path. Nothing is ever good enough for Loki; no one is ever good enough for Loki. There would always be something, some way you could distort an honest word into something evil, turn even the truest praise into injustice. You are so twisted we could use you as a corkscrew."

Loki recoils as if physically struck and Thor feels a rush of cruel satisfaction to see him hurt. Loki should hurt. If Thor must hurt than Loki can hurt. It is their basest of axioms: whatever Thor has, then Loki must have too.

"Little wonder why you were no good king," he spits, unsheathed now, seeking blood. He wants to see Loki break. "You look for shadows and schemes because your heart is filled with nothing but shadows and schemes. Little wonder, too, why you could not content yourself with the vast privileges of your station. You were Asgard’s prince and my brother and Odin's son, but still you found a way to be claim misuse. It is like you run from happiness. You are incapable of being grateful." He shoves the bottle back toward Loki with such force that it topples off its broad base. The fine spirits pours out of it in fat gluts.

His brother regards the drink soaking into his floor and splashing over his shoes. His pale face is awash with an awful flush. With a jerking gesture, he rights the bottle and the black liquid funnels itself back into it. He drinks for a long moment and then sets it down. His stillness has taken a different quality, wound and waiting, like a pendulum before the downswing. "I was not your brother, don’t you remember?" he says lowly. "Not your father's son, not your people's prince. I was nothing. That is what I ran from, being nothing."

Thor feels tension string through his muscles. Fighting he knows; fighting he can do; fighting comes naturally to him even if his heart is breaking. "You were one of us," he retorts through his teeth. "You were loved."

Loki lets out a great bark of a laugh and wheels to his feet. "I was not," he says poisonously. "Great Thor, mighty Thor, golden Thor, loved by all. Easy to love." He is pacing, his long strides eating up the little distance of the floor so that he has to turn every fourth step. His movement is disjointed, unhinged. Thor is reminded again of his brother, wild and caged, wreacking ruin upon himself when given nothing else to destroy. "Of course you wouldn’t see it," Loki scathes. "It is so difficult for the beloved to see that not all share in their condition, after all."

Thor draws back, raises his chin. His pulse is in his ears. He should never have come in the first place. He could have lived with what peace they had between them, and now he won't even have that. "Mother loved you," he challenges, his voice rising. "I loved you."

His brother flips his hand dismissively. "You loved everyone, what’s one more."

"I loved you best!"

Thor is on his feet as static gathers in the air. Loki stops, holds his gaze steadily, breathing hard. "I was happy," he says after a moment. "Perhaps it was never to any great effect, but I was happy once. But then, I was not who I thought I was." He drags in a breath and wrings together his trembling hands. "And I did not know what I know now." He stands in the middle of his sparse, dark little room and looks, suddenly, unspeakably small and lost. Thor steps toward him, but his brother looks up and fixes him with a glittering stare and he stops.

"So I have been selfish and self-serving, but who else but I served Loki-prince?" he says bitterly. "I was faithful to Asgard for over a thousand years and saw nothing but ashes for it. So if I took the things that Asgard would not give me in the end, ought I to be sorry?”

Thor huffs and breaks his gaze to hide his discomfort. "You were prince of the Nine Realms," he replies darkly. "What could you have possibly wanted for that could not be furnished to you?"

Loki snarls, "I have never had what I truly wanted, have you?" The room flares bright white for a moment and Thor startles, whirling about. Loki's foxfire pulses threateningly in its brazier.

Thor crosses his arms over his chest defiantly. He will not be cowed by a display of theatrics. "I had everything," he lies even though he knows it is not what Loki means.

Loki goes stiff and then, all at once, the venomous rage empties from his sharp face. He asks with a sudden, pleading sorrow, “Then do you not want?”

Greedy Thor, arrogant Thor does not respond, but his brother meets his burning gaze and seems to see through him. Thor’s heart is caught beneath his chin. He doesn’t know what Loki sees, but he prays that it is not everything.

Loki searches him a moment longer but then looks away. Thor feels a cavernous feeling as if he has been assessed somehow and found lacking. But Thor has won: his brother is crying and doing a poor job in hiding it. He waits for the satisfaction to come and to chase away the guilt.

But then Loki turns. "You're not the first I've disappointed with my unworthiness, brother," he says, quiet again, still again, distant. "You are hardly the first to cast me out because I did not suit. Hate me if you want, then," he says, a fissure opening beneath his smooth voice, "but I never hated them, your friends, your family, or Asgard. I only ever hated how they hated me, and yet you still loved them for it." He spreads his palm and light gathers between his fingertips. Thor knows what that is.

Thor lunges for him, his pulse in his ears, crossing the room in three quick strides. He seizes his brother by the wrist and Loki's pocket dimension snaps shut; whatever implement he was retrieving dissolves back into the darkness. Loki jerks away instinctively but Thor holds him tight. "I am not casting you out!" he cries. He crowds into him with his body, Loki stepping back for his every step forward until the wall stops them both. Thor pins his brother's arm. Loki looks jolted a moment, confusion opening his face as Thor leans his weight against him. They are both breathing hard. "I am not," he repeats.

Loki shoves at him with his free arm, his hand balling and gripping him menacingly by the open collar of his chest plate. "No?" he asks, acid hissing through his voice once more. "Odd, then, how that was what it sounded like."

"I was only angry," Thor says, his mouth dry, bracing, expecting the violence of his brother's anger. "I didn’t mean what I said." But Loki isn't fighting him. Thor knows how his brother fights, has been stung by those deadly hands often enough; he knows that his brother is not a man easily mastered. But Loki gasps, as though Thor has hurt him, and beneath Thor's agony and his racing pulse, a black thrill runs him through. He changes his grip on Loki's wrist, and pushes his shoulder back until his arm bends up above his head. Loki lets him, watching. Thor's mind races; his terror mounts. He feels powerful. "Brother, I didn't mean it," he rasps. "Don't go." He is trembling.

Loki's eyes grow narrow. "Oh, Thor," he breathes, "are you frightened?"

"Yes," Thor says readily. "Is that so surprising to you?" He needs to let him go, but instead his grip tightens on Loki's arm. He feels Loki's throat working, the subtle movements of his head and neck, and he feels, again, the stirring, ugly cruelty that has lived inside him all his life. Its pulse fills his mouth, like a separate thing from his own. Thor's blood and body ignite for one indomitable moment before the guilt overruns him, his own self-disgust. He puts his face into his brother's shoulder so that he might avoid his incising gaze. "Yes, I am frightened," he says hollowly. "I did not want this."

Thor is lowly and vulgar and undeserving of being called a man. He is the very basest creature, captive to his vagaries, caring for nothing but his own comfort and gratification. He will destroy this cobweb peace between them for an upper hand, drive his brother away in a fit of pique, and for what?

He feels Loki stiffen as Thor's misery makes him dull and heavy. "Want what, be specific," his brother hisses. He shoves at Thor again, curses crackling in his fist this time, no mere punctuation.

"Any of this. All of it," Thor mutters thickly. His feels his own breath hot on his face as the leather shoulders of Loki's shirt repel it back to him. The trap in his throat cannot contain his every secret, and what spills out does so like a cut vein. "Odin’s kingdom, the crown, the fate of Asgard." He squeezes his eyes shut and grieves that he cannot even be with Loki, cannot ask of him to share a drink without Loki's bad faith and his own bad impulses coming between them.

They truly are ruined, he thinks, as he counts his brother's quick heartbeats through his palm, and Thor can be neither the man he wants to be nor the man he needs to be anymore. "I did not want for them to take me," he says. "I did not want to become that which I hated, what you hated, what had killed you and our mother and made our father a stranger to us. I thought I would rather die, but now it is here anyway, and there is nowhere left for me to run."

There is a pause and then Loki says, his voice soft and careful. "It is kingship, brother. It is what we were born to do."

Thor lets out a breath like a sob. "It is a rotten job, Loki. It is rotten to its core." He lifts his head and searches his brother's face. "It consumes you, it becomes your world until your heart may hold nothing but it, and your soul may love nothing but it, and you would rather see your queen die for it and your sons disgraced for it rather than lose even a fraction of it."

Loki is not crying anymore. He looks upon Thor with such bewilderment and concern that Thor wishes, once more, to hide his despair, but that his brother deserves to be looked in the eye. "Would that I were only a man," he continues. "Would that this were only an occupation of a father being passed to a son, but it is not. It is a wolf at my door, brother, and I must let it in, but I cannot do it without you beside me."

Loki's brows are pinched, his iridescent eyes wide with honest heartache. He lifts his hand from the wall and Thor lets him go. He feels a touch alight on his temple, between the chevroned scars on his scalp. "I did not think it would hurt you so," his brother says in wonderment. He touches fingertips to the corners of Thor's eye where his sorrow has gathered but not fallen, and Thor only wishes that his brother could let himself be held.

"You are better made for it than I," Thor tells him as Loki tugs on him and Thor's head falls back down against his brother's throat. Loki hums and lays his cool hand lightly along the back of his skull, stroking contemplatively. Thor allows himself to be pacified, and the shameful, screaming something in his heart quietens for the moment, as it only ever does beneath his brother's hands. He sighs. "I need your strength and your wisdom and your friendship, Loki." He fists his fingers into the flanks of Loki's shirt and pulls meaningfully. "You asked me if I did not want, and that is it. I want you here with me. I want us to be friends again."

"We cannot be friends."

Thor looks up. His brother's eyes are wet but he smiles beatifically. "We cannot be friends," he repeats. "I will serve Asgard, I will be your brother, and I will serve you, but even I, poor fool that I am, must keep something for myself. Don't you see?" he says, his voice cracking with a building fervour. "I am as you say that I am: unworthy and ungrateful and the keeper of my own misery. I used to wish that I wasn't, but I am. And I must keep something, or else I shall have nothing at all." His fingers flex unconsciously on the edge of Thor's plate armour and, with a crunching snap, the metal rends beneath them. Loki hisses.

Thor stops him. "Loki, brother," he says, picking up his narrow hand and enfolding it between the both of his. Loki quakes, on the verge of something, and Thor sympathises even as he doesn't know what it is. He keeps his eyes cast low as he presses their hands together. "It's all right, I understand," he says, even though he does not. "Enough, hm? We are both fools." He shakes him lightly. "That's enough."

Loki's bruised hand spasms and he almost jerks it back into himself by instinct, but that Thor grasps him gently by the wrist and does not let him go. Wild-eyed, his brother stares at him, uncomprehending, first, and then recognition comes back into him. "Yes," Loki gasps. "I'm sorry. I." His fingers curl within Thor's rough palm, and warmth drifts through the pulses of Thor's blood to have his brother holding his hand again. "I am sorry." He drops his chin and looks away.

Thor shakes his head. "I have my own wrongs that I have done, and it has only been these recent years that I have had occasion to think back on them. You are right, you know," he says, smoothing his thumb over the back of his brother's knuckles for emphasis. "I have, in the past, regarded myself too highly, and I saw it as my natural right to trample over those who were less fortunate that I."

Loki huffs a little breath. "It is not difficult to do when you are the best." He wipes at his face with his sleeve and offers to Thor a smile, small and self-deprecating, but sincere -- a delicate branch, newly budded, tentatively extended but an offer of peace nonetheless.

Thor returns his smile. "No, I suppose it isn't, but I am sure that doesn't excuse it. Loki," he says, and it is as if he is finally undoing a weight that has always hung around his neck, "I am sorry."

His brother's expression remains deceptively pleasant. "For what? Be specific," he says again, a flat whisper, either soft or deadly but which refuses to reveal itself to be either.

Thor knows; he has known for a while now. His errors were ever small slights, little wrongs, but together they built a wall between them as high as the sky. But now, his brother knocks on the other side, and his humility is a small price to pay to see it torn down. He is ready to be done with it now, here, at the end of the world. "For what I said, just now" he says. "For speaking over you, in years past. For behaving as if you owed me your obedience," he says. "For taking it for granted that you were my brother and," he sighs expansively.

"For never seeing you for yourself, I suppose," he muses. He puts his hand to his brother's shoulder and stands back enough to look Loki in the eye. "You are your own man. Your path is your own to take, and though we may walk together, we do not belong to the same fate."

"You do not belong to me," he says, watching Loki watch him and knowing that, this time, he has been heard. "You are my brother, but you don't belong to me."

Thor holds his gaze with all the plain equanimity he can summon and releases his brother's hand. He waits for him to draw it back, but Loki only closes his eyes, for one slow moment. When he opens them, they are the color of sunlight passing through a calm ocean and for once, no drowned secrets lie beneath. "You have grown wise," his brother muses. He laughs, and it is a bell-clear sound, beautiful and weightless. He bows his head regally. "Worthy Thor, I am honoured."

Thor laughs, his throat thick with relief as Loki steps into him once more. He leans his cheek against Thor's shoulder and allows him to take his weight. Thor settles his arm around the back of Loki's body, and holds himself so still that he almost stops breathing. "Do you still hate me then?"

Loki settles into this new posture, his hand still resting lightly in Thor's palm. "I could never hate you," he says easily, as if this were ever plainly evident to anyone who has wished to learn it. "I was angry with you, but I never hated you."

Thor lifts his eyebrows and laughs aloud, surprised. "You have turned over a new leaf. That's more honesty than I've heard from you in aeons, brother."

Loki shrugs. "There's no harm in it now," he says. He turns Thor's hand over and idly traces his fingertip along the tendon between each knuckle. Thor's heart clenches. It was only ever his brother who would touch him like this and Thor cannot remember the last time Loki had touched him. "There are none now amongst the living who would laugh at me." A pause. "I am sorry about your friends."

Thor hums gravely. "So am I." He drops his chin gingerly atop his brother's dark hair and breathes deep of the scent of him. It is familiar and as warming as drink. He sways them together, lightly. "But they each died a warriors' deaths, and when the turning of the world comes and death comes for all of us, I shall see them again in Valhalla and be happy for it."

"Then let us drink to that." Loki ducks beneath his arm and goes to retrieve the bottle. Thor feels the loss but he follows him gladly, still holding his hand. Loki holds the liquor aloft. "To the turning of the world. To Valhalla," he announces. He drinks and, so close, Thor can see his throat working as he swallows.

When his brother presses the bottle into his hand, Thor looks at him. He says wryly, before he drinks, "Loki, we are not going to die for a very long time yet."

Loki snorts. "That is optimistic." He draws Thor back down onto the widow ledge, and Thor goes with him. Thor decides he can accept the substitute when Loki sits close and pushes them together, shoulder to hip.

"You don't believe that," Thor needles him, knocking him with his elbow. "You haven't changed so much that you would maroon yourself on a doomed ship, if you truly thought it hopeless."

Loki re-balances himself and rolls his eyes. "Well I still might leave if it suits me. You said it yourself." He flaps a hand blithely, but the cut of his words is prickly, "I am my own man, after all."

Thor's lips tighten over his teeth. "Will you?" Something hard and challenging flattens his voice, some sudden thunder, like the sort that breaks upon a fine spring day. "Are you going?"

Loki looks at him levelly but then he sighs. "No," he says peevishly, ducking away, "but I don't see why you can't just play along with it."

Thor moves the bottle away when Loki reaches for it. Loki frowns at him, annoyed, but Thor holds his gaze, unblinking, until Loki flushes beneath his pallor and looks away again. Thor doesn't let him. He catches his brother's face with his palm and turns him, his thumb holding firm upon the hard angle of Loki's jaw. Loki lets himself be turned. His face is hot. "I'm finished with playing that game with you, brother," Thor says, all humour gone. It is as if he is doomed to have this same conversation forever. He thinks back to all the times before that he has begged for his brother's constancy, and, like a mirror reflected back on itself, it is as if he looks endlessly into one image. "I will not grieve you a third time," he says. "Stay or don't, only choose one and do it."

Loki blinks rapidly. "Do you want me to stay?" He sounds choked and breathless.

Thor releases him. "Of course I want you to stay, I always want you to stay." Exasperated, his hand drifts up toward his crown to sweep in past his hair, only to remember, once it is there, that he has no hair to push back from his face. He has forgotten where and when he is. "If it were up to me, you would have never left me in the first place, but I am not your tyrant."

"No," Loki says softly, his hands twisting together in his lap. "No, you are only my brother."

Thor shakes his head and drains the rest of the drink in one swallow. "You know, historically, every time we try to talk about this, you cause a great big fuss, we fight, I beat you, and then you leave anyway." He scrapes irritably at his beard. "So do forgive me if I tire of retreading this path again."

"That was before," his brother says. He pulls his knee back to his chest and leans against it, away from Thor. His hair spills like ink over his shoulder and he looks at once exhausted and boyish, self-conscious and ancient. "And I will not apologise for it."

Thor rounds on him. "Who's asking you to?" he snaps. Loki does not respond. Thor scoffs. "So, what? Is that it? One last drink for old times’ sake?"

"That's not it."

"Then what is it, Loki?"

"Here," Loki says, producing a new bottle, amber in colour and heavier than the last. "Drink."

Thor takes it. He rips up the cork and drains the bottle with spiteful obedience. It burns. "If you're trying to get me drunk so it hurts less in the morning, it's not going to work."

"Did it hurt before?"

"Of course it bloody hurt, you blistering idiot," Thor spits. He feels fragile, cracking along his edges. "I thought you dead, twice. I drank Asgard dry the first time and I simply left after the second."

"I know." Loki slips his hand back into Thor's. It is as much comfort as it is concession, but Thor takes it anyway, pressing tight.

"I know you know." They were the worst times of his life, his world collapsed in upon him with him still trapped inside. He can hardly remember them at all, only in bursts, only in non-specifics, but of course, Loki had not intervened -- indifferent, always, as if Thor and the way his world was ending were specimen in a jar. Thor scrubs his face and holds his palm there over his aching eyes. "Thrice damned, since when are you so solicitous after my feelings." He would pull himself away from his brother's touch, if only he were not a coward.

Loki leans into him, puts his head again on Thor's shoulder. His touch and voice are faint. "I always care about your feelings, brother. Sometimes I wish I didn't, but I --" He trails off, stops.

Thor waits a beat, and then a scowl forms heavily over his brow. "Is this some new habit of yours, starting sentences and then... " He gestures. When Loki does not look away this time, he urges impatiently, "Well? You what?"

"I cannot seem to disregard your dislike for me."

Thor rolls his eyes. "I've always admired you, Loki, you know that."

"Do I?"

Thor throws up his hands and leans back against the windowglass. "Cleverest man in Asgard!" he exclaims. "Cleverer than our father -- my father," he corrects irritably, "yes, all right." He looks at his brother, whose cautious eyes regard him as a that of cornered beast's regarding the hunter. Thor looks at him directly, unyielding. "You're strong Loki, and you're brilliant, and you might have been wiser than Odin one day. We all thought it; mother said so all the time. She always said that if I were ever to rule, that there was no better man than you to have at my side, and I thought it to. You have the head for rule, and the heart--"

Loki shakes his head violently, compulsively. "Not the heart, no. I've never--" He is vibrating, his eyes screwed shut, and he does not seem able anymore to choose his own words. "You, you, you're beautiful, you're perfect--"

"Brother."

"No, you see, I could never see past it, I tried." The set of Loki's face wavers, his pale eyes trapped between two incompatible realities, both truths. He looks angry and hopeful, terrified and desperately sad -- snared between belief and doubt. Thor knows that feeling. It is the same feeling caught within his own breast. "I couldn't envy you for it, so I tried to hate you, but I couldn't. Even when we were apart, even when I thought you lost from me for good, down in that cell." He covers his face with his palms as if to stopper his own voice, but all he says next it is only muffled instead, "And I could never be happy. All I could ever do was want for things that I couldn't name and couldn't get."

Thor sighs. "I know. Brother, I know." He remembers the devastation that had wrecked him when he thought Loki dead, the way his insides had grown to ice and splintered as Loki had gone cold between his arms. He remembers how Jane's little, lukewarm hands had brought him up from his knees and he had looked at her as a stranger, comprehending at last that he was in a world of strangers now. His brother was dead and he would never know happiness again.

Loki's eyes search his. Thor doesn't know if he can put to speech what it is his brother is looking for, but he prays that he will find it. He chafes Loki's hand in both of his and, lost for words, presses his lips to the back of his own palm. Loki's breath shivers. He whispers, "It is not fair when I've never had room in my heart for anything but you."

When Loki kisses him, it does not feel like a surprise.

Thor responds swiftly, sweeping Loki into his lap and holding him there as Loki's vicious mouth yields beneath his. His hands seek skin, and it is given to him freely, gladly; Loki bends to meet him and his clothes part beneath Thor's hands like butter. Loki tastes of quicksilver and of the sun through new leaves, of midwinter firelight and the air after a storm. Thor remembers, now, every touch that has brought them to this, every brotherly assurance, every passing glance, every bruise -- and behind it, always, this bare and incomprehensible yearning.

Loki moans, intimate and open, and the unnameable becomes named, the shame given absolution. The whole of his life snaps suddenly into complete and perfect focus. This has been his monster all along, this clawing want, this unspeakable hunger so constant that it burned at the bottom of his every breath. Unaddressed, unacknowledged its whole long life, it had deformed him.

As Loki's mouth smears over his cheek, as his light fingers find the seams of their crude, hewn bodies and rend, it feels like standing up after a lifetime spent in a bend; it feels like the first full breath after only ever having sipped on air. Thor knows freedom for the first time he can remember, and the gnawing teeth behind all of his fear and worry and strangling precautions draw back into their ugly heads. The great inviolable question of his soul finds its answer at last: it was Loki. It was only ever Loki.

When he seizes the back of Loki's head and returns him to his mouth, his brother sighs. Thor can feel something stubborn inside of himself give way beneath the hot silk of Loki's skin and the cold marble underneath, and then, all at once Thor can feel Loki pouring through him, subtle as smoke, sharp as electricity, and when Thor pushes back, Loki opens his soul to him in welcome.

It is elemental, organic, as the way fire consumes or how the heavens turn. It is like every colour bound together into one, like sunlight. Thor can see himself through Loki's eyes, the familiar geography of his features mapped and given beautiful names: the cheekbone by which Loki has measured all other faces; the precise warmth and weight of his hands between which Loki finds his solace and his comfort; his stubborn mouth which Loki has learned for its every curve, its every salacious expression.

Thor smashes open the long-kept reservoir of his own stolen inspections, his persistent fascinations, and a flood rises within him of Loki's every aspect which he has held in covetous admiration: the fine and twining musculature of his neck and arms; the sharp, watchful intelligence behind his eyes; the deft, sinuous migration of his fingers as he weaves his spells.

Loki holds Thor within himself and Thor knows, all at once, a love so personal as a love of self, glorious as a love of empire, so desperate as a love of air or water or sustenance. Loki lives within all of him and Thor knows now that he lives within Loki as well. They have been half of each other's lives, the whole of the other's hearts, and now with the crude boundaries of their bodies and minds dissolved, Thor knows who he is. He is Loki's. Loki is his. This is truth.

Loki gasps through his open mouth, sparks igniting in his vision through Thor's eyes. Thor matches him and the both of them tremble beneath the glittering weight that has settled, diaphanous and encompassing over their shoulders. Loki buckles and Thor hides his face into his pulse.

When he catches Loki into his arms, it feels like coming home

Thor comes into himself again in pieces. When he opens his eyes, it is difficult to remember how to see again through just his own one eye, how to feel with just his skin. Loki clings to him, draped over his lap, his clothes in ruin, his limbs shivering and soft. They breathe together, as one lung, and Thor cannot stop himself from seeking the white skin of Loki's neck. His brother moves against him and captures his mouth with his own gasping mouth. His hands spread over Thor's shining arms, caressing, while Thor threads his fingers into Loki's dark, soft hair.

When Loki breaks them apart, it is so gentle that it feels like a promise rather than punishment. Thor moans. "Again." The music is his voice is lost beneath the crush of his desire.

But Loki holds him fast, his panting mouth mere breathes away, only when Thor moves, Loki does not rise to meet him. He shakes his head. "I only wanted to see," he says, as if through a dream. He touches Thor's cheek. His eyes are still shut, and he moves so slowly and clumsily that Thor steals another kiss from him before he can do anything about it.

Thor chuckles. He draws Loki's thumb into his mouth and works the knuckle with his teeth and tongue. Beneath the flickering, golden light, his brother's eyes are nearly black when they open and Thor can hear his naked want calling to his own. Thor grins. "What can I show you, brother?" He shifts a subtle measure and, for a moment, Loki's weight comes off his knees and seats fully into his lap.

Loki's breath catches. He draws his finger from between Thor's teeth and wets his curving lip. He presses his brow to Thor's, shuddering. His voice crackles as he whispers, "How it might feel to be whole."

"What do you mean?" Thor hums. His eye drifts open and then shut, and every time he closes it, he can feel the afterimages of Loki's every thought. He reaches out, touches a stray, cold curl of his brother’s building anxiety, and feels it disintegrate into light. Thor tugs on Loki's hands, kisses the hinge of his jaw and a hard coiling knot of it begin to dissolve. Loki protests faintly but he begins to struggle. Thor clamps an arm around his waist. "No, there, sit there a while," Thor insists, putting his bearded cheek against his brother's beating chest and feeling it scratch though Loki's skin. Loki grasps at his forearm. "Stay," Thor says petulantly. "You said you would stay."

"This is absurd," Loki complains. He shifts on his knees, poorly balanced on the narrow seat. "I am too tall for this."

"I don't care." He touches the back of Loki's hand on his arm and Loki lifts it readily. Thor lines their fingertips together and Loki slips his in between. He wants to put Loki onto his back and learn the taste of his heartbeat through his skin. He wants to touch his hidden thoughts and secret melancholies and learn their every shape and texture. He wants to spread his brother out into pieces, evenly, meticulously, until he is naught but motes of shimmering dust and Thor is the same.

"I do not think I could bear it if you tried for decorum right now." Thor lifts his head, smiling, his throat fully bared, and Loki touches it in wonderment, his protests forgotten.

"I would know..." Thor hears his brother murmur, so low that Thor thinks he might have imagined it. But then Loki smiles. "Take me to bed then." He kisses Thor softly. "I am cold."

Thor lifts him easily, and Loki lets him -- he lets him, god, the things Thor can do now that Loki will let him, now that he is permitted. He sets Loki atop the bedclothes and Loki watches him with unadorned hunger as Thor steps back and works deftly at the clasps and buckles of his chestplate.

"Come," he calls quietly when Thor is sufficiently bare, and he receives Thor into his bed as if he has been doing it all his life. Ensconced within the bedsheets, Loki arranges them so that they are half on top of one another. Thor kisses him again and Loki makes small, infuriating, amenable sounds as his hands drift aimlessly over Thor's skin.

But Thor wants more. He would bring Loki to the very brink of his own body, damp-skinned and pleading for Thor's mercy.

Loki groans and shivers as Thor manoeuvres him beneath his body. He would bend as Thor would bend him; he would unfurl however Thor would unfurl him. Thor knows this. He tastes his brother's anticipation and acquiescence like spilt wine. Already his elegant hands manacle themselves to the crossbars of his headboard at Thor's behest, his flanks and front spread and stretched deliciously for Thor's tasting mouth.

Thor cups his palm beneath the bend of Loki's knee, and lifts it smoothly back. The colours of Loki's mind ignite and darken. "I would know thee by thy body," he says, but it is Loki's oaths that come out. Loki groans. Thor blinks, returns, and slowly grins.

"And I would my body give to thee," Thor finishes. He waits a moment as the disbelief twists his brother's face and then resolves. Loki looks at him, new marvel in his eyes. He surges suddenly and kisses Thor, and then Thor is awash in his brother's soaring relief, his bottomless joy. His mind comes away lurid with the places of his body that Loki has imagined Thor's hands, his mouth. Loki shuts his eyes as Thor lays him back. He covers his face with his wrists. "Yes," he breathes. "To thee."

The great yawning pit of his want joins Thor's in the bottom of his stomach, as Thor fits them together and then fits himself inside.

Loki moves with him, pulled by the same tide, moved by the same moon. The geography of Loki's soul opens for him and Thor arrives upon it softly. Loki fills him, envelopes him, and Thor touches through his every thought and sensation as it passes through his grasp. It will never be enough, Thor despairs, though he is not certain if it is his thought or Loki's when it emerges. This was what Loki had meant; this was the danger all along. They've been given a single mouthful of kindness and now must know what it is to live without. They could each live ten thousand years and spend every minute of it in each other's arms, and it would not be enough.

But Loki shakes his head and opens his dark eyes. "It can be," he says, almost voiceless. "It has to be." He pulls his heels into the small of Thor's back and brings him closer. "I could not bear it otherwise." He winds his fingers into the damp buzz of Thor's hair and pulls him down to him. "Kiss me and let us dwell no more on it," he says, and Thor does as he is told, grateful, overcome, knowing the end but willing for forever.

Power builds within his body, ready and aching. Outside the window, a swirl of cosmic dust churns, violet explosions flashing through violet clouds. He glows beneath his skin, but Loki opens his mouth to him and catches his kiss as if he were tasting rain. He shudders as he comes, as Thor follows him, as Thor's blue lightning fills him, holds him gently, wreathes them both.

Loki allows him fold them together again afterwards, allows Thor to arrange them so that they can see each other as they lay together breathing. Thor's pulse is quiet within him even as his heart hums with one harmonious note. The great storm of his life, the one he had never even known he was weathering, has ended. Thor is clean, new, and the long, long past recedes easily beneath the placid waves. He looks into his brother's smooth, flushed face and he sees his future.

Thor puts his lips to his brother's brow and smiles against his skin. "I adore you," Loki says in a small voice. His fingers tighten at Thor's waist and Thor lifts his chin so that Loki may tuck himself beneath it.

Thor laughs drowsily. "I know that," he says. "You don't know how glad it makes me." Loki's dark hair has fallen from its part and it drags in cool coils across Thor's arm. Thor puts his hand through it, sweeping it back and his brother looks up at him, his eyes sober.

"I do," Loki says. His mind, always working, momentarily quietened, moils once more. Thor frowns. "It is beyond reason, brother. It is more than anything; it is more than life." Placating, Thor touches his cheek and Loki turns into him immediately. He kisses Thor's palm. "You could skin me like a lamb and my last thought would be how I love you," he says fiercely.

Thor turns his face. "I would not," he says, horrified. "I would never." Loki's brows gain a troubled furrow but he looks away, assenting. Thor strokes the furl with his thumb until Loki relinquishes it. He takes Thor's hand and kisses it once more, then lets it slide back into his hair. Thor strokes him and says more softly, "And what does it matter if it is beyond reason, if I am the same?"

"No, but can't you see?" Loki drops his head into Thor's shoulder again. "This --" he gestures miserably. "This is unnatural."

"How do you mean?" Thor lets him hide. If it makes it easier for him, Thor will hide him from himself. "So we are lovers now," he says and feels Loki's breath hitch. "So what? We share no blood, and even if we did, who would challenge it?" He strokes the line of his back until Loki breathes again, however raggedly. "We are kings of Asgard, brother, what authority reigns higher?" A laugh escapes him on a wet, choked breath and Thor rocks him, lightly, forming himself around the warm, solid, precise weight of him.

"Don't cry," he says. "Don't make yourself miserable. We've found each other now. I love you, and I have wanted you all my life." He kisses his brother's damp cheek. "I was blind not to see it before but I do see it now."

Loki pulls back and looks at him. His smile is wistful and pained. "You may say to me every beautiful word that I have ever wished to hear, and it would still be true." He unwinds himself from Thor's limbs and rises up to his elbows. Thor touches his arm, deploring the loss, as Loki wipes at his face with the backs of his wrists. "It is not the quality of love but the quantity of it," he says bitterly. He pulls at Thor's grip. "Let go," he says, quieter. "When you touch me, I can feel you inside my head."

"Yes," Thor accedes cautiously, but he does it anyway because his brother asks, "and you're inside mine." Loki sits up from the bed in one determined movement and slides off the side. Thor sits up as well, alarmed. "What's the matter?"

His brother is at his closet, and Thor watches as, one at a time, pieces dissolve from their hangers and resolve themselves on Loki's skin.

"Loki." Thor crosses the room to where Loki is standing and catches him by the elbow. A wall of dread goes up in his brother's mind, but Thor pushes past it, back into the centre of him. Loki turns to him, expressions of fear and fury, gratefulness and regret warring in the tiny movements of his brow and lips. Thor kisses him, and as before, Loki returns it without hesitation. Thor steeps into it every measure of affection he can muster, every tender feeling and assurance. His brother falters, but he steps into him. His hands waver as he slips them around the back of Thor's neck.

"Tell me what is the matter," Thor says again as he pulls his brother back into his arms.

Loki shakes his head. "You don't understand, I never." His hands fist against Thor's shoulders as Thor absently tucks a strand of his dark hair back behind his ear, and he nearly sobs. Loki takes a breath. "You know nothing; you deserve to know," he bites out. "This is not you or me. We are cursed. Odin cursed us."

Thor flinches at the sound of his father's name before he can stop himself. "What?" he demands. "How?"

His brother laughs wetly. "You know, I hoped you'd be drunker for this. You're always so much more tractable when you're drunk. You don't ask nearly so many questions." He jerks, but Thor's arms have been turned to stone. "Unhand me," he says unhappily.

"No." He can feel his brother's self-recrimination and doubt, his panic like an acid bubbling beneath the an indelible anger. He can feel his need for flight. It hits him like a fist and brings up to the surface all of Thor's own dread, his own terror.

Loki struggles again, but Thor is unmovable. "At least let me finish dressing," he scolds.

"No," Thor intones. "Explain it or don't, it matters very little to me." He looks at his brother, his eyes hard. "What do I care for curses, Odin's or no? Sod him, he was an old man with an old man's schemes. What did he know? My god, Loki, Loki." He holds his brother to him as if that were all that would make the difference, and cups his hand to Loki's face with all the murderous adoration of a cheated supplicant. "If you leave me again after this, I will never forgive you, I swear it."

Loki shakes his head. "It was he who made us like this!" he cries. One more time, he shoves at Thor, and this time Thor lets him go. Loki rounds the room, his hands flying, frantic as loosed birds. "That's why he took me," he says. His eyes are wide, landing on nothing and everything. At last he sits himself again on the edge of the bed. "I was never meant to be your brother." His head sinks into his hands, muffles his voice. "But only that I turned out," he gestures, "as I am."

Ice runs down through Thor's veins. "What do you mean?"

Loki looks up at him from above his fingertips. "Did he never tell you how he lost his eye?"

"Yes," Thor replies, crossing his arms, "he told all of us; it was never a secret. He traded it to the Norns for the wisdom to rule his kingdom."

"Yes," Loki agrees, "to rule, to ensure his line evermore." He breathes deep and sits back, casting his eyes to the ceiling. "Without slander, what do you know about the Jotnar?"

Thor sighs. He is reminded of when they were young, when his brother would try to teach him philosophy by irritating him with questions until he found the answers. "They are giants," he answers dutifully. "They are fierce warriors, they are... Blue?" Loki looks at him expectantly. Thor shrugs belligerently. "I do not know what you wish me to say."

"How do they fight?"

"With their ice magic--"

"Yes." Loki holds up one long finger. "Magic."

Thor rolls his eyes. He remembers this too, when Loki used to lead him to answers and make him feel like an idiot for not grasping their significance. "I do not understand," he concedes.

But Loki keeps going. "Your grandmother, your father's mother, who was she?"

Thor frowns. "I never met her, but she was a great lady of--"

"She was a Jotun," Loki pronounces. He stands back up again and begins pacing the room, his hands clasped behind his back as if in recital. "She betrayed her race and coupled with an Aesir, your grandfather, who made her a new body, a white body," Loki gestures to himself, to the pale skin of his torso that Thor had marked in worship. “She, in turn, gave her magic to her many sons, of which your father slew one by one until Asgard was his alone. That is the custom, is it not?"

Thor shakes his head, his mouth dry. He feels like he's falling, like his earth is moving beneath him, and like Loki is the only still point he can conceive, but that he won't hold still. "But I was never asked to slay you."

Loki makes a dismissive gesture. "We'll get there," he says, distractedly, "but for now consider this: your father's line runs thin. He has slain his brothers for his father's kingdom and his mother's magic but neither will have him -- he is not the most worthy, only the most brutal."

Thor feels an old instinct of obligation stir within him to defend the Allfather's name, but what does he know? What has he ever known except for what his father had taught him? He had doubted, of course, but it was ever unspoken, all spoken words too close, somehow, too loud.

Loki continues without mercy, "Odin paid the Norns, and they gave him wisdom." He spits the word. "And when it was time for him to get his get, he married a Vanir witch, your mother."

"Our mother," Thor snaps.

Loki startles, but then he sees Thor's face. "Yes," he concedes, "all right," but he goes to Thor then and slides himself back into the empty spot left next to him. He kisses Thor briefly, just left of his mouth, and then takes his hands and leads him back to the bed. Thor lets Loki sit him down and then himself over his lap. He loops his hands around him at once and lets his brother feed him the warmth and calm of his body.

Loki continues more softly, "Mother gives him Hela, you see, and he crafts her into a killer. But once the killing is done, she outlives her usefulness to him. And so now he needs another child. Someone who will rule after him."

"Me."

"Yes," Loki says, and he lays his long hand against Thor's face. "You, my brother." He says it with a sudden tenderness, as if he were sorry.

Thor swallows his agony so that Loki might see nothing but stone in his face. "Tell me the rest then."

Loki leans his head against his anyway. "Vanir magic is learned, so cannot be given, and it is not true seith," he says. "And Odin will not give up what he killed so many to take. So you are to have no magic of your own, no magic to give to your heirs, no magic for the whole of Odin's line because he cannot let go of anything." He nods in resignation. "So he goes to the source."

"Jotunheim," Thor finishes for him. How the old rage he had felt towards Odin those years back pales now in the light of this clarion fury. He who had cast them as worthy and unworthy, as noble and ignoble, who cast himself as justice and judge -- he who was himself a murderer and a thief. Thor had faced his father's many faults, counted and mourned them and had privately abjured him as a king but loved him still as a father. How can he love him now? "He takes you."

"Yes." Loki sighs, and Thor would keep him here forever if he could, as though he could be shielded from the rest of the world's misery by Thor's body. "I was Laufey's only child, you see. I had the purest blood to share."

"And then?"

Loki begins a gesture with one hand but then lets it drop. "Then he binds us," he says tiredly. "It's a simple enough ritual. Even Odin Death-Bringer could do it. I did--" he says. He swallows. He closes his eyes and leans into Thor. They hold each other up. "I suspected something of the sort," he confesses. "Years ago now, I went to speak to the Norns. They laughed when I asked them to answer my questions. They're greedy, you know. They answer to no one without a price."

Thor's hands tighten along his brother's hip. His pulse is already in his mouth, but the horror comes anyway. "What did you give them?"

Loki waves him off impatiently. "Nothing of importance, nothing you'd miss."

"Tell me anyway," Thor demands.

"I have seen my death."

Terror runs the very heart of him through. "Brother," he rasps.

Loki shrugs evasively. "I don't know when," he supplies, as if that were an assurance.

"Tell me how it happens at least."

"So that you might defy the Norns?" Loki looks at him, and Thor stares back, conceding nothing, stubborn even as he knows the immutability of the fates.

"It is nothing," Loki says at last. "It's innocence, and what good have I ever had for innocence? But they showed me what I wanted, and I found it where they said I would." He holds his hand up and the light of his pocket dimension shines again.

Thor reaches out on numb instinct, alarmed. "Wait, hold on."

But what emerges is nothing he recognizes, only a piece of silver, the size and shape of an egg, striated like the rings of a tree or of a thumbprint. Thor reaches out for it, but Loki pulls it back. "Don't touch it," he says softly. "I don't know what would happen if we both touched it. Nothing good, I suspect. They'll want to go home."

"It's--" Thor begins, but some part of him already knows.

"It's our souls," his brother tells him. It glows, faintly with its own dim light that seems almost blue against Loki's skin. "I found them buried beneath the roots of Yggdrasil. They weren't doing anyone any good there, so I took them. I thought maybe I could work to separate them, but," he shrugs.

"Here," he says. "Hold out your hand." Thor does so, and Loki drops it into his hand from a height. Thor turns it over, examining. It is heavy, heavier than he expected, but the shape does not hold, smoothly amorphous in his palm. The striations, as they had appears, are not striations at all but folds of beaten metal.

"Why?" he asks. It had been warm to the touch at first, but quickly he feels his skin going numb as if of cold. He tosses it into his other hand. The vessel warms comfortably this time even as Thor flexes his fingers until the feeling returns.

Loki twists his hands together in his lap and shrugs. "Odin needed to bind me into his line somehow, and so he did it in the most obdurate manner possible." A color of deep shame crawls up his pale shoulders. "You were to be my collar and my chain and now you see now how gladly I would have worn them. How happy I would have been to let you unmake me. What a different life we might have had--" His voice pitches and cracks, Thor reaches to steady him, but he regains himself.

"But as it turned out, I could not take up the necessary utility to give you heirs, and so he was forced to made us up this farcical brotherhood. It wasn't his fault," he says sardonically, "how was he to know? What difference is a Jotun man to a Jotun woman to a Jotun dog to an Aesir. We are all monsters after all."

Thor is frozen within himself. The whole of his history, of Asgard's history, has been turned on its head, and he would say that his brother was lying; he wants to believe that his brother is lying, except that he feels Loki's misery and fear and repudiation. He feels Loki's sour heartbeat in his own chest.

"Loki," he says, but Loki is gone from him, and though he holds the weight and warmth of him, he might as well hold to him an armful of air. He has so many questions and no way to ask them, no words that he can put together that will not cut his brother deeper than the wound he has already opened himself. "I'm sorry," he says instead. "Truly I am. If I had known --"

"What?" Loki turns to him. Every line shows on his face, and his eyelids droop in exhaustion. "What could you have done? You were a child, same as me, and Odin's crimes, such as they are," he gestures dismissively, "he will never pay for them." He draws himself back and slides from Thor's lap.

Thor doesn't know where he stands again, doesn't know where to begin. Gone is the certainty they had only just discovered as Loki crosses the room again and finishes dressing himself by hand. Thor watches him. "It isn't fair," Thor says softly.

Loki scoffs. "I do not tell you this for your pity," he sneers.

Thor shakes his head. "It is not pity, brother." He looks at his brother and silently wills him to look back. "Only that I grieve for you."

Loki sighs. He glances at Thor from over his shoulder. "You're a soft-headed fool," he says more quietly, "but I thank you." He looks down at his gloveletted hands. He is silent for a long while. "I want you, but," he says finally, then stops, and he laughs bleakly. "My god, I wish that I could have come by you honestly." He picks at his own knuckle, twisting the edge of his nail around the white joint.

"I wish that I could have met you in your father's court, or on some matter of diplomacy. I wish I could have glanced you from across a battlefield and felt my breath be taken. Your great and noble heart could have been the greatest prize I ever won, and I could have--" A line of blood splits across his finger and he stops. "We could have had each other honestly."

Thor shakes his head as he watched his brother suck the blood out from his small wound. "You would have hated me," he says hollowly. "I would have been insufferable." Loki's face twists and he scoffs. Thor stands, but goes no further. "I am only am the man I am today because of my brother." Loki looks at him, his eyes red. "I am yours, Loki," he offers quietly, spreading his hands, "as surely as if you had made me.

Loki smiles. "My very own god of thunder." He is fond beneath his bitterness. He sniffs and wipes surreptitiously at his cheeks. "For all that is worth when he cannot be anyone else's."

Thor grimaces. His hands land back at his sides, "I told you," he says. "I don't care a fig for Odin's plans and I still don't. I know my own mind. I told you that I've wanted you forever, since the cradle. Not even you can make me give that up." He knows this now, what a blind man could have seen. When he was frightened, when he was uncertain, when he was in pain, it was never Odin he went to, or Frigga, once he was out of skirts. He went to his brother. He was valiant for his father; he was gentle for his mother, but it was his brother's scorn that taught him to be kind, and, in the end it was his brother's death that taught him what it meant to be king.

If Thor could bring himself to touch him, he could make him know all of this, but Thor has taken from his brother enough to last ten lifetimes. So he tells him instead, "I am yours because without you I would have never been myself. That is fate, as I understand it." Even from across the room, he sees Loki's pale features warring again against his own unkindnesses. Thor finishes as plainly as he can, "One way or another, my life would not have been my life if it did not lead me to you."

Loki takes a step toward him unthinkingly. "I know. I am the same," he says hoarsely, but then he laughs. With the air of telling a good joke, he says, "So you see then, brother, I do belong to you after all. I never had a choice. We never had a choice. But I --" he looks at Thor with an expression full of entreaty. "I have been a slave to his devices my entire life. I cannot even conceive what shape my life might have been without his hand in it, and even now that he is dead, still he has a hold over me."

"I know," Thor says. He reaches out his hand and Loki takes it almost gratefully. He puts his arms around Thor's shoulders and so that Thor is permitted to fold himself around him, to put his cheek into his hair and breathe as if he could stain his lungs with him and keep him next to his heart forever. Loki's mind floods back into his and Thor wills him to quiet where he will be quieted, tries to soothe him where he will not. He murmurs, "It's not right, beloved. It's not fair."

Loki huffs, "Beloved."

"Aye, if that is not too forward."

His brother pauses. "It is proper," he concedes, but Thor feels a floret of pleasure bloom across his heart.

Thor laughs quietly. "Then, beloved, go. You owe me nothing, and I do not bind you. It was shameful of me to have tried." Loki pulls away and looks at him, confused, but Thor only kisses the angle of his temple and says, "I cannot right the wrongs that have been done, but I will do no more."

He steps back away from Loki and takes his hand in one of his. From the other, he produces the silver vessel. Its light pulses gold and warm in his palm.

"My brother," he says solemnly, "your lot is my lot, your hurts are my hurts, and if your soul belongs to you alone no longer, then neither does mine."

Loki clenches Thor's hand and shakes it insistently. "Brother, you don't know what it is you're offering."

Thor gazes at him soberly. "You said it yourself, what good is it doing anyone buried beneath that tree. You said they wanted a home."

"Yes but," Loki shakes his head, "you will never get it back. They will go evenly between us and, Thor, someone with greater skill than I might still be able to undo this, but if we do this, that hope is lost."

"What is it that you want?"

Loki's eyes search his face wildly. "I--" he stammers. "It's you, isn't it?" He looks bewildered and awed. "You know that. It's always going to be you."

Thor offers up his hand again. "Take me with you, then," he says, "whatever you can carry. Whatever you can fit inside your pocket." Loki laughs. His eyes are wet again but perfectly clear. Thor leans their heads together. "I can imagine you walking the skies and slipping between the stars. I can imagine the world’s only you can discover -- green worlds brimming with life. Crystalline worlds that the suns never shine. And maybe one day," he says, hushed, "when you've walked your fill, you will return, and I will welcome you into my hall and then, if you would like to stay, you can stay."

His brother breathes out quick and Thor can feel the tendrils of his breath caressing his face. "You have beautiful dreams," he whispers. "I used to wish I could live inside your dreams."

"I have never heard of a Jotun wanderer. I should like to think that my brother could be the first."

Loki nods but he says, "Wouldn't I be lonely, though? Walking alone." A beat. "I have never heard of an Aesir wanderer either."

Thor hums. "No, I suppose the Aesir are a warrior people. There isn't much wandering to be had save the travel of fighting."

"Would you come with me, if I asked you to?" Loki lays his hand carefully over Thor's chest, over his heart. "Would you walk the stars with me together?"

"Ah," Thor says, even as he feels Loki spinning tales inside his mind, great adventures across the stars, grand discoveries, quiet moments when the two of them can be alone. He pushes them gently aside. "But Asgard must have her king, but more than that, her chief protector. I cannot leave her as she is, vulnerable and unguarded."

"Brother, please," Loki says, pulling back and looking Thor fiercely in the eye. "You have spent your entire life in service of Asgard. I know," he says hastily before Thor can interject, "that that is what a king is, but even now that you are king, will you not have one thing for yourself? One dream?" he asks, his smooth voice making it sound so reasonable. "One thing that can be unquestionably and only yours? You are more than what you can do for others. You are so much more than a strong back that carries. My love, please," he says as he presses his lips to the palm of Thor's hand. "You have never had a choice either."

"No," Thor accedes, touching his brother's stained cheek, "but I would see these people safe from harm"

"And if they were safe, and then?" Loki asks breathlessly. "When there are no more wars to be waged or conquests to be had? When you have done your duty to these people, what then?"

"Then." Thor frowns outwardly, but he knows. In his heart, he knows. Kingship is sacrifice; it is a duty greater than his duty to himself. These people have nothing and want for everything, except for a king. How could he take that from them as well?

But I don't see why you can't just play along, says his brother's voice, so Thor lets himself smile slowly. "Well, I don't know. Where would you want to go first?"

Loki's face breaks then, as a storm that ends, as a new day that dawns, his smile warmer and brighter than all the sunlit summers Thor has ever known. He leans into the line of Thor's body. One hand fits into Thor's as their bound souls take up, at last, their rightful thrones. Thor feels hot and the cold and then nothing new in particular. Perhaps that is what it feels like to be whole, or perhaps it is simply only something that Thor has already found.

Loki's other hand curls gently over Thor's thundering throat. He says, "Then I can be happy--"

A moment later, his world explodes.

[fallingoverharrypotter]

If We Make It Through January 7th

Draco and Harry on the wrong side of the holiday season, making the gloom a little bit brighter. Also on AO3 here.

I’m barely through the front door of the place before I catch a glimpse of the man behind the counter and freeze up. Right there in the doorway.

A frustrated cough comes from behind me, and I hear a rude “excuse me.”

I swear. “Sorry,” I move out of their way, back onto the icy cobblestones: the patron flicks me an insincere smile as they hurry into the warmth of the bakery, and the door shuts in my face with a clang. The noise of the store, regular café sounds and music with it. That’s unfortunate, as Diagon still has Christmas jingles incessantly twinkling across the cold brick back and forth down the alley on this side of the new year, and that’s… only one part of the reason I want to enter.

Surely there are other places on Diagon that sell hot drinks and buns this late on a Wednesday. But… I know there aren’t. Even in muggle London.

Going home empty handed on Monday was one thing, but going home empty handed on Wednesday seems out of the question.

The cheerful drawings of smiling faces and steaming pastries on the glass are mocking me - there’s raucous noise of laughter just from the other side of the windows. I’m drawn up close and shivering in my winter robe, and it’s so cold that the warming charms keep wearing off. There are the sludgy remnants of snow on the cobbles, and I had to save myself from a couple of falls on the way down here. The blush on my cheeks is definitely from the embarrassment of the wobbles, but thankfully it’ll be passed off as the bite of the air. He probably won’t realise a difference anyway.

I take a deep breath, and go to reach for the door again, but then my hand stops, barely within my control. I close my eyes and try once more. Breathe deep, hand out to grasp the handle. I pretend not to think about whether any patrons of the bakery are staring at me through the glass. I hypothesise that if this takes me longer than five minutes, I’ll get an Auror called on me for drunk and disorderly, and wouldn’t that truly make my day.

Suddenly, it’s too much. I don’t even want to see his face. Wednesday pastries will just have to go without. It’s a silly tradition anyway. Surely if I’m ever allowed to forgo a habit, it would be as a new year’s resolution. It was his neurotic practice anyway. Probably one of those things I should toss out like I did all the rest of his stuff.

I take another deep breath and point my chin up, stare challengingly at one stupid smiling figure on the glass, and turn to make my way down to the other apparition point at the end of Diagon.

Stupid ex-boyfriends and stupid bleeding-heart holiday seasons. I manage to keep my feet reasonably stable as I walk down the almost icy path on this darker end of the street.

Unfortunately for me, however, a loud noise startles me and I completely wipe out.

A loud grunt expels itself from my chest as my back hits the ground. Thankfully my neck and head seem to be pretty well protected by the thick green scarf I’ve got wrapping me up, but my ass doesn’t fair all that well. “Fucking hell,” I mutter, and groan as I roll over onto my side. I wince when a sharp twinge in my back is set off with my movement.

Thankfully I’m not alone in my predicament, because the noise that startled me was an initial slick sharp sound of a slip against the icy cobbles. I tilt my head up and see heavy black boots, worn just slightly at the sole, and the figure of their owner, a man in amongst a mountain of sludgy snow that someone had just moved to the side instead of vanishing. I mutter to myself about the absolute travesty which is Diagon without proper foot traffic. People here get bloody careless this time of year.

I push myself up by my gloved hands, now soaked, along with the backside of my cloak. “Are you alright?” I half-heartedly direct to the man who I can hear angrily muttering to himself in his current position. I have to pay direct attention to getting my feet under me so that I don’t make another trip, but I do finally stabilise myself. I sigh crossly. My penance for getting so startled is that I don’t immediately get to grab my wand and dry myself off.

The man sighs too. His reply is muffled, but I think I can make out a “yep”. Charming.

He’s not moving though, so I huff out a breath impatiently and wander over to where he lies carelessly under an awning, face shadowed from Diagon’s twinkling lights. Good King Wenceslas chimes out of the charms on the street, and seems to mock me, and I have to force myself to think of how best to rectify this. I hope this guy isn’t drunk. Or maybe I hope he is, so that I can just call the aurors to deal with this.

“Are you pissed?” I ask, just to know.

“I wish.” Is his muffled reply. “Would be a bit less embarrassing if I were, I think.”

I roll my eyes. “Can you get up?”

“Yep.” He repeats, and then groans again as he pulls himself out of the soaking wet, dirty grey cushion, that is the snow bank.

My mouth drops open. “Potter?”

And, yep indeed. It’s Potter. He’s leaning back on gloved hands when he looks up at me quickly and then he groans. Throws his wet haired head back, and those green eyes look up at the awning like he’s berating whatever trickster god pulls his strings of fate. Or, so I assume.

He leans his weight on a single hand and stretches out the other in my direction.

For a second, I think he’s extended it so we can shake hands, before I realise that he just wants a hand up. I flush and hasten – carefully – over. A quick pull from my hand and he does the rest of the work, but he has to grab at my shoulders when he’s upright, a little wobbly.

He looks at me and grimaces. “I’m a danger to myself and others.” His hands release my shoulders, but only, it seems, to brush off bits of snow and dirt off of my coat.

I huff, my breath making a cloud of vapour in the space between us. “Well, I won’t disagree with you on that. Do you need me to go and get someone for you, or can you make your merry way to your reserved bed at Mungos?”

He laughs just a little. “It’s always a pleasure, Draco, honestly.” He’s joking, so I reserve the right to kick him until later. Maybe when he’s a bit less pathetic from the slip. “Are you okay?”

I scowl, and don’t answer his question. “It’s bloody 6pm on a Wednesday. In the middle of winter. After a snow storm. Who’s honestly buying wands this time of year?”

He smiles, winks slightly. “Gotta be made, don’t they?”

I roll my eyes. “Oh, I get it. You’re chained to your desk. A snowstorm fit for the arctic circle could blaze through here and you couldn’t be moved.”

He laughs. Harry laughs the same way he’s always laughed, and I blush just a little bit, as I’ve always done. I feel a shiver start to come upon me, but I keep it away by share force of will as he continues. “The new year is good for the thestral tail hair.” A dirty glove subconsciously comes up to rub at his wet hair, and he grimaces when he feels it. “Decay, new life, you know. The Death-horses and Winter going hand in hand.”

I smirk as he tentatively tries to rub his dirty glove off against a cleaner part of his cloak. “Cruel of them. Not taking the time to consider your plight.”

“Well,” he challenges, “I doubt it’s a major concern. It’s actually not every day that I slip and fall on the pavement. I survive my walks, mostly.”

“Well,” I answer, “I never slip or fall.” I raise a haughty eyebrow at him, and I can see the humour dust his eyes a little bit more. “Don’t go blaming me for this.”

He rolls his eyes and grimaces. “Why are we still so wet.” He flicks his hand and a wave of annoyingly familiar magic crests itself over my figure until the dirt and the moisture are driven right away. I flick a warming charm over him in thanks.

He seems to pay a bit more attention to his surroundings now that he’s dry and warm. “You just come from Finch-Fletchley’s? You mind reminding him that if the other shops are closed down for the holidays that it’s his job to vanish the snow after a blanketing?”

I avert my eyes, drawn to the bright lights of the bakery. I scowl. “You can tell him yourself, thank you very much.” I take a deep breath, and straighten my back. Keeping some decorum, hopefully. “We’ve broken up.”

Potter’s eyebrows are up when I glance quickly back to his face. He looks at me, and his face is very controlled. He looks at the bakery. “When?”

I swallow. “Week before Christmas, if you can believe.”

He can’t seem to stop himself from whistling sympathetically. Then he winces. “Sorry.”

I shrug, casually. “No matter.”

He snorts.

“I’m serious” I say, pointlessly.

He crosses his arms and looks hard at me. “Oh yeah? What are you doing here, then? Surely not too many muggleborns turning 11 around this time of year.”

Not to back down, and turn to face him properly and cross my own arms. “You know full well that’s not all I do, Potter.”

He rolls his eyes. “Like my point doesn’t still stand. What? You doing a lot of muggleborn house calls the week after new year’s?”

“Not every muggleborn celebrates Christmas and New Year’s.”

“Sure, technically. In reality, though?”

I turn away, and don’t answer his questions. He snorts, but then steps a little closer. We’re facing the bakery, because of course we are. O’ Holy Night plays above us. I wonder who chooses these songs.

I hear him take a deep breath in and out. “I really am sorry.”

I sigh, too. “It’s really not a big deal.”

“It’s only been two weeks, Draco.”

Two weeks and 5 days. If we’re counting. I don’t say this though.

He bumps my shoulder. “Not to pick at the wound, but what areyou really doing here.”

I consider lying to him again, but we’re not really in the business of doing that. It’d just be a bore. And he’s always been… good about things like this. “Christmas.” I swallow. “It gets lonely, you know.”

He hums.

I kick out at the ground with my foot and it slides a little bit too far, and I end up having to take a step forward to balance myself again – Potter grabs at my arm.

He laughs, a little anxiously. “Never slip and fall, huh?”

I ignore that, my face flushed and hot. “We had a tradition. Wednesday pastries at the bakery. I would assume it’s common decency to let someone know in advance if you’re going to break up with them. So that one can plan for these moments, right?” I close my eyes against the lights of Justin’s bakery, feeling unwelcome. “I apologise. I’m morose. It’s not exactly the post-holiday cheer I’m sure you want on a nice evening.”

He chuckles. “I wouldn’t call this a nice evening.” My warming charm wears off, and he flicks his wrist for another one to settle over us. He lets go of my upper arm, and puts a hand on my shoulder – drags me around a bit to face him. “Fuck him, right?”

I roll my eyes. “He’s not a bad guy, Potter.”

He rolls his eyes right back, and then looks quite serious. “Be a little indulgent with yourself sometimes, Draco.”

I look back at him. He’s only just shorter than me, and I’ve always cherished that fact, but now he almost seems to be towering over me, even with a bit of a slouch to his stand. His messy hair and his shadowed cheeks and under-eyes the likes of which I only really see during the summer break when I’m chaperoning muggle families and their muggleborn children to get their first wands before September. Working too hard. Chained to his desk.

“Do you want to have dinner with me?” I blurt out.

His eyes widen. So do mine. The heat in my face expands to a blaze, and I groan as I drop it into my cold gloves. “Merlin, I’m sorry. You just said the indulgent thing, and I couldn’t stop myself.”

“Hey, it’s fine.” He grabs at my wrists lightly and tugs a bit, but I don’t budge. “Draco.”

A clang mutely sounds from just up the street, the usual echo of the door in the cobbled street trapped by the snow. “Draco?” I hear, and look up. Startle, because that’s definitely Justin at the door, surrounded in the glow of the lighting. I take a step back almost without thought, and Harry’s grip on my wrist unfortunately makes me lose my balance. I go right down, and he follows. Right on top of me.

I groan loudly, my head and back and arse all once again wet and cold. Harry groans too, and his warm weight gets off me very quickly, tugging me up by my hands, and then a hand tight on my waist to right me. I don’t step out of his grip immediately, too overcome with the situation. Ready to take another crack at the cobbles and see if this time I brain myself.

“Hell, Draco,” Harry mutters, and then grabs his wand to get the wet and the dirt off the both of us again. Another of his beautiful warming charms settles over my body. “We’re even now, okay? No more falls, for god’s sake.”

Justin has wandered a bit closer by the time I look away from Harry’s face, a little consternated. “Draco? Are you okay? Merlin, what are you doing standing out here?”

I don’t respond. Harry coughs. “That’ll be me. I basically tripped him earlier, and we got talking.”

Justin’s eyes widen just a little, and he looks at Draco in concern. “In this weather? It’s freezing! I’ll grab you mug of spice cider, alright?”

“No,” I say, finally finding my bloody voice again. “No, I’m fine. And anyway.” I shoot a glance at Harry. “We’re tied one-for-one.” Harry smirks.

Justin continues when I look back to him. “Dray, come on. A cup of cider, a bite to eat.”

I shake my head, wanting this day to be done with already. “I’ve got plans.”

Justin eyes get just a little softer. “Come on, please?”

“He does. Have plans.” Potter says, and my neck twinges with how fast I turn to look at him. “We’re going to dinner.”

Justin goggles, just a little, looks between Harry and me. There’s a certain part of me – a different part to the one that’s processing whether or not Harry means what he said about dinner – that’s a little vindictively pleased about Justin’s reaction. “Oh!” Justin says. “Okay, no… No worries!” He meets my eyes, and I flush. “It was good to see you. Please, do come around. The staff miss you, you know.”

I smile politely. “Thanks, Justin.” I stand a little taller, and nod to him. “Take care.”

“You too.” And he grins kindly, lifting a hand to Harry and me, before hastening back into the warm sanctuary of his bakery. The door does its little muted clang again as it closes. My mouth – still sitting in a polite smile – relaxes, leaving a little pain in my cheeks.

Harry hums. “Do you ever think that we’re all a bit toomature now?”

Surprisingly, I laugh loudly at that. I’m nodding even before I get the words out. “Yes. I’d almost wish to be fifteen again and have a real proper tantrum about this.” I sigh, laugh a little again. “But, you know. Fifteen-year-old me? Good riddance.”

“I don’t know…” Harry trails off, “there were some redeeming qualities. He was certainly a creative sort.”

I goggle at him, and immediately stop when I realise that I’m imitating Justin to some extent. “Stop having me on.”

Harry… laughs. “Yeah, I’m having you on. You were a right bastard.”

I shake my head, and turn away from the lights of the bakery, and start walking. He’ll surely catch up.

“I was serious.” Harry says, and I turn my head a little to let him know I’m listening as I walk. “About dinner.”

“I assumed so,” even though that’s a bit of a lie.

“And,” Harry catches up. “I mean ‘dinner’ as in. A date.”

I’m not proud of this, but I slip. Just a little. “Fuck,” I say as I try to catch myself. Thank goodness that Potter’s a bit more onto it, though. He just grabs my arm, and an arm around my back. Straightens me up.

“Bloody hell, I should have talked to him about the snow vanishing,” Harry’s saying as I brush off my cloak to hide my flush. “It’s all the Diagon Business Association talks about during winter, I don’t know what he’s on-”

“Harry.”

He stops and looks at me. Christmas music is still playing, and its still grating, but goodness the lights work well on his complexion. And his eyes.

I smile, just a little. “We’ve got dinner plans, I thought? We could talk about this there, surely?”

He laughs.

[lordoftermites]

The Fox & the Thornbush | Part 3

Pairing: Roiben x Kaye Rating: M for violence and bleedy bits Summary: This is it. The Undersea Attack. Maybe eventually I'll go back and do more with it but. This took... a lot to write and honestly I can't even write a summary for it. I'm sorry in advance.

part 1. // part 2.

Faerie is a deadly place, he had told her once.

Kaye hadn’t believed him then—or, more despairingly, she had believed him, and was just far too willful to listen.

Even after the coronation in Elfhame, when Balekin had slaughtered near to every member of the royal family in a coup to usurp the throne, Kaye had persisted. She left her coffee shop, her dreams, abandoned her life in the light of the mortal world to live with him in the damp darkness of the Palace of Termites.

For her sake, Roiben had tried to convince himself that it would be a good change. That it was true—he had grown weary of having to steal away like some thief in the night to see her so sparingly, only to come back to a cold bed under a cold hill, alone.

After a while he began to believe that, perhaps, now that Kaye was at his side, within his reach at all times, that the frigid ache in his chest would abate—that he could finally be content.

Perhaps faeries couldn’t speak a lie with their own mouths, but Roiben had been telling himself untruths for longer than he could remember.

Kaye rolls over onto her side, burrowing farther beneath the coverlet. Her wild hair splays in lush, green tangles over the pillow. She sleeps soundly, verdant lips parted, once in a while letting out a small sigh here or near-inaudible word there. Roiben watches her from his place on the bed—their bed, he reminds himself—as though if he were to look away, she might very well disappear with one of those sighs.

He’s been awake for hours now, ripped from yet another nightmare, his chest heaving, his stomach threatening to upend the acrid bile in the back of his throat, while morbid death stares burned behind his eyes. They were the spectres of his sins, reminding him the blood on his hands has not, and shall not, wash away.

At least, this time, there had been no screaming.

A lock of deep green hair lies across Kaye’s face. It flutters slightly when she exhales, only to fall back against her lips. Her nose crinkles in her sleep, disturbed and perhaps dreaming of something else. Roiben reaches to brush it away but stops himself short, his fingers hovering mid-air. He ought to let her just sleep, he knows.

Yet, before he can convince himself not to, he’s leaning down, brushing the hair back with his mouth instead.

Kaye stirs and makes a light, disgruntled noise, until she seems to realize what’s happening. Then she’s lazily kissing him back, pressing her lips against his, parting just enough for him to sweep her mouth. One of her hands comes up to rest on the nape of his neck, her long fingers tangling in the hair there. Roiben sighs against her lips at the feeling; it’s light and comforting, warming that chill in his bones she alone has ever been able touch.

As often as he scorns himself for giving in to her decision to stay here permanently with him in Faerie, it’s selfish moments like this that he wouldn’t have her anywhere else. He can face the demons waiting in his nightmares—so long as she’s with him.

“Well, good morning to you, too,” Kaye says drowsily, black eyes fluttering up to his, lidded with sleep and something else. Roiben hovers over her, grinning. “What was that for? I mean, not that I mind or anything.”

He shakes his head, still unused to the lightness of his newly-cropped hair. “A compulsion, I suppose,” he answers, and lowers himself again to bury his face in the crook of her neck, breathing deep the scents of moss and clover. He can’t quite bring himself to admit aloud that it was more to solidify her presence—to give himself physical reassurance that she isn’t part of a cruel trick his mind so often played on him.

Kaye strokes the back of his head gently, as if she already knows, as if perhaps she too needs the reminder that neither of them are made of phantoms and longing. Roiben kisses the column of her green neck, an arm curling under her, pulling her closer and yet still not close enough. She tilts her head with a soft hum of encouragement. “Whatever it is, I could get used to waking up like this.”

Her hands slide over his shoulders, down his bare arms, along his spine. Roiben shivers and shifts his weight, caging her body beneath him. His mouth drifts along the line of her clavicle to the base of her throat. One of his hands slips under the coverlet to the silklike flesh of her thigh, drawing it up to bracket his hip, while his lips brush against the flushed swell of her chest. Kaye’s hushed sighs as he arches against her spark a flame behind his navel, galvanizing him into urgent desire.

What he wouldn’t do to just simply stay here with her forever, to revel in her touch, her warmth, her love. Let the crowns decay. Let the duties and the demands and the courts crumble to nothing; let him be only a knight and a man again, to be content. Unburdened.

As if the fates decided he needed reminding of his reality, a light rapping at the door to his chambers breaks through their intimate solace.

Roiben ignores it at first, tells himself whatever it is will go away. Surely a herald, one of his knights, or even his chamberlain can handle it—not every small thing ought to be a king's concern, especially not when his council members are already far more inclined to do his duty for him. He doesn't cease his kisses, and instead channels into them the denial of obligations and the desires of his soul. His fingers grip Kaye's thigh tighter in desperation, attempting to tether himself to her and this moment alone. Leave us, his mind pleads. Find another doorway to darken.

But the knocking comes again, this time carrying a touch more confidence and urgency.

Suddenly furious, unfulfilled, and ultimately defeated, Roiben growls against Kaye's skin before pushing himself up. She watches him with heady eyes, seeming just as exasperated at the interruption as he. Her hand lingers on his arm. "Just tell them to fuck off," she suggests, though it's half-hearted. She knows as well as he does that it's very seldom anything he can simply wave or wish away.

"If we're fortunate," he sighs, bending down to give her one last kiss and then forcing himself to rise from the bed, "it will be nothing but our breakfast.” In a moment, he’s crossed the room and wrenched the heavy door open. Ruddles himself is there, hand raised as though he had just been about to give another, less-timid knock; he lowers the hand, and himself before Roiben, bowing low enough that his nose might brush the floor if given another half inch.

“My King,” the hob greets in his usual rasp before straightening. He seems to realize his king’s half-naked appearance and forced even breathing, but carries on. “I apologize for the disturbance at such an early hour, but I assumed you would want to be informed we’ve had a messenger come and go without our receiving him.”

Propping an arm against the door, Roiben barely suppresses a roll of his eyes. “It is not an uncommon thing for a courier to go missed.“ He knows his tone is clipped, but he doesn’t bother to correct it. “Why does this time require my chamberlain coming to my private rooms, when clearly whatever message left was not of enough import to be received in the first place?”

That seems to bristle the hob, who takes a rather deliberate, offended breath through his sharply-pointed nose. “Because, the message was left while the entire hill slept,” Ruddles answers gruffly. His brows are furrowed as if there really is something to be worried about, and his sovereign is, as usual, too unconcerned. “No one saw the messenger arrive, nor did they witness his departure.”

It’s Roiben’s turn to frown. That couldn’t be right: since the rebuilding of the Palace of Termites, they had sentries posted through dawn and dusk, and as many guards patrolling the hill. Surely someone ought to have seen this phantom envoy. Foreboding gnaws at his gut; he doesn’t like mystery, and he likes even less when that mystery involves his playing the part of the ignorant fool.

“What was this message? Did you bring it with you?”

Ruddles shakes his tawny head and wrings his hands. “It was a parcel, a large one, addressed to the Lord of the Court of Termites. We left it where it was found—” he pauses, the troubled expression on his face doing nothing to quell the rising uneasiness Roiben feels—”in the throne room… more pointedly, on your throne.”

A deliberate act, and a bold one. The thought of it sets Roiben’s teeth on edge. “I see,” he says, scrubbing a hand over his jaw, deliberating.

From behind him, Kaye yawns. Roiben turns back to look at her, where she’s stretching and rubbing the sleep from her eyes, green hair falling over her shoulders. Just the sight of her, wrapped in his spider silk coverlet and little else, makes him ache with longing. It takes everything he can muster not to bolt the door in Ruddles' face.

She squints at him, as if attempting to focus her vision or read his thoughts, tilts her head in a question. Roiben tries a casual smile and holds up a finger, before turning back to his chamberlain. “Gather Dulcamara and Ellebere,” he instructs. “See if either of them know anything. I’ll meet the three of you in the throne room presently, and we’ll see just exactly what gift our shadow messenger has left us.”

The hob gives a shallow bow and backs away before turning on his heel and setting back off through the corridor. When Roiben closes the heavy wooden door, he leans against it momentarily, breathing a long sigh that does nothing to relieve any of the pressure in his chest.

How exhausted he is of intrigues and suspicions, of forging treaties that seem as stable as a thread stretched above a candle flame. Roiben himself feels like that thread—fraying at both ends while trying to hold his kingdom between his teeth, at any moment about to burn up with the burden of it all.

Take this from me, he had once thought, after his coronation as the Unseelie ruler. I do not want to be your king.

Now, he had two crowns, each heavy as a boulder on their own. Together, they are a mountain, and may very well crush him beneath their weight.

“What was that about?” Kaye’s voice calls from the bed. Roiben moves from the door and crosses the room to sit beside her. When he goes to kiss her cheek, he takes a selfish moment to breathe in the smell of her again, something to take with him. “I’m not entirely sure,” he replies, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I expect nothing but trouble, as usual. But I won’t be gone a moment—” he leans in again, grazing his lips against her neck with a promise—”and when I return, we can forget them all again.”

Before he can lose himself, Roiben pushes off of the bed. He pulls on a fresh set of clothing—a simple black tunic with trousers to match, and a pair of boots. From the chair beside his bed, he takes up his curved sword and straps it to his waist. Its weight is one he is used to, cold and secure at his hip.

With an apologetic glance back at Kaye, who shoos him with a small wave before shuffling back under the coverlet, he slips through the door.

Dulcamara is perched on the dais when he arrives in the throne room, clad in her beetle-black armor, polishing a dagger while her pink glare remains fixed on the throne. She stands when Roiben enters, however, and gives him a small bow of her head; as reverent a gesture as he likes, if he must be revered at all. “The hob is off searching for Ellebere,” she tells him in her gravel-scraping voice. “Must we wait for our curiosities to be sated?” Her head bobs in the direction of the throne.

As proficient a knight as Dulcamara is, her impatience often wills out, even when it comes to the one she serves.

Roiben shakes his head with a snort. “I suppose it isn’t a requirement,” he admits, stepping up onto the dais. “Though I doubt Ruddles will be much pleased when we solve the mystery without him.” Even so, eyeing the parcel, Roiben finds himself every bit as curious as he is wary.

As Ruddles said, what’s been placed on his throne is no small thing: it covers nearly half the seat itself, dome-shaped and wrapped in a cloth of deep blue velvet, tied together at the top with golden string. It certainly looks like a gift. Yet, as Roiben reaches out to take the small slip of folded parchment resting beside it, his title addressed in a dark blue flourish across the front, an icy dread seeps into his bones. When he opens the letter, he has to clutch the arm of the throne as the dais pitches up to meet him.

From behind him, Dulcamara’s voice seems distant, distorted. “What does it say?” Without turning, Roiben holds the note out to her, suddenly finding it difficult to swallow—or tear his gaze from the parcel. His hand trembles as he reaches to undo the string, to look upon what he already knows lies inside the elaborate wrapping.

“‘Let us see how easily you unwind the wire of your own cage’,” Dulcamara reads. “What sort of riddle—”

“It is no riddle.” He's clenching his jaw hard enough to hurt. His hand goes to grip the blade at his hip. “It is a threat.”

Unwrapped and glinting in the candlelight, just as he remembers, is the gilded birdcage that once held his friend and subject, Lutie-Loo—the very one he freed her from in Balekin’s office less than a year ago. Roiben had made a fool of the would-be king then, promising fealty when he’d already sworn to Prince Dain. Now it would seem his trickery is finally being repaid.

“Dulcamara,” Roiben starts, whirling around, “we need—”

An eruption of sound outside the throne room cuts off whatever order might have given. Before either of them have time to move, Ellebere barrels into the hall, sword in one hand, the other covering his side. Blood and dirt streak his pale face, only adding to the intensity of his frantic expression. “The Undersea,” the knight stammers, “they’re here. They’ve been here.”

Ruddles’ words echo dully in Roiben’s mind. No one saw the messenger arrive, nor did anyone witness his departure.

As Ellebere clambers up onto the dais, Roiben is reminded with a turning in his stomach of the last time he saw the knight in such a state, when Silarial made her move on the court. They had nearly been destroyed because of his underestimating and overconfidence. Has he once again brought ruin to his people? To…

“Kaye.”

The brugh swirls around him. His breath is trapped in his lungs.

As a swarm of bodies pours into the hall, the sharp clashing of metal against metal resounding through the hollow hill, Roiben can see none of it; only Kaye’s face, bloodied and lifeless.

Dead, because of him.

Something solid shoves into him, nearly knocking him to the ground before his legs catch him. Jolted back to the present, he jerks his head up just as Dulcamara brings her blade down in an arc across the front of an advancing selkie; the faerie crumples at her feet, black blood spilling onto the already gore-stained floor of the dais. It had gotten that close, and Roiben hadn’t even seen it. Dulcamara whips around to look at him, pink glare ablaze. Before she can scold him, he shakes his head and grips the sword he can’t remember drawing.

“I have to get to Kaye,” he shouts above the skirmish, already retreating down the other side of the dais, cutting through another Undersea soldier as it hurtles toward him. He is already charging down the hall before she can protest or follow, fear propelling his steps and his blade.

The battle seems to be more focused on the throne room, thankfully; Roiben is stalled only once, by a selkie warrior wielding a longsword of shark bone. Though he takes a slash to the thigh, the other faerie is not nearly as fortunate. He falls to his knees, clutching the gaping hole in his chest when Roiben withdraws his blade.

Biting through the searing pain in his leg, Roiben pushes on, repeating silent pleas that he not be too late.

As he comes to the door of his chambers, a fresh wave of glacial panic seizes him; the door has been thrown wide open and is hanging from the hinges. From the other side he can hear crashing, breaking. A struggle, and then a scream.

Kaye is screaming.

Roiben never feels himself move. He sees nothing but the flash of his sword, slicing through the gray-blue neck of an Undersea knight; hears nothing but his own cry of wild rage, his own deafening heartbeat in his ears. In less than breath, both Kaye and her attacker lie on the floor in a pool of mingling black and crimson.

It has happened, yet Roiben cannot shake the fog of unreality that strangles his breathing, weakens his legs, clouds his vision. His sword falls from his hand, and he collapses to his knees beside Kaye. He stares down in horror at the deep red gash from her throat to her sternum. Someone is sobbing. Blood streams from the wound—too much. There is too much blood.

He pulls her into his lap, holds her gently, covers what he can with a trembling hand. Dark, ruby warmth spills through his fingers and over his wrist. “Kaye,” he chokes, reaching to touch her cheek. His fingers are wet with blood and he has to brace against the sick twisting of his stomach.

Her black eyes are wild and unfocused, but she finds him. Grasps his arm desperately, gasping. She opens her mouth to speak, the beginning of his name on her ashen lips, but it comes out a fearful, small sound, and she doesn’t finish. Roiben strokes her hair and hushes her softly, bringing a kiss to her cool, damp forehead. When he pulls back, the unhinged terror in her eyes burrows like a dagger into his heart. “It’s...“

It’s going to be alright, he tries to tell her. The words will not form.

He cannot force back the sob at realizing why he can't say it. It could be a lie, and Kaye might die right here, in his room. In his arms. Dead before their life together had barely begun. Dead because he hadn't been fast enough. Because he had allowed it—because he had caused it.

Roiben can console himself no more than he can console her.

Faerie is a deadly place, he had told her once.

[poptod]

Pull the Stars Out of the Sky (And Gift Them to Me), pt. 4 (Ahkmenrah x Reader)

Description: He needs to listen. He needs to understand.

Notes: i havent been able to write recently bc ive been spending a lot of time with my boytoy but hes off being a firefighter rn so ive just been nonstop writing and drawing. its ridiculous. i finished pt 3 and 4 in like three days. WC: 5.5k

+

There were less paintings in Thebes. White marble walls and pillars reigned supreme, a stark contrast from the colorful streets of Memphis. You decided not to bring it up, or at least not at the moment you realized it, as in that moment you were face to face with the mayor of Thebes. He was shaking Ahkmenrah's hand, a polite smile on his lips.

"It's good to see you again, Piye," Ahk said. You had to stop and go over the sentence again to make sure you heard it right. Piye wasn't on the same boat as yours, and wouldn't arrive for another day.

"As it is you, my King," the mayor replied.

A trail of servants, soldiers, and slaves passed both behind and in front of you, lugging the offerings to specific temples, and the royal belongings behind the Pharaoh. Haji was put to the use, as unfortunate as it was, and you couldn't help but apologize when he was asked to haul a massive reed basket full of dried dates.

"It's alright," he said, huffing with effort. "I've done this before. Not usually uphill, though."

"Sorry," you said again, wincing at the way sweat beaded on his forehead.

The massive block of shade casted by the royal house's overhang was a relief for those carrying items, and for Ahk as well, as this was his home-away-from-home. Images of Ahkmenrah remained painted across the walls, the only color in the crystal city. The Nile flowed steadily beside the house, short fences leading to a plentiful garden through which the water came, and date trees that grew taller than any building.

The mayor, who you slowly realized was also named Piye, left your group there with a bid for a good evening. Along with that, he invited the Pharaoh and you––his pet––to dinner with him and his family. You weren't sure how enjoyable that would be, but either way the decision was out of your hands.

Following Ahkmenrah, you found yourselves in a large room with a domed ceiling, tall arches framed by red curtains. Outside, trees rustled in the gentle wind with no hint of society. You silently cheered––it was better, you believed, to have a view of the land, rather than of the city.

"Tomorrow I shall take you on a true tour of the city," Ahk said, coming up behind you till his breath fell sudden on your shoulder. You jumped slightly, but arms around your waist stilled you, pulling you into an unfortunately familiar warmth. "How does that sound?"

You said nothing, staring into the silent night.

"We can go through the markets," he suggested, shifting so he held you tighter. "If you want for anything, I will give it to you. I'm sure you've gone through many markets unable to afford anything, so now's a chance to make up for some of that."

"... thank you," you said, very nearly whispered, as hesitance seized you fiercely. Giving into his words––you said you'd never do that. He was not threatening you in any way, so why would you try to please him?

"Are you tired yet?" He asked.

"Not especially," you said, voice still strained.

"How does a game of Senet sound, then?"

"I've... never heard of it," you said honestly, glancing to the side as your fingers fiddled with each other.

"Really? I think you'll quite like it. It's a game of wits and chance. Are you interested?"

You paused before saying, "sure."

He grinned, leaving you alone in the moonlit room as he raced to the servants bringing in his personal belongings. While you waited, you stared out the massive, pale arches, bright as the moon in the perfectly clear sky. Barely a breeze passed by, leaving the warm, humid climate to cling to your skin, slowing your breath as peace reached you. Thebes was nice––just not the city. The countryside was beautiful, and Ahkmenrah's home here was beautiful.

It was not hard for a room to be better than your previous room, tied up in the middle of inescapable stone walls, still you took special care to appreciate the freedom here. Yes, there was a large drop between the pristine upper floor and the ground, but that hardly mattered to you. By your reckoning, you could milk Ahkmenrah's affection for you. If he truly would not let you go, you might as well make the most of it, and earn whatever you longed for in your poorer life.

Steps echoing in the empty hall grew closer, leading to the creaking hinges of the large, wooden doors behind you. You turned, coming to see the Pharaoh grinning like a dope, entirely uncharacteristic for his royal attire.

"I brought my board from home, but I've got one here as well. Made of crystal and ivory, actually, but I don't like it as much as my wooden one," he said, rambling as he set the board down on the carpeted floor.

The board was presented as a tiny, rectangular table with black and red squares for the pieces to move on. Dark wood legs held up the board, within which was contained a drawer filled with the pieces, numbering two pairs of five. One style was a long pillar with a head on top, and the other was a round-base pyramid.

Over the course of the next couple minutes, Ahkmenrah explained the rules to you, how the pieces moved forward, and that whoever got all their pieces off first won. The basics were gone over, but you soon started without much knowledge on how to play. He taught as you went along, and soon you were truly playing, concentrated deeply on your strategy and how to win. There were a few different tactics you could try to slow down Ahk or speed yourself up, but as you grew engrossed in the game, you hardly noticed the smile spreading across the Pharaoh's face.

"You might actually beat me," he said as you took another one of his pieces, sending it back five paces.

"What, you didn't think I was smart enough at first?" You said with an almost sly grin.

"No, I – actually," he paused, "yes. Sorry. I might've underestimated you."

"Don't worry," you said, handing the dice to him. "You're not the first."

"Really?"

"I ran into this stand at one point. It was a man who took your coin and hid it under one of three cups, switched them all up, and asked you where the coins were. If you got it right, you were paid in double, and if you got it wrong, he took your money."

"Basic deal."

"Yes. I came as a young child, a stranger to the city. He thought I'd be easy prey, so he did his trick, but I noticed he was dropping the coins off the edge of the table and into his lap. So I pick-pocketed him for all the money he took from people."

"That... doesn't sound like he underestimated your smarts so much as underestimating your conniving."

"Perhaps so," you said, moving another one of your pieces to steal one of his, sending it back by three. "But for me, the two go hand in hand."

"I can see," he chuckled, his blush visible even in the moonlight.

After a long time spent finishing the game, as the last move off the board had to be an exact number, you won mostly by chance. Still you cheered, grinning satisfied as Ahk held his head low in failure. He chuckled though, his shoulders shaking with the silent laughter, bringing you great gratification.

"Where did you learn these tactics?"

"Ever been to Nubia?"

"A couple times," he said, looking to the side as he attempted to recall it. "My father was rather cruel to them, so I try not to visit too much. They don't really like the royal family."

"Understandably so," you said with crossed arms, watching him deftly pick up the pieces and cram them back in the drawer. "They memorized your father's military movements, and I assumed you learned your own tactics from him. Applying that to the fact that you're more passive aggressive than actually aggressive, I decided you'd probably be more on defensive, creating strong barriers instead of stealing my pieces."

"... Wow."

"You're also less likely to overcome my pieces because you're trying to gain my favor."

"Okay, I don't need an in depth analysis of my childhood and psyche," he said, holding his hand up but still laughing.

"You asked," you reminded him.

"I did. And I'd like to hear more, when I'm conscious enough to actually understand it," he said as he set away the board. He returned quickly to you, pulling you into a tight hug, before promptly releasing you with a kiss to your neck.

"Tired?"

"Mhm," he hummed, hand trailing down to tangle in yours.

Once affirmed of your presence, he led you along the barren, white floor, your reflections standing beneath you with chests pressed together. The plush of linen sheets and pillows caught you when he pushed you, and soon your body was cradled by the bed and overshadowed by the Pharaoh above you. Crownless, barren of cape or gold, and caught enraptured in your eyes.

As he loomed above you, seemingly caught in his adoration for you, you noted with much confusion that you were breathing normally. Your heart raced horribly in your chest, that still remained a constant sickness. Yet your muscles relaxed, sleepiness seeping into your bones, hypnotized by his loving gaze.

"You're cute," he said with a sudden, wide smile. You huffed, rolling your eyes as you put your hands on his face, pushing him away. He just laughed, falling over onto his back.

"Go to sleep," you told him, lying down on your side.

"Very well. But in the morning," he leaned over your turned shoulder, kissing your cheek, "be ready to be out in public with me."

His arms once more wrapped tight around your middle, tugging you into his heat as he tucked you under his chin. You had several questions, both concerning his statement and other things, but you decided to wait until tomorrow. Tears were budding in your eyes from your incessant yawning, and sleep was a blink away.

You dreamed of a lake that night––laced with lily pads, blue and purple petals sprouting from green buds. Inside each pocket full of pollen, a sun glowed and illuminated your searching fingers. A black stone sky towered above you, dark and cold with wind, creating a deep contrast between it and the warm water.

You awoke to a different stone sky, shaped in the same dome. This one was made of white quartz, carved delicately, and lit by the strength of the sun. Recognition came to you instantaneously, and you recalled the trip to Thebes and the game from the night before. The only difference was the absence of heat, of pressure on your waist, breath on your neck. Sitting up, you realized you were alone in the room. How rare a chance––unsupervised, with massive windows beside you that you could easily climb out of.

Before you could even think of how to act in the presence of such opportunity, the doors slowly opened, revealing Ahk with a tray in his hand. You furrowed your brow. Couldn't he have asked one of his servants to get that? Or in the very least, open the door for him.

"I have never claimed to be a chef. I want you to know that before you eat this," he said, which was a very alarming thing to be told before being presented a meal.

"Ummm..."

"That sounded bad. Let me restart. I am not a very good cook, but I did what I could."

"Why can't the chefs cook?"

"I'm not asking anyone to work during the Opet festival," he said with a frown, before calling out, "Naguib?!"

"Yeah?" He called back, footsteps soon nearing.

"What about him?" You asked.

"Oh, he's not here for work," Ahk said in a bright tone, looking over his shoulder to see Naguib entering the room.

"I'm just here to make sure he doesn't burn down the house," Naguib chuckled, leaning on the door frame.

"Yes, and thank you for that. Come here," Ahk said, motioning the servant either. He dutifully obeyed, and Ahk pulled out a small pouch, handing it to him. "Have fun."

"Thank you, sir," Naguib said, bowing to the King before ducking out.

"Funny little man, that," Ahk said once he was sure Naguib was out of sight.

"How so?" You asked, mildly amused at their antics.

"He's the only one who can switch readily between free time and work time. Not many people have that switch, you know," he said, turning back to you.

"Do you?"

"I like to think so. What do you think?" He raised himself to tower above you, his expression suddenly falling into a shadowed cold. "Can I put on the face of a King?"

That cocky bastard knew the answer perfectly well. A man so aware of his own emotions, of the way he carried himself, would obviously know about this aspect of himself. Many go their whole lives without ever cracking into who they truly are; but not the Pharaoh. He knew every crevice of himself, and he used it to his advantage. Every weakness hidden. Every strength glorified.

"I'll take that as a yes," he said, a cocky smirk on his face as you emerged from your thoughts.

You frowned.

"Oh, don't pout now, pet," he cooed as his finger trailed down the side of your face. "Let's see how breakfast turned out, hmm?"

He soothed and gained your vice attention at once with that little motion, that little motion he'd used a number of times before. Like himself, he had taken it upon himself to know you, to understand why you reacted in certain ways just as much as how you reacted. His expression gave little of that information away, so instead you turned to the tray and scanned its' contents.

You first noticed the wooden bowl of dates, set off in the corner of the platter beside two slats of seared meat. In the middle of it all was the largest plate, upon which he had placed an array of stirfry vegetables, garnished with an anise flower. Two cups were set to the side, filled with a faintly yellow tea. You reached for that first, as you had no idea what it was, and curiosity was always your main concern.

"What is this?" You asked, scanning the drink thoroughly.

"Blue lotus tea. Couldn't find any stores of beer, and I wanted to show you the flower. It's quite helpful in a number of things, medicinally... and recreationally," he said, biting at his bottom lip as he took the other glass.

"So... a drug," you said, raising a single brow.

"You could say that," he said as he took a sip, never breaking eye contact with you.

"Why don't I trust you?"

"Because I'm untrustworthy," he said, winking.

In the end you did end up drinking the tea, and the honey stirred within the warm water had you finishing the entire cup. Along with that, the two of you ate the various dishes Ahk had made with the help of Naguib, finding most of them––in the very least––edible. The meat was definitely burnt, and the stirfry was a little heavy on the anise. Overall, not bad––you probably shouldn’t expect more than that from a Pharaoh who had been handfed all his life.

He dressed himself once all was said and done concerning breakfast, twirling in the mirror to scan every inch of his outfit. There was no effort within it to conceal his identity as Pharaoh––in fact, it was enlarged, prominent and obvious on every golden brace and silk thread imbued within it. A regal, tall crown made of gold and bearing a poised cobra ended it all off, concealing the soft brown curls atop his head.

A few questions remained on the tip of your tongue, waiting for your brain to decide it was the right time to ask. After a little while of holding back, you decided that the 'right' moment would never come, and asked your question forthwith.

"Why are we here again?" You asked, thoughtlessly rubbing the sheets between your thumb and forefinger.

"The Opet festival," he answered, preening his cape. "It's an event that celebrates the strength of the Pharaoh. It'll be my first... since my father gave up the throne. We pray and make offerings to Amun, and the commonfolk are welcomed to ask their own prayers upon Amun's statue. Perhaps you've noticed it?"

Ah. That would explain the 11 foot tall statue made of gold.

"We'll be celebrating wealth for a little while, but in a week we take the barge to Luxor, where we shall enter the temple of Amun, and hopefully converse with the Gods. Amun, specifically."

"Yeah, I gathered that much. So all that food... it's offerings for this God?"

"Some of it, yes. Everyone brings their own offerings, and as I am a man of plenty, I brought plenty of offerings. It is also our duty as the government and protector of the people to replenish my citizens' energy, and so much of that food is actually for those who travel days and weeks to pray at Amun's feet. You, and the worshippers of Amun, will be well-looked after," he said, taking your hands softly in his and coercing you to your feet.

"Is that how it's always been?"

"As long as I remember. It wavers with cruel leaders... but never really vanishes. Our magic is as important as night and day, essential as fruitful trees, and as entwined with our lives as water. It is hard to break the worship engrained in generations."

While he spoke, he began to undress you, pulling at the buttons and knots until the fabric fell from you. Off your shoulders, off your hips, down your arms, until the white linen pooled on the marble floor. Soon you stood naked before him, but he kept his eyes on yours. Never strayed from your given attention.

"I know you don't adhere to our religion. I want you to know I don't mind. I would not force you into anything, especially not something as controversially widespread as religion," he said, cocking his chin upwards with a smile.

He took your hand again and led you out of the room. Chill breeze brushed by your naked stomach, sending shivers down the sensitive skin so readily bared. Once you reached the main entrance room, he let go of your hand, kneeling to dig into one of the massive bags packed before the trip. Most of them had been dumped in the front room, as the servants and soldiers were tired and ready for sleep the night before.

You attempted to look over his shoulder, an endeavor that was fruitless as it was needless. Soon he found what he was looking for, and he turned to you, presenting it in his open arms.

"Your clothes. From before. I had them washed and packed," he said, handing them to you.

Everything was there. Your long, red vest coat, your skirt with the panel tied into the waist, your buttoned shirt with the collar raised high onto your neck. Things you didn't genuinely expect to see again, and certainly not in the same shape as before.

"Thank you," you murmured, brow furrowed as you flipped through the layers. Without haste you pulled on the skirt, settling into your stolen shirt and the long coat over it. The only thing missing was your weapon––a staff with two spikes hammered into the end. Not the greatest weapon, but it served you well.

"New places can make me nervous, and personally it helps when I have something familiar with me. So I understand why you wanted them back."

"Yes, it's... good to be back in my clothes. Your style is a little much for me," you confessed, remembering the dress with no coverage of your chest except the straps holding the skirt up. A skirt that was see through.

"That's alright. I'm confused by yours as well."

If you were told anything by the various Egyptians you'd met in your travels, it was that Egypt was hot. Always sunny. Always humid. As you looked upwards, wide eyes meeting the grey sky, you nearly jumped. It had been a while since you'd seen a fully overcast sky, where clouds blocked out the sun and the horizons.

"Hmm," Ahk hummed as the two of you left the tiny palace, his hand encasing yours.

"Is it usually like this here?" You asked, looking up to Ahk. To your surprise, you had to squint, the sun still shining bright, white light through the fog.

"No," he said, beginning to walk down the steps, and taking you with. "Actually, it's usually a tad warmer than Memphis. No problem. I'm sure it'll clear out before the ceremony. We've got a week, after all."

He took you into the unfamiliar streets, through graffitied walls until stone turned to marble, great pillars surrounding a massive circle market. Stalls of various types spiraled down into the middle, where a towering obelisk overlooked all trade. Indecipherable hieroglyphs lined each side, though the base of the black stone remained invisible, hidden behind wooden stalls.

Once you entered the center, you noted brick beneath your feet, black stones running into a spiral in the midst of the white bricks. If you followed the path of the black stones, you would find yourself in the center of the market. As tantalizing as that exploration sounded, your hand was firmly set in Ahk's palm, and he had different plans.

You must've passed by a dozen carts before he finally stopped, halting you before a wooden stand showcasing a number of scarves. Each held a sheerness so intricate that you could see straight through it. The seller noticed your amazement, an amazement that had to be common, as he knew exactly what had caught your attention.

"These are made out of silk from China. Wonderful seamstresses they have, there. So thin you may draw the whole shawl through a common ring," the seller said, thumbing through a couple before pulling a blood red scarf out from beneath the stack.

He pulled a ring off his finger, and with great care, threaded the whole scarf through it. Before you could even react to the performance, Ahk was pulling a handful of coins out of his purse and setting them on the counter. The seller grinned, thanked him for the purchase, and just like that the interaction was complete. Ahk took your hand once more and led you away, continuing through the outer ring of the market.

"Beautiful color, isn't it?" He said, watching the way it wrinkled and fell in his hand. You made to nod, but paused as his arms drew over your head, placing the scarf over your shoulders.

"This is yours," you tried to say, but he shushed you, tutting sweetly.

"It's yours. And it looks fantastic on you," he said with a smile, pulling your entwined hands to his lips, where he kissed the back of your hand.

You pressed your lips into a thin line, trying your best not to say anything. That's how this day would go––he would buy you anything you looked at, flaunt his wealth in your face, utterly spoiling you in front of a whole city. Already your face felt as though it were aflame, nervous eyes set fiercely on the ground in front of you.

Along the way, Ahk stopped at a few jewelry carts, where he bought you an array of golden bracelets, faience necklaces, and ivory rings. It wasn't long till there was barely any room left for new gifts, though you suspected that was his plan.

"Here," he said, pausing your stride with a hand on your chest. "One of my friends here in Thebes runs a bakery. He makes the best tiger rolls I've ever had."

Must be good considering how much of them he's had, you thought dully. As usual, you kept your thought to yourself, and followed Ahk inside without complaint.

You were no longer scared of Ahk, you realized, watching him greet his friend with a gusto you rarely ever saw. He was just... irritating. Annoyingly sweet, painfully perceptive, and desperate to earn your favor. The things he dragged you along to do with him were the worst––markets too crowded for your tastes, too rich and uptight for your liking, or boats that you clearly stated you were uncomfortable being on.

The only good part was that outside, he didn't pay as much attention to you. While sitting around in the palace, his hands wandered you constantly, eyes set unmoving upon your body. He memorized those curves, the dips, the intricate veins, and the way you moved in those long hours. Outside, he was preoccupied with other stimulus and left you mostly alone.

Bitterness settled on your tongue. Your old routine was entirely lost, cast to the wind by the Pharaoh's greedy hands. The routine you loved, that kept you sane, and more importantly, kept you moving.

"Do you want anything, Amoke?" Ahk asked, leaning in to speak more intimately. You, of course, shied away, but was mostly stopped by Ahk's hand on your upper arm.

"Um... no. I'm not very hungry," you mumbled, and though he paused to glare suspiciously at you, he relented.

"Alright," he said, kissing your forehead before rushing back to the counter.

With a bag of tiger rolls in hand you left, Ahk continuing to pull you along just as before. This time he did take you down the spiral, and as you passed each stall, you realized it was a conglomeration of different cultures; an amalgamation of the western world. Art from Mali caught your eye. You had gone through there a few times, and the style of their statues had always intrigued you.

The Pharaoh noted your interest, and paused to take you there. He let you decide what you wanted, payed for it in full, and complimented your taste.

"You have a good eye," he had said, "for the divine."

"The divine?" you repeated, looking down at the statue. The form of a plush woman lay in your hands, smooth stone showcasing wide hips, large breasts, and a tiny head.

"A woman, a mortal who creates life, is as close to Gods as we will ever be," he said, looking over your shoulder to scan the figure as well.

The crowd had yet to notice the golden fabric of a Pharaoh, but the singular citizens who did notice were shellshocked, and hadn't the right mind to react at all. Dumbfoundedness gave way the closer you got to the center of the market, and by the time the black pyre casted you entirely in shadow, people were bowing at the King's feet, murmuring astounded praise as he passed by.

You looked up to gauge Ahk's mindset, finding something that terrified you  more than it should have; he was smiling. Self-satisfied, pride puffing out his chest, silently declaring their praise to be a necessity.

A man intoxicated by his own fumes is dangerous––you knew that all too well, and fear began to seep back into your image of him, sending mold that tore down your irritation and replaced it with nauseous anxiety. His hand holding yours was now an anchor that sank you into a bottomless sea, instead of the earlier annoyance.

The combination of your own growing panic and the increasingly loud and desperate voices of the crowd sent you into overdrive. Hands reached up from bowed heads to touch the face of Ahkmenrah, to feel his grace and holiness overtake their bodies. Prayers surrounded you, and with the Pharaoh preoccupied, you fell to the ground and crawled out of the mass of the black land's people.

Once free from the writhing confines, you left the market sniffling, headed for somewhere lonelier. You hated to rely on others to heal you, but for a moment you longed for Haji. He had been kind to you. He would understand. Ahkmenrah didn't, and he never would––you swore this to yourself, your back sliding down the graffitied wall of someone's home.

Hiding your face in your hands, you pressed your knees to your chest, and curled up tight. No one would bother you; you looked like a homeless person, after all.

"Amoke?" Came a soft voice from above you.

You didn't move.

"Let's get home," Ahk murmured, his hands slowly moving up your arms till he gracefully pulled you to your feet.

Your eyes, once hidden and blurred, now opened to the grey light of today.

Ahk had no clothes on.

That was the first thing you noticed. The second thing you noticed was that he was smiling apologetically at you, nervous tics appearing as he chewed on his lip.

"Why are you naked?" You asked in a pathetically weak voice.

"Well, um... it was a little hard to leave the crowd, so I removed all my identifiers. They'll probably steal my clothes, so, um.. hopefully Naguib packed my other nice outfit," he said, beginning the walk back home. You followed quickly behind, still going over his bare skin.

"You could've left your underwear on, you know," you said.

"Oh." He paused. "The thought hadn't occurred to me."

You chuckled weakly, half-hearted as you trudged up the little hill. By the time you reached the doors of the tiny palace, the silence had stretched uncomfortably between you, and you were eager to hide away.

Ahk pulled the door open for you and said, "I'm sorry, by the way," before following after you and shutting the door behind him. The click of metal echoed in the empty, marble house, bouncing off the bare walls.

"For what?" You asked, unable to face him as your voice cracked.

"Bringing you to the market while I'm all dressed up. I knew I would get a lot of attention, but I didn't know how it would affect you," he said as he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling your head into his chest to hug you.

For a moment you were comforted, until you very abruptly realized that he was still naked. At that point you wriggled out of his grasp, though your plan backfired a little, as the moment you drew away your eyes scanned the entirety of him, from his feet to his head, and he ardently noticed your interest. Your panic had absorbed you so entirely that you hardly felt your cheeks burning with a bright red blush.

"I'll... go put some clothes on," he said with a smile, shaking his head.

He left you alone in the big, empty drawing room, occupied by a vacant kitchen on the far side of the house, and three bags of luggage laid haphazardly in the middle. Your steps that took you deeper into the walls echoed around you, causing you to move slow and careful.

Eventually you explored the whole of the room, finding a small door to the right of the entrance, one that led into a long pathway. The chill wind snuck through the thick hedges as you padded down the stone walkway, lines of sand between the rocks sticking to the bottom of your feet. Through the thin walls, you glimpsed a sliver of a garden, the sight of a white fountain bringing the sound of rushing water to you.

The fountain, alabaster centerpiece of the small garden, flowed with crystal clear water that pooled on the ground in such depth that lilies had sprouted from the bottom. Green pads floated on the cool water, and the blue lotus flowers were all closed up in the sun's absence. The trail that had led you there continued within it, circling the fountain, and ultimately leading to a small, sandstone gazebo.

You sat on the gazebo's step, elbow on your knee as you leaned your cheek on the palm of your hand. Here the wind was not as harsh, only occasionally brushing against your hair, though the cold had yet to cease. It was a good explanation for the silent garden, barren of animal life. No, this was a haven of silence, of loneliness, and of plants. Beautiful, quiet plants.

As many things as there were on your mind, there was nothing truly in your head. Abstract ideas and emotions relating to your position, to your relationship with Ahkmenrah, to the tired nerves burnt out from your earlier panic.

"It's a bit cold," Ahk murmured in his low voice, placing a blanket over your hunched shoulders.

You whirled around to see Ahkmenrah standing above you, fully clothed. With a slight huff he sat down beside you, settling onto the hard step, his thigh pressed to yours.

"I hate my life," you mumbled, falling and landing on Ahk. You could feel the way he tensed, how his breath caught in his throat at the given contact.

"I  –"

"And it's all your fault," you said, face still hidden in his shoulder.

"... I know."