#i did also express how ash does remind me of my father in more than one way but mostly in the fact neithe of em got teeth 💀

[the-acid-pear]

The fact that I'm a daddy's daughter really makes AVED s3 hit so much harder and personally at spots which is the only thing keeping me away from hating it entirely

[whumperooni]

Belonging

Pairing: Enji Todoroki x Daughter!Reader

Word count: 3k

Tags/Warnings: incest, possessive behavior, exhibitionism, mentions of being roughly handled by your big bros while daddy was away u.u

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This is written in response to a big brained, beautiful minded nonny <3 I was going to put it in the answer to the ask but I’m gonna chuck this in ao3 too so I’m making it a separate post.

THANK YOU nonny for this /chef’s kiss of an ask and please feel free to slide into my inbox again because this is primo content right here.

I hope you enjoy your crumbs <3

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

How long has Enji been away from home? Two days? Three days? Four? Certainly not away long enough for you to be in this condition.

Enji frowns despite the sweet kisses you’re peppering all over his face and grabs onto your waist, lifts you up and holds you back so he can look you over. You’re a mess- bruises on your wrists and hickeys mottling your neck so much he can’t see a speck of your natural color. You look tired, worn out and Enji can tell that you’re exhausted, that things have been busy since he’s been away for his team up. He’s not happy about the vivid bruises on your thighs or the fading carpet burn on your knees. He is really not happy about the bandage on your forearm. Enji’s frown deepens and you grow nervous before him- smile twitching anxiously and hands clenching at the fabric of one of Touya’s shirts that you’ve been made to wear. When he puts you down and reaches to grab your arm, you flinch- barely noticeable, so tiny in your movement; something that anyone who wasn’t him would miss. Enji’s eyes narrow, big hand circling over your wrist and he tries to soften his expression when he feels you tense up underneath him. Whatever has happened while he’s been away is not your fault- he knows this. He is furious that you’re so skittish from it, though. Again, not your fault- his sons are sure to blame. “...what happened?” You tense up even more- eyes darting anxiously around the room and smile wavering and fading from your face. He thinks that you might pull away from him whenever he runs his thumb over the bruises on your wrists, but you remain as good and obedient as ever and simply twitch in place where you are standing. “N-Nothing, daddy,” you mumble, lips trying and failing to smile once more. Enji frowns at you and you squirm under your father’s stern gaze- anxiety whipping through you and upset starting to creep all over your face. “It was just...they didn’t mean…” Oh, yes, they did mean. Enji scowls and he sets his irritation toward the bandage on your arm, has to clench his free hand into a fist so he doesn’t hold onto you too tightly. “What is this from?” he demands. “Give me the truth, little one.” Your bottom lip quivers and he can tell that you are torn. You are such a sweet daughter, a sweet sister- you cannot bring yourself to lie to the father that you love so much but you also do not want to get the brothers that you hold dear in trouble either. You are a good girl- you should not be in this position right now. Enji breathes in deep and he lets it out slow, tries to keep a leash on his temper. You are the only thing he truly loves in this world- his little one, his youngest, his perfect little girl. He doesn’t want to see you cry over something your brothers have done. Enji huffs and he pulls you closer to him, picks you up. Your legs wrap around his waist on reflex- arms looping around his neck and face burying into his chest as he positions you. There’s a quiet whimper from you whenever he cups your bottom and Enji feels his anger grow even darker when he feels you sniffle against him. “Are you sore there?” he asks, gruff as he totes you off to his bedroom. You don’t answer him for a  moment and even then you can only give him a tiny nod in response- arms clinging tighter to him. Enji lets out a tch and he’s careful as he sits down on the bed, as he sits you in his lap. Your upset is more than clear on your face now- bottom lip wobbling and eyes glistening with unshed tears. Enji frowns as your head lowers and he rubs your back with one big hand, touches your cheek with the other. “Did they spank you?” he asks. Your squirm in his lap- eyes averted and fingers curling into his shirt. Enji waits, patient, until finally your lips tremble and you give a tiny nod. “Touya-nii...he wasn’t...he wasn’t happy that I slept in Natsuo-nii’s bed,” you whisper. “They’ve been…” You trail off, nerves and upset skittering over your expression, and Enji grunts his annoyance as he eyes the bruises littered all over your body. “They’ve been fighting over you. Again.” A wince passes over you and you hang your head as if you are ashamed. There is a sniffle and that is all it takes to further cement Enji’s decision that his sons need a reminder of their place. “I- I’m sorry, daddy,” you whisper- eyes wet, lashes wet, voice trembling. “I- I tried to be good so they wouldn’t fight, but- but Touya-nii told Natsuo-nii that I- that I belong to him and it made Natsuo-nii mad and then- then Natsuo-nii was sad after and I tried to cheer him up and then that made Touya-nii mad and then- then they started fighting and then they kept dragging me to their rooms and I couldn’t- I couldn’t make them happy and I’m sorry, daddy! I didn’t mean to make them fight!” Your voice pitches with a whine of a sob and Enji grits his teeth, wraps his arms around tight so he doesn’t let his temper explode. “It’s not your fault, little one,” he tells you- gruff, stern, but soft for him. You sniffle against him, tears wetting the fabric of his shirt, and Enji rubs your back, places a kiss to your hair. “Tell me how your arm got hurt.” You sniffle, again, and it is pathetic, weak. It grinds at Enji’s fury more, but he closes his eyes as you press against him and seek comfort. “I- I fell,” you mumble to him, voice wobbling. “N-Natsuo-nii was holding my hand and- and Touya-nii didn’t like it so he...he grabbed my other one and he yanked me away, but I- I lost my balance and I fell...I hit it against the table and it...cut me…” Your voice gets smaller and more quiet with each word- reluctance to get your brother’s in trouble making it so hard to admit what happened to your father. Enji’s control snaps as he listens and his fire flares from him- something he is quick to put out whenever he hears your panic sounding against his chest. Enji breathes in deep and he buries his face into his daughter’s hair, holds you just a little too tight in his arms. “...okay, little one,” he says once his temper calms down enough that he can talk without growling every word out. “Did anything else happen?” You shake your head against him and it’s a bit too swift of a denial for his taste. He senses that there is more- knows that there must be- but he does not push; he does not want his little one to collapse further into upset. Enji takes another deep breath and lets you go, cups your cheek to smooth away one stray tear. “You’re a mess,” he tells you. “Come- take a shower with me and then we will relax.” You nod- one small, upset sniffle leaving you- and Enji presses his lips to your forehead before gathering you up in his arms and carrying you to the bathroom. He strips you down and reduces Touya’s shirt to ash- letting it fall into the waistbasket with a scowl. You do not comment on it, but you hug yourself tight- eyes wide and worried and body littered with bruises. They have been especially rough with you this time and Enji is not pleased. He is careful with you as he washes you- big hands moving as gently as he can manage but still firm as he washes your tangled hair, scrubs down your tired body. You relax as he takes care of you, melt under his warm fingers and let out soft, sweet noises as your father eases the anxious tension that has wound your body up so tight. He kisses you when you tilt your head back to look at him- your eyes half-shut and sleepy, a serene look on your face as he runs his hands over your breasts. It is a chaste kiss- loving and brief- and Enji feels a certain satisfaction whenever you sigh after, lean against his broad chest. “Daddy takes good care of me,” you mumble- words fuzzy with exhaustion and the gooey warmth spreading through your body and making your mind melt from much needed tenderness. “Not like…” You trail off softly, guiltily. Enji knows what you mean, though, and there is pride in him from it- a possessive, vindictive pleasure as his little girl nuzzles against him adoringly. You are daddy’s little girl- you always have been and you always will be. Enji finishes cleaning you and he sets you out of the shower to wrap yourself in a towel and wait for him. Your clumsy attempts to clean him before he does are cute, but he knows that you are tired and does not wish to push you just yet- he has plans and he needs you to rest while you can. He cleans himself and you wait for him obediently- wrapped up in a towel and yawning, propped up on the sink where he had sat you down. Seeing him emerge from the shower is a treat- water steaming from him and dripping down rippling muscles, through chest hair and a thick happy trail. A soft noise leaves you as you watch him dry himself and your cheeks pinken without notice despite heavy eyes and a fuzzy, tired mind that’s begging for sleep. Enji watches your soft thighs rub together and he goes to you, kisses you like you deserve- lovingly, hungrily but not forcefully. He breaks it once a sweet, low moan sounds from you and then he kneels, parts your legs and hooks them over his shoulders before burying his face into the honeyed crux of his little one. The bathroom echoes with your whimpers and mewls as Enji runs his tongue through your folds and burrows his tongue deep inside your cunny. He keeps your hips still whenever they begin to twitch, but he allows you to grab onto his hair, grunts with approval when you arch your back and whine out a needy little, “Daddy, please!” You come whenever he slips a thick finger into you- slick and warm insides fluttering and clamping down onto the digit as you cry out, grip his hair tight. Enji works you through it and he slips a second finger in at the peak of your orgasm, makes it trip into another and has you whimpering, gasping out “daddy, daddy, daddy!” “That’s right, little one,” he praises- voice coming out low and husky as your cunny clenches and cums around his fingers. “Who makes you feel good?” “Daddy does!” Enji hums, pleased by your mewled answer, and he allows you to ride out your pleasure before slipping his fingers from you. You look so sweet as you pant and flush- so worn out and vulnerable; a tender girl flustered by the dulcet, mellowed pleasure that you have been craving for days. You whimper whenever Enji stands- arms reaching for your father and eyes bright with needy tears. He picks you up and he kisses your cheek, cups your bottom whenever you wrap your legs around him and teases your wet, fluttering hole with a stretched out finger as he totes you off to the living room. The boys are there- arguing as always, in each other’s faces with heated, hissed words and glaring eyes- and they only look up when Enji slips a finger inside your cunny and coaxes a moan from you. Their reaction is immediate- heads snapping up and shock halting their anger only to multiple it. Touya’s lips pull back into snarl and Natsuo’s eyes widen, narrow as he watches your hips grind down against Enji’s finger. Enji glares them down as he eases another finger into your eager cunny, kisses your cheek when you whimper and cling to him even tighter. “Little one,” he asks, voice gruff but calm even as he glowers down at the furious brats that he calls sons, “who made you feel good earlier?” “Daddy did,” you mewl out- sweet and sleepy and showing the pleasure that is slowly wrecking your tired body. Enji hums and he spreads another finger to smooth over your clit, makes you moan softly and try to grind your hips against him. A growl rips from Touya and your lashes flutter from it, a tiny noise of worry leaves you and is instantly forgotten when Enji curls his thick fingers inside of your honeyed insides and causes your mind to blank from pleasure. “And who is making you feel good now?” Enji demands- hard and nearly imperious as you tremble and cling tighter to him. “D-Daddy is!” “Do you want your brothers to fuck you, little one?” Enji asks, narrowing his eyes in challenge when Touya takes a step toward him. A hiccup of a sob leaves you and you shake your head, bury your face against him with a whimper. Enji’s lips twitch with the hint of a smirk and he pushes you to answer with, “And why is that?” Another sob and you shake as guilt, frustration, repressed anger and upset at your brothers twine through you along with the honeyed, warm pleasure that your father is giving you. You sniffle- hips rocking against thick fingers and your syrupy, sticky juices leaking from you and coating your father’s hand. “Because- because,” you whimper as your heart pounds and your cunny throbs with need. “Because they’re- they’re mean! I don’t want- I don’t-” Guilt causes you to whine against your father and Enji hums as he teases a third finger against your entrance, looks over his sons. Touya is furious- hands clenched into tight fists and shaking with anger that’s close to exploding out. Natsuo, at least, has the decency to look guilty, ashamed. He ducks his head and looks away as Enji spreads your little cunny wider and makes you cry out as he slowly stuffs your squishy, warm insides full even more. “Who do you want then?” Enji asks- voice low and gruff. He grunts as your insides spasm around his fingers and his cock flexes against himself- hard and big and so ready to fill his sweet baby girl. “Who do you want to fuck you, little one?” You choke on a sob- the questions overwhelming your tired mind and your body racing toward another orgasm. You arch against him, head tilting back with a cry whenever he places a hot kiss to your neck. You can’t help the way you pant and shake against him and you can’t help your answer either, the way you moan out a loud, needy, truthful- “Daddy! Want- I want Daddy!” You cry a little after from guilt and need and the pleasure that is making your mind melt and your head spin. Enji lets out a growl of satisfaction and he slips his fingers from you- soothing you with a kiss whenever you let out a panicked whine. Enji slides you lower down his waist and presses the head of his cock against your fluttering hole, looks at his sons with challenge and superiority in his eyes, the set of his lips. “And who do you belong to?” Enji asks- voice low and demanding, making a desperate shiver crawl up your spine. You whimper and you lift your head from him, turn it so you can look at your brothers. There is no fear in your gaze- not like how there was over these past few days whenever they yanked you to and fro between them- and you shudder against your father- eyes heavy and cheeks flushed, body soft and pretty and clinging to him with pressing, loving adoration and need. “Daddy,” you mewl out sweet as honey. “I belong to daddy.” “Good girl,” Enji murmurs to you, sliding his cock into your eager cunny. “My good girl.” Choked anger tears itself from Touya and he snaps out a “fuck you” to Enji before stomping out of the room- singing the doorframe whenever he slams his hand against it in fury. Natsuo is frozen in place- eyes wide as he watches you come along your father’s cock- and he flushes from frustration, from anger whenever he finds himself hardening at the sight of Enji’s dick stretching your pussy and making your glistening folds part as he slides into you slowly. He clenches his fists whenever your moan and then he stomps out of the room- angry and needy as your chanted mewls of “daddy, daddy, daddy!” sound behind him. Enji smirks as his sons flee in a temper tantrum, smiles as he kisses your cheek and rocks his hips up to make you moan and go limp against him in pleasure. You nuzzle against him with a needy, tired whine and Enji hums his satisfaction at that, turns to carry you back to his room and his bed. “Shh, little one,” Enji tells you. “Daddy will take care of you.” A whimper leaves you and you tremble before giving a weak nod against him, clench around his cock even as he slips out of you to lay you out on his bed. “Love you, daddy,” you slur out through your pleasure and exhaustion, the overwhelmed feeling making your mind melt. “Love you so much.” Enji braces himself over you and he kisses your forehead, soaks in the soft mewl that sounds from you as he sinks his cock back into your honeyed insides. “I love you too, little one,” he tells you. “My little one.” You nod, panting and dizzy, and Enji kisses you, starts to fuck you slowly. You’re his. You will always belong to your daddy.

[punemy-spotted]

Of Blackbirds and Barons: Chapter 1

Chapter 1: You Make The Rain Fall Harder

Relationships: Mob!Helmut Zemo x Reader; CEO!Billy Russo x Reader; Mob!Helmut Zemo x Reader x CEO!Billy Russo

Warnings: Non-con/Dub-con; Dark!Fic; Mob and Mafia Elements; Character Death (Minor and Major); Threesome; Possessive/Obsessive Characters; Blackmail/Coercion; Kidnapping; Mentions of War; Human Rights Violations; Contract Killing; Mafia AU; Possible Dead Dove: Would Not Eat; Complete Disregard for Actual Rules of Journalism and Style Guides; Other Chapter-Specific Warnings May Apply

Chapter Specific Warnings: Non-con; Drugging/Date-Rape; Fingering (F-Receiving); Vaginal Sex; Unprotected Sex; Possible Breeding Kink; Kidnapping; Obsessive/Possessive Zemo; Dark!Zemo; Human Rights Violations; Discussion of Destruction of Novi Grad and Sokovia; Dead Dove: Do Not Eat

Chapter Summary: The problem with having sympathy for the Devil is that he will drag you down to Hell regardless.

Author’s Notes: Another series! Because I can’t get enough of Mob!AUs! Zemo makes his dark entrance. And this IS dark, so read at your own discretion. As always, all of my work is 18+ ONLY, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.

Masterlist

The long tradition of the Duchy of Sokovia, that which once stood the test of time against the Tsars of Russia, began to crumble long before its borders did, its sweeping architecture and decadent mystery giving way to the sharp lines of Brutalism and the characteristic industrialism of the Eastern Bloc. Still, the Sokovian people managed to maintain their identity in the face of a new kind of empire, bringing greenery and art to a brisk, concrete world.

There is no Sokovia now, not the way one would think, but there are still Sokovians scattered around the world, clinging to the traditions of their once-home and searching for a banner to be united under.

A banner carried by a man like Helmut Zemo.

The caret blinks back at you with a mocking sort of finality, a metronome counting down the seconds to your ultimate frustration. Once. Twice. Thrice — you lose count, staring at the screen until your vision crosses and the words blur together, until only his name remains.

Zemo.

Baron Helmut Zemo.

Your notes are expansive, excessive, papers strewn about you and you look at each scribbled anecdote, each carefully dictated word, each photograph you have annotated until it is more red marker than actual picture and you are… frustrated.

Where do you put all that passion? He asked you over champagne and charcuterie.

You know this man.

You know this man like you know your own soul. You know this man who has bared his soul to you in turn and how are you supposed to impress upon the world that he has shown you the broken heart beating slow and painful in his chest in just a thousand words?

There is nothing. Nothing you can do, nothing you can saywhich could even begin to encompass the horrors which he has experienced and now as you painstakingly tap out word after word describing the grand beauty of his apartment, you wonder if this really was what your life was meant to be.

These are… fluff.

This is a man who has managed to unite an entire fractured country under his royal banner and yet the project wants to know about the indoor garden of his apartment, wants to photograph him in fine suits and know his haircare routine and this can’t be it. This can’t be the face of the man you see everywhere now, moreso since you picked up the assignment, purple-masked and surrounded by brass wings, over the homes of Sokovians all over New York.

And not just there.

I am a man, he told you with his hand on your thigh, But I can become an idea. And an idea is immortal.

You let your eyes skim over the photographs you took, a collection of banners and graffiti and billboards all proclaiming the need for the Sokovian people to come together and heal. To show that their small country — broken and divided in the wake of an attack by a rich megalomaniac’s private military — could not be taken down simply because its borders had been erased and its capitol turned to rubble.

We live in an age of information, and through information we are boundless.

It should terrify you.

It does terrify you.

But inside of that terror is a sick fascination with the man, isn’t there? That’s the trouble with you investigative types — peel back the layers enough and you find yourself capable of feeling sympathy for anyone.

He flaunts his power, and yet it’s innocent. Is it so wrong, then, to want to bring my country back to its glory?

No, you remember answering shakily, but not as well as you remember the pinpricks of heat his fingers left on your skin when that gloved hand brushed over you arm.

Breathe deep, hover fingers over your keyboard and try not to feel like you owe him the weight of the world. He approved of this, even suggested a word count and a topic of conversation — any chance to put his name out into the consciousness of the public, it seemed, to raise interest for the gallery by raising interest for the cause. Make it indulgent. My people, they enjoy art. They enjoy knowing that their leaders have preserved the past for them.

So do it.

… Baron Zemo’s New York penthouse is its own garden amongst a sea of steel and stone, a veritable museum of priceless artworks rescued from what remained of Sokovian museums and ministry buildings. It is, in its own way, an ode to the spirit of Sokovia, which lives on in the hearts and minds of its people around the world. He displays artworks of the many displaced Sokovians, gesturing broadly to a 3D model of an art gallery he intends to have built near the memorial at Novi Grad — with the consent of the Slovakian government — and speaking fondly of his intention to showcase the lost art of Sokovia as a reminder that loss of land cannot be the loss of an identity…

The artworks, they will be painful at first. But the gallery will showcase more and more, and eventually we will have hope.

He waves a gloved hand over the pieces he has preserved. Sokovian history. Scenic expanses, fields and flowers, a city skyline dotted with domed cathedrals. Each painting marred some way too, you can see when you look close. Patched canvas, the dusting of ash and rubble in the corner of an ornate frame, a trick of the light revealing repainting to cover up damage.

A stone hoof sits on a bookshelf, The attached horse and rider blown to rubble in the attack. I’m told it was of Emperor Ferdinand, but my archivists have not been able to confirm, he tells you as he stands behind you, his hand resting soft on the small of your back.

Come. There is more to be seen.

More to be experienced.

His living room is a garden.

It smells like fresh jasmine the moment you walk in, ivy climbing the walls and you swear you can hear birdsong from more than the pigeons cooing outside. Flower arrangement is an often looked down upon art, but the gardens in Sokovia were impeccable. My father won several awards for his pieces before his…

He trails off and you watch him, seeing the pain paint his face as openly as if he meant for you to watch the facade crack and then back to that placid, pleasant calm, a serpentine smile on his face as he extends to you a hand and guides you to the open air of his balcony and bids you Sitbids you Enjoy bids you I have looked forward to his meeting.

It is a pleasure to meet you, Baron Zemo, you begin politely, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear and trying to avoid the way his eyes follow your fingers, feeling seen, We’re grateful for the honor of your patronage for this piece, we know you could have —

Nonsense, he cuts you off with a wave of his hand, gesturing to his butler and then leaning back comfortably in his seat as champagne and various cheeses are brought forth, You are my guest, and I am grateful you agreed to come meet me here, to assist with my… project. Now. Please, enjoy, I do not want to treat this as strictly business.

Is that why he had you come alone?

Don’t.

Don’t dwell on it.

It happens all the time, right? It has to.

A somewhat reclusive man, not keen to be in the limelight, in need of public attention to achieve his goals — you are a means to an end and he is your means to an end, surely you can understand.

Is that why he wipes the honey from your lips and kisses it off his fingers?

This is going to be a difficult conversation and you know it. You can only gush over houseplants and rose décor for so long before it becomes… trite, before you’re a part of the problem, painting a shining veneer over a half-decade old injustice

But he is warm, warm and friendly and you cannot help but laugh to his response when you draw attention to the architecture to draw attention from your blush — Very modern, yes. We are in New York, after all, and the old ways are fine for country houses but not so fine, for sunny penthouse apartments —not noticing the way he looks like he’s just smelled blood at the sound of it, the narrowing of his eyes and the hiding of his inscrutable expression behind a sip of champagne.

Well then. Shall we get started?

Of course.

Why don’t we start with your plans for opening night?Your notepad is out, the recorder sitting in front of you to pick up the sound of your voice and his, ready to commit everything to memory.

Of course. We cannot deny the… elephant in the room, I think you Americans call it. There are many who took pictures of the aftermath of the attack, and not enough who have seen it immortalized…

… The tragedy of Novi Grad and the consequential absorption of Sokovia into its surrounding countries weighs heavy in the Baron’s living room, draped in ivy and jasmine and hanging vines but also in photographs of what was left after a private military corporation chose to turn human lives into a war game.

No one knows who Ultron is, only that he is dangerous, that his technology rivals that of the SHIELD Syndicate’s Tony Stark, that he is willing to ally himself to the highest bidder, and that he is fully capable of unleashing endless destruction upon the world…

You will never forget the photographs he shows you, all that death and destruction in the golden light of his balcony, all that warmth and all you can see is cold bodies bathed in concrete dust.

They call to you, when you close your eyes — answer for our crimes — and you remember the way his voice changes too, so soft and solemn, the brush of fingers against yours when you touch the bombed out shell of a country mansion My home, in Sokovia, to the gray-and-blood horror which forms the centerpiece of his display, and you remember your research too, that the Baron is a widow, that his title is inherited from the most tragic of circumstances, that his son was an innocent lost in the attack and you are furious too, at the senselessness of it all.

It is a tragedy yet unanswered for, more than half a decade since the dust settled.

That quote sits front and center on your mock-up, wondering if you could make whatever editor who would inevitably rip this piece to shreds — just before publishing its corpse alongside some glamour picture of the Baron his coat — finally see the error of ignoring the tragedy. You won’t, but it’s worth a shot, as you lean back in your chair and stare at the screen again.

Sometimes you think about it.

Watching Novi Grad happen from the comfort and safety of your living room, wrapped in blankets as open war broke out in the capital city of what had once been a crown jewel in an ancient dynasty. A playground, a show of force.

Sometimes you hear the screams.

The blinking carat waits for you to add more to this story, to decide where you want to go.

… The Baron plays a game with his interview, insists on knowing his guests just as we insist on getting to know the enigmatic leader who has risen up a beacon for the displaced people of his homeland. We will not be recreating our answers in this article, as they were of course of a personal nature, but we do thank the Baron for taking the time to get to know us just as he bared his soul, his sorrows, and his hopes to a gaggle of strangers seeking to make him known to the world…

Tell me of you, sweetling.

Me? This interview is about you.

And so I must tell all my secrets for free? No, I insist. A secret for a secret.

He watches you with a hunger, coal-black eyes an invitation. Slide your gaze away or fall and who knows what depths he will drag you into and what you will find there?

No.

Don’t look, don’t look as you sip the tea Oeznik brought when you politely declined the champagne — Another time, probably — and let it brace you with its bitterness, let it clear your head.

Breathe.

You’re in too deep now, trapped in this cave of wonders… and wouldn’t it be worth it? Know him as he knows you, follow the trajectory of the smiling man before you.

What would you like to know?

Tell me how you taste his eyes whisper.

Tell me what it would take says the curve of his fingers over your hand.

Let me put you on display hums the razor-blade of his smile.

Tell me what drives a woman to take on such a … dangerous line of work, is the final inquiry, innocent and curious and gentle and you sip your tea and smile.

Is it dangerous?

You must know how many secrets you uncover — and the lengths the keepers will go to in order to hide them.

If people get hurt, shouldn’t I bring that to light?

How noble of you, he tells you with another hum, with his fingers squeezing yours, with his eyes fixed on the gaze you refuse to send his way, It must be quite thrilling.

Let me thrill you too, sweetling.

Pull away.

Do it.

Pull your hand away, make an act of it, pick up a candied strawberry and press it past your lips, let the sweetness soak your tongue and wash away the bitter thoughts, let yourself be bright and chipper and pretend you are not afraid.

Because you’re not.

Of course you’re not.

You are in control here, you must be in control here.

This is nothing. This is a casual interview with a handsome man in his handsome penthouse, an interview about architecture and art galleries and you were a correspondent once and you are meant to be friendly here, not afraid, so what are you afraid of?

What is it about his coal-dark eyes and too-sharp smile that turns your blood, that sends you back into your hutch, little rabbit, what is it about the way he prowls at the corner of your thoughts that makes you shudder so?

What are you running from?

Who are you running from?

Your turn, sweetling.

Mmh?

Our deal, or have you forgotten already?

Yes. You have.

It’s his eyes, you keep insisting to yourself. They drag you in, so dark it feels like you’re drowning in the void of them, searching for the light at the end of the tunnel.

It’s a chase.

It’s what you’re good at.

Right — I’m sorry, I’m…

You blink.

Once.

Twice.

Thrice.

The fog in your thoughts doesn’t fade, confusion crossing over your features and ill delight crossing over his. All you had was tea, tea and some of the candied fruit his butler brought for your enjoyment, how can you feel so…

Hazy?

So…

Upturned?

Something clatters behind you and you realize it’s the chair you were sitting on as you stand, unsteady and abrupt, lost in the moors of your own frantic thoughts and there is his hand on your elbow, so careful and soft and there are his lips before yours, so…

Tempting.

Somewhere, a woman croons to you of falling rain and rushing blood and the room does spin round as you stand still in the open air of a desire that is yours and not your own all at once. Shhh, shhh, let me help you whispered in your ear, a hand to your cheek and you…

You blink.

Reality flows into view like a sudden bath of ice water. Jerk away from his iron grip, raise your hands and try to resist, shake your head and N-no, I think. I think I need to go, I’ll just call a cab —

I cannot let you do that, sweetling. Not when you are finally within my reach.

His hold is steady. Unbreakable, even, as he pulls you close and you might even be dancing with the way his arm wraps around your waist the moment you fall into his chest, Don’t look so afraid, sweetling. No one will hurt you, here.

I will protect you like a jewel.

Your mind is still yours — the dose was just enough — but your limbs? Your limbs are tied to his strings, lost as he guides you right back inside, lost as he gestures for Oeznik to close off the balcony.

Your place is somewhere else now.

You belong underneath me.

He guides you inside, jasmine intoxicating your senses and wisps of smoke seeming to float past your eyes. Reality blends into the fantasy, the Baron and his prize, the gentle touch against your soft cheek, the cradling against his form and he is…

Determined.

A door opens. A portal into another kind of decadence, with soft sheets and softer touches, the sliding of a mouth over yours as your escape clicks shut behind you and you are pressed between wall and man and you are consumed.

Curl your fingers into the lapel of his coat, lose yourself to the pressure of his lips, the sharp nip of teeth against soft flesh. He tastes of champagne and honeycomb and you are saccharine on the tongue, a mess of sighs and admonitions left unsaid.

My precious thing, whispered into your unfocused sighs, I will take such fine care of you.

And you want to protest, want to insist you are free you are uninterested you do not want this man and his hands under the cotton of your blouse but the words tangle on your tongue and instead all you can do is whimper.

Whimper, and hear him chuckle against your skin, a line of kisses drawn from your parted lips along your jaw until he’s found the thrum of your pulsebeat to draw a gasp the moment his teeth scrape against the delicate skin. He must mark you his, after all, and this he will gladly renew, over and over.

Over and over as he draws you to bed, lays you amongst soft cushions and softer sheets, indulges in the soft curves of you in the golden glow of the room. Your clothes — so conservative, so professional, so unnecessary — he makes short work of even with what mild resistance you manage, Shh, shh, do not fight me.

The heat is yours and not yours all at once, warming your skin and leaving you flushed, leaving a trail of burning want along your skin where his fingers trace over you and centering in your core You need this, sweetling, look at you…

Do you?

Is it you who needs this or he, he who has begun to kiss along your skin, he who presses himself between your legs so impatiently? The accusation lives in your thoughts and passes past your lips as a strangled Nnh-no, ignored without ceremony or appeal.

Protests are useless when your tongue can form no words and your limbs can do nothing but writhe, seeking structure in the grip of his sheets as he unravels you with a press of his lips to that soft center of yours, slick with a need you cannot own and yet all yours.

He maps you with a hungry gaze, fingers already tracing the plushness of your folds, gathering slick like he might have been collecting nectar and you watch him pull back, watch him bring his hand to his mouth, watch him wrap lips around his fingertip and drag the taste of you onto his tongue, One day I shall make you taste how sweet you are…

One day, after he has savored you so deeply.

You are so full of words they burst out of you on a normal day and yet nothing you say comes to light, just the bare whimpers and anxious mewls of your needy self as he returns to inspecting, to enjoying, to savoring the reactiveness of your body.

He touches. He touches as if he has owned your body a thousand times, he touches as if you are delicate, as if you are breakable, as if his fingers might lead you to shattering around him here and now and you…

Are so close, already.

So close, trying to find the strength in your muscles to pull away, to speak something beyond desperation with every curl of fingers against your cunt, with every pleased hum he utters in response to the flex of your sex. Shh… no more fighting, sweetling, I know you can be good.

He knows you can be good, he says, with all the innocence of a man trying to convince his cat to stop clawing the couch, not a man presently holding your legs open with one hand at your thigh and the other curling against your walls while you arch your back. It builds, the pressure, it builds and builds and builds and — Let go, sweetling. Let me see your ecstasy.

Is that what this is?

You keen. You keen softly, desperately, brokenly, as skilled fingers find the spot which makes you, which leaves you breathless and flushed and sobbing, a trickle of tears making their path down your cheeks as you bite your own lip to muffle the sounds you did not know you could make. Wordless and pleading and he notices with a cold smile the way you seem to succumb, hips no longer desperate to escape the curling, stretching assault of two — no, three — fingers preparing you for him.

Hips pressing back towards him now, a betrayal of your conscious-yet-barely-focused mind, that lustful sweetness in you taking over and he can only watch in awe. Awe not at your surrender but at your perfection, muttering in a language you do not understand and yet you understand perfectly what he means — he will have you, all of you.

Ah, I shall so enjoy playing with you more, sweetling.

But not now.

Now his impatience outpaces your need and both outpace his cruelty, his desire to see you beg and so instead he pulls back his hand — and hears the desperate N-no, please don’t — to bring a cruel gleam to his dark eyes and even barely conscious as you are you know he is beautiful.

Beautiful and cruel, as he frees himself and curls fingers around his cock, rubs your own slick onto that soft skin, hisses at the very feel of you like it must be a preview to how you will make him throb, and presses himself over you. Presses himself over you, absorbs the cry of pain or anguish or relief which pours from your plush lips with the punishment of a kiss just as he sinks, hips pressing against yours, stretching you with his full length and Now we are one, my sweet.

Now we are one.

He will take fine care of you but you, you take finer care of him, so plush and tight around his senses, so desperate as you cling, so lost and wanton and he kisses away the tears which continue to sting your cheeks and hisses half-sensible promises into your ear — You will always be mine — as he ruts his hips and practically shoves you forward with every thrust, dragging you back with a snarl and the pressure builds.

Builds and you moan, builds and you sob into his hungry mouth, builds and you hold to him as if he were the last thing which made sensein the world builds and you are consumed and he is consuming, and the release is both of yours, spilling deep inside of you and that too is the final shackle upon your soul.

You sit. In the darkness of your office and you remember, worrying the cuticle of your thumb and staring at the words you have typed while your memory drifts back to that hazy reminder.

… A discussion with the Baron about Sokovia reveals a country rich with history. Once a Duchy of the Hapsburgs during the era of the Holy Roman Empire, the deeply Catholic country clings to the Austrian and Italian tradition of ceremony and indulgence. Baron Zemo plays an example of the hymns sung in the many cathedrals which once filled the country, a mixture of Sokovian and Latin to raise the soul to divine heights.

The Baron speaks of the country’s culture with a warm fondness, of how even during Soviet occupation, the people managed to enjoy games like ice hockey, and football (the European, variant, the Baron would like to emphasize), and even spent time indulging in horse racing. Surrounded by Slovakia and the Czech Republic, it keeps a similar tradition, with a twist…

No, that cannot encompass all that you discussed, and yet that is what the recording shows, words traded back and forth which you do not remember, a conversation of laughter and warmth and none of it slots into what your mind tells you occurred.

You erase. You rewrite. It is the same passage, over and over, fingers acting unbidden of your frantic will and eventually you give in, demand to be done with these words and this screen, eventually you desire peace.

… Baron Helmut Zemo is many things. A historian, an ambassador, a politician, an activist. He is a widower, a man trapped in the past, a man with lofty dreams for the future. He wears his sorrow as well as he wears his happiness, and for those who still call themselves Sokovian, he is their shepherd into a new age.

And as the door to your office opens, your keeper.

[tennessoui]

So I love your keeping up with the Skywalker/Kenobis au😍!!! It's adorable and it makes me so happy to read aaaand I wanted to ask what you think Satine's reaction is to Obi Wan basically getting himself a husband two kids and a dog like 2 months after she's left him? Like if they randomly ran into each other and Obi Wan is with his whole family and is carrying Leia, while holding Luke's hand and Luke is holding the dogs leash, while Anakin is I dunno monologing about something as he usually does

hi!!!! thank you so much for the prompt i love it <3 I thought a really long time about this prompt because I kind of knew what I wanted to do but I also didn't want to throw satine's character under the bus to accomplish it because i think from what Obi-Wan's told us about his marriage she's completely justified to want a divorce, so she's not necessarily a jealous ex in this snippet. But she's sort of angry, which i feel is fair!! i also (for reasons we will hopefully see tomorrow) changed your 'two months' to '3 years', so this happens 2 years after the Skywalkers move in, which is one yearish after the divorce! mostly because Something Else happens about 2 years after the Skywalkers move in and I have an ask cooling in my inbox asking about That that i want to answer tomorrow and these two felt like they fit together

(big sigh)(2.5k)(this is Obi-Wan's POV so its a bit pretentious and also a bit sad)

It’s a very strange thing, what the body remembers but the mind forgets.

“Obi-Wan?” A tentative voice asks from his left, and he knows that voice intimately. That voice had been at one time the most beautiful sound in the entire world. That voice had been what he heard before going to sleep, what he waited on tenterhooks to hear upon waking. He’d heard that voice cry, scream, laugh, gasp, moan--he knows that voice, and for a second his body responds the way it always has to that voice.

Butterflies erupt in his stomach and he turns to look at Satine for the first time in almost three years.

“Satine,” he says and clears his throat and tries again. “Hello there.”

She smiles delicately, as if she’s unsure of her welcome. Obi-Wan’s never seen Satine shy, but he supposes he’s never seen how she acts around her ex-husband.

He surreptitiously glances to where Anakin and the twins are standing in line at an ice cream truck. It had been a nice day, so they had bundled the kids and the dog into Anakin’s car and gone to the city park with loose ideas about kite flying. Perhaps a picnic.

Perhaps twenty yards from the parking lot, Leia had spotted an ice cream truck from her perch on Obi-Wan’s shoulders, and the twins had successfully convinced Anakin to make a quick pit stop on their way up the park’s central hill. It had been a very easy sell. The sweet tooth is most definitely inherited, and nothing Obi-Wan really shares, so he had taken Chewie and gone to sit on a near park bench, graciously pretending not to hear Anakin tell his children to let the old man rest.

That had only been five minutes ago.

“Would you like to sit?” Obi-Wan asks politely, gesturing to the part of the bench he’s not taking up.

“If you have the time,” Satine responds just as politely. Obi-Wan wonders if this sort of false veneer of courteousness is putting her teeth on edge as much as his.

Do you remember how you left? Would you like me to recall the amount of things thrown by you, or would you like to do the honors? He imagines saying.

Only if you would be so gracious as to recite the long list of things you called me, he can imagine Satine responding.

That sort of conversation would be better than this. More honest. It’s a strange hurt, to realize you’re lying to the person you used to think you’d always be truthful to.

“Oh,” Satine says when Chewie immediately starts sniffing at the hem of her dress. “Is this...your dog?”

Obi-Wan fights the urge to wince. He had. Well. He had been quite against getting a dog when they’d been married. Or a cat. Or anything, really. He had vehemently protested the idea of a pet.

Of another living thing in their house.

“Ah,” he says. “Yes. His name is Chewie.”

Satine pets him with just the right amount of pressure to have Chewie tilting his head eagerly for more. “Chewie?” she asks incredulously. “I always figured we would have to name any dog or--child after some sort of literary figure.”

Obi-Wan pretends he doesn’t notice her hesitation. He has to pretend he doesn’t notice her hesitation. “I originally wanted to name him Dante,” he admits instead. “Leia compromised down to Danny, but I just couldn’t do that to the poor dead man.”

“Oh,” Satine says and then she’s quiet. Obi-Wan can just imagine the sort of things running through her head. He would deserve all the mean-spirited barbs she could throw at him now. He reminds himself that he understands that.

I hadn’t thought you knew how to do that, he imagines her saying. Compromising, I mean.

Or, does the dog hair everywhere drive you as crazy as you used to say it would?

Or, perhaps worst of all, how much has your library of dead mean kept you comfort these last three years?

Instead she gently strokes the dog’s head and refuses to make eye contact with Obi-Wan.

“You look well,” he says, breaking the silence first. He thinks she’s probably put in enough work in speaking first for a lifetime.

“Thank you,” Satine responds, tucking a piece of her ash blonde hair behind her ear. Obi-Wan catches a glint of a ring on her finger from the action. He doesn’t know if it was purposeful or not, doesn’t blame her either way. It’s been three years. Their lives are their own now. There’s always going to be those years where they...converged, and Obi-Wan isn’t sure he regrets them. He might never regret them, no matter what he thought shortly after the papers were mailed in.

After all, he’d never have met the Skywalkers if it wasn’t for the divorce.

“You as well,” Satine says, crossing her ankles. It’s her version of a fidget, Obi-Wan thinks fondly, and then wonders if he’ll ever forget that sort of information.

He smiles. “Yes, I’m...well.” He coughs and glances over to the ice cream truck. Leia waves at him from where she’s curled into Anakin’s chest, very near the front of the line. Anakin and Luke are looking at Obi-Wan with almost the same expression of pinched worry. Anakin most probably because he knows who Satine is. Luke because the boy has gotten quite possessive of Obi-Wan’s attention in the last few months.

Obi-Wan smiles slightly to let them both know that he’s fine. “I’m very well,” he tells Satine, turning back to her.

“I’m very glad to hear that,” she says, and it sounds like the most honest thing she’s said this entire time.

“Thank you,” he responds, and that’s the most honest thing he’s said today too. He knows she won’t understand exactly what he means, but it feels nice to say it anyway. Thank you for the years we were happy. Thank you for leaving before we could really start hating each other. Thank you for the divorce. Thank you for the Skywalkers.

There’s very loud footsteps on the pavement and then suddenly a blond blur is clinging to Obi-Wan’s knee.

“Obi,” Luke says very reproachfully.

Obi-Wan automatically fixes the boy’s fringe. “Yes, little one?” he asks, very, very aware of the way Satine’s posture has shifted from almost relaxed to preparing for battle.

“Daddy wants to know if you want anything. He says they have those pop--pop--cycles that you like.”

Obi-Wan switches his attention away from Luke so that he can raise a very scathing eyebrow at Anakin, who shrugs as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. He had most certainly told Anakin that he was fine and that he didn’t want to spoil his lunch. Sending Luke over had not been a friendly check-in. It had been an invasion.

“I’m fine,” Obi-Wan tells Anakin’s son. “I don’t want to spoil my lunch.”

These words seem just as foreign to Luke as they did to his father, because he squints up at Obi-Wan before shrugging and clambering up into Obi-Wan’s lap.

“Who is she, Obi?” he asks, not quietly at all.

Obi-Wan sighs. And then resists the urge to sigh harder when he catches sight of Satine’s pinched face.

A thousand conversations rush back to him.

“My career has to come first, Satine.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“A child? At my age?”

“It’s Obi-Wan, not Obi.”

“I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready, dear. Our lives would change. Fundamentally. We’d have to compromise, we’d have to figure out a way to be there for them whenever they needed it. I know people manage. But would we?”

“Don’t--”

“I’m sorry, darling. I don’t want children.”

“Don’t call me Obi.”

He understands perfectly why Satine looks as if someone has just fed her half a lemon. He does.

She’s run into her ex-husband at the park and settled in to have a civil conversation with the man, only to see that he owns a dog (which he had been against when they were together), has a child (Luke isn’t his, of course, but he can understand the confusion), and lets that child call him one of his most hated nicknames.

“Obi?” she asks, which is probably starting out small, something he is very grateful for.

“Who are you?” Luke asks more forcefully, gripping onto Obi-Wan’s shirt with his little hands. Of all the times for the boy to decide to speak up to strangers--

“I’m Satine,” Satine answers graciously. And then, “Who are you?”

“Luke,” the boy says, far less graciously. “Obi lives with us.”

“Us?” Satine asks, mostly to Obi-Wan. “You mentioned a...Leia earlier?”

“My sister,” Luke interrupts before Obi-Wan can, perhaps, explain the situation. “We’re twins.”

“Twins!” Satine gasps in a way that’s most definitely pointed and directed at Obi-Wan. “Obi, I hadn’t known you had twins!”

“I…” Obi-Wan starts to say that he doesn’t, but the twins have started shooting him very hurt looks every time he corrects strangers on the fact that the twins aren’t actually his. He’s mostly stopped correcting people now because Luke and Leia’s betrayed expressions are really, quite frankly, works of art.

“Obi-Wan!” a voice interrupts him to his right. It’s a familiar voice, one that he’s heard as he falls asleep, one he’s heard first thing in the morning, one he’s heard cry and yell and gasp and laugh, one he thinks to himself might just be one of the most beautiful sounds in the entire world.

Without his permission or even his consent, butterflies erupt in his stomach and he turns from Satine’s rigid expression to Anakin’s slightly manic grin.

“Anakin,” he says, standing immediately with Luke cradled in his arms.

“We got you the red popsicle because Luke never came back,” Anakin says, thrusting the icy treat forward as Leia tries to clamber on the bench to hand Luke his own chocolate-covered cone.

“Thank you,” Obi-Wan says, all thoughts about his appetite for lunch pushed out of his mind by the size of Anakin’s smile. “That’s very sweet of you.”

Anakin ducks his head and rubs at the back of his neck, his face turning red like Obi-Wan’s popsicle. Obi-Wan thinks he’s never been this hopelessly endeared in his entire life.

“I should be going,” Satine says suddenly, standing up. Obi-Wan is a bit ashamed to realize he has forgotten her in the wake of the arrival of the Skywalkers.

But he knows he should not leave like this. They deserve more than this stilted sort of interrupted conversation.

Gently, he sets Luke on the ground despite the boy’s protests and chases after his ex-wife.

“Satine, wait,” he pants as he catches up with her.

“What, Obi-Wan?” she asks, voice strained and eyes a bit wet. “What else do you want me to see? What else is there left? I get it, alright. I get it. It was never you--it wasn’t--it wasn’t that you didn’t want pets or kids or--or all of it. You just didn’t want them with me. It was me. All along.”

She turns away, wiping frantically at her eyes. Obi-Wan isn’t sure if he’s ever felt worse.

“No,” he insists, reaching out to touch her forearm, painfully aware of how public they are right now. “No, you’ve got it wrong. It’s not...it was never you. It’s just…”

He pauses and tries to find the words to describe the past three years of his life. That first year of despair and hopelessness and isolation. And then the way Anakin and his children had crept into his life like a summer sunrise in the dead of winter, unexpectedly and then slowly and then all at once.

Obi-Wan shrugs helplessly, at a loss for words. There’s no way to describe something like that to someone who hasn’t experienced it. “It’s just…them.”

Satine takes a few moments to breathe before she turns to face him. She’s smiling and it looks mostly like a grimace, but he’ll accept it as more than he deserves.

“Oh Obi-Wan,” she says, laying a hand over the hand he has on his arm. “You always had so many rules.”

Obi-Wan fights the urge to bristle, reminding himself that Satine has the right to say anything she wants to him today and the amount of hurts they’ve dealt each other still probably wouldn’t be even.

It takes him completely by surprise then when she hugs him. He hugs her back automatically, blinking stupidly further into the park.

“I’m glad you’ve found your exceptions,” she whispers to him as she pulls back with a sad smile.

“Satine,” he says, but he doesn’t know where he’s going with that and falls silent. She shakes her head and rolls her eyes, leaning in to press a featherlight kiss to his bearded cheek.

“Glad to know I can still make you speechless,” she tells him wryly.

“Always,” he promises her, and she laughs. Obi-Wan is suddenly struck with a sort of gut-wrenching realization that she used to be his best friend as well as his wife. He had lost both in one fell swoop.

“I think I just put you in a world of trouble,” she smirks, tilting her head back down the path. “Your partner doesn’t look very happy.”

“He’s not my--” Obi-Wan starts to say and then decides fuck it. He shrugs. “It was nice to see you again, Satine. I hope. I. I really am glad that you’re doing well.”

Satine smiles and squeezes his hand once before letting go. “You too, Obi-Wan. You too.”

When he gets back to his family, Anakin is staring intensely down at his shoes, while Luke and Leia are glaring just as intensely up at Obi-Wan.

“Who was that?” Leia demands immediately.

“Satine,” Luke relays to her, as if the word means one hundred terrible and tragic things.

“An old friend,” Obi-Wan corrects. “We haven’t seen each other in a while. I just...I just wanted to say goodbye.”

“Did you?” Anakin asks, strangely intent as he looks down at Obi-Wan’s face.

“I did,” Obi-Wan tells him. It sounds like a promise. Yes, seeing Satine had been a peculiar twist of fate, but it had felt like a goodbye. To her. To the last vestiges of their marriage. To the man he had been when he had been in love with her.

The realization feels like it should hurt, but it doesn’t. Instead of ruminating on it though, he holds his hand out to Luke’s sticky fingers. “Shall we?” he asks, as Anakin falls into place on his other side, Leia held firmly in his arms. “It’s a fairly large hill, are you sure you’re up for it?”

“Yes!” Luke insists enthusiastically, all thoughts of the blonde woman his Obi had been talking to immediately forgotten.

“Perhaps by the time we get to the top, we’ll be prepared for lunch,” Obi-Wan tells Anakin wryly. The other man laughs, but his eyebrows stay pinched. Obi-Wan has the strangest desire to kiss them smooth, to lean over and kiss Anakin’s face until he’s blushing and laughing and light as he knows he can be.

But it’s very obviously not the time and place. Such a step forward needs both a proper time and place. After all, you may have multiple loves of your lives, but you only ever kiss each of them for the first time once. And Obi-Wan is pretty sure he’s only got the two; he’s not looking to mess this one up.

[natsukitakama]

Being in relationship with the weeping monk would include :

Author note : alright I know I promised to write about Merlin and the green knight and I will. I just couldn’t stop thinking about this . Also it’s been like three months since my last writing I hope I won’t disappoint you. I expect to work on my request as soon as possible ♡ Love u guys

 I'll definetly write a Merlin and Green knights’ part 

i do not own the gif credit to the owner 

Warning : some mention of smut but nothing too serious / mention of trauma / Spoiler 

A lot of patience, I cannot imagine how much trauma this man went through. Apparently he is the only survivor (or at least Ash are barely here anymore) from his species and believe during his whole life that he was damned, he should be ashamed about his true being. In addition he grew up into a fanatical church, so it might be difficult to get to know him especially if you are a fey 

Unlike his « father » he doesn’t hate fey but believe they need to expel their darkness such as him and that’s why he is working hard for the church so he could earn his freedom and soul. But then he realized they were barely followed their own rule, monk aren’t supposed to kill children but his father does. 

He felt betrayed and had no longer a place and a purpose to follow. I’m pretty sure he’ll follow squirrel since he does seem to like him. It will take time for him to trust you enough to even talk with you and it won’t help if you’re fey cause he won’t understand why you’re trying to be nice to him especially because of the killing he’s done for the church 

If you want to get close to him just take your time, the man can be harsh and he’ll be on the defensive since his background with the church. It will take time but he will be nicer with you eventually 

He tends to go nicer if you’re caring with him, always asking him how he is doing, if he is feeling well, proposing yourself to patch him or anything. He is a touch-starved adult man, and I believe he doesn’t have much love in his life neither from the church nor from his family (or barely since he was raised by Father) 

When he will finally feel confortable enough around you, he’ll talk a lot about you from specific things such as what are you working on, how’s your training doing, to banality : anything to make you talk honestly. He just loves your voice it just calm him down everytime. He loves your voice, he really loves it. 

He loves your smile too and would be jealous anytime he saw you smiling to anyone who isn’t him 

Cause here’s the thing, he is a monk, he shouldn’t be materialist or anything but he can’t help : if there is something to know about Lancelot is that he does not share. Not even you. 

Even if you’re not in relationship, he believes no one has the right to be next to you, he is working hard to earn that right so he’ll threaten ( sending death glare) anyone who’ll be too comfortable around you. I’m not joking about it this is man is possessive fight me on this. 

At this point you would ask me, how does he fall in love with us ? Easy one : One night after a huge fight he was sitting near of a camp fire, everyone was already asleep too sore to bother extinguish the flames, everyone but you and him. As you were walking into your bed for the night you catch him staring at the fire, he looked focused and lost at the same time as if he were asking  himself « what the hell i’m doing here ». You were wondering if he didn’t have a second thought, after all he joined you and squirrel not that long ago he might be still into the church’s philosophy. So you walked into his direction, determined to know what’s going on Lancelot’s mind. When you sat close to him he barely moves as if he was expecting you to do something like this. 

At first you said nothing not knowing what to say to hurt him. But seeing him focused, looking as lost as a  child, gave you strength to face him and his insecurities. So you asked him what’s wrong and if you could help in any way. 

He didn’t say anything, but judging by his expression you knew he was looking at his word carefully. 

« Do you think I am monster ? » 

« What ? »

« Y/N do you think i’m monster ? » 

« No of course not why would you say that ? » 

He didn’t answer back instead he just stared at the fire and then you realized what was behind his question 

« Lance’ look I can’t say that I know what you’re experiencing right know as much as I can’t say that I understand what you’re going through. But I know something Lance’ no matter what people would say about you, remember that me, Y/N do not see you as a monster quite contrary all I see right now is a broken man trying to find his path. » 

« How can you say that ? I-I murdered a lot of us » 

« But you’re trying to change, you did once to save squirrel and you’re trying again » 

« How can you be so sure about it ? I still believe on the power of the church » 

« Lance… Do you think I am monster ? Do I deserve to die ? » 

« What ? No ! Of course not » 

« See ? You’re changing and if you want another argument you never be so talkative before » 

Hearing him chuckled told you you were successful for now at least. You knew he needed to take time because of everything he’s been through. You never noticed, but that day he realized by his quick answer that you mean something to him. He knew by his reaction that he would never be able to hurt you. You put faith on him while he couldn’t even believe in him, you were genuine with him and he knew that you meant everything you told him that. 

That day the weeping monk decided that he’ll do everything in his power to make you happy even if he would need to stay away. 

I believe he’ll still follow his moral and would still respect most of the rule he learnt from the church. But the moment he realized that you were his everything and that you might feel the same, well let’s say he forgot couple of rules (especially the one who prohibited marriage) 

He is into marriage fight me on this 

Being in relationship with him implies helping him when he feels down especially when is questioning is whole being as a person. Cause he is truly fucked up, he believes he doesn’t deserve to live, the church was supposed to be the only way to save him from damnation. Now all he can do is to rely on you. 

He will need a tone of times 

He also needs attention, but be careful cause the man got reputation and is pretty awkward with all those things since I believe no one was very careful and kind with him. 

He is touch-starved meaning he would crave for attention, but he isn’t comfortable enough so there things he will tolerate in private while some things would be okay in public. 

For example he doesn’t mind holding you hand (he loves it your hand is so small and feel so sweet against his calloused one) even in public especially if notices someone starring at you 

He likes hug but don’t do frequently though. He was raised to become a monk, I believe he never received any mark of affection or barely so he is still a bit tense about you being physical with him. 

He is a monk but he is still a man and well he got urges and he can’t focus on stopping those kind of thought when you’re holding him tightly, pressing your chest against him. But there is time when he just can’t help but needing to have you against him. 

Same thing for kiss, it’s so intimate, so intoxicating it’s like you were the one in charge of his own body and mind. He is overwhelmed by way too many feelings at once, so kiss are only tolerated when you two are alone. 

At this point, you’ll understand that this man is a virgin baby 

And if we’re talking about sex well, he is a monk. Safe to say you would be his first and probably he is last. It will take a long time before he would even consider being intimate with you, it was one thing to betray the church but breaking his vows was quite another. 

Kissing you or hugging you doesn’t make him feel bad in the meaning it wasn’t for him as if he was breaking one of his vows. I’m not saying that he is asexual but I’m sure he can live without having sex with someone (even if sometimes he feels the need to have you right here and then, he can control it he does it all the time). 

If he feels like he could dedicate his whole life to you, well you feel it when you two would be intimate. 

Let’s say he counterbalances his lack of experience by skills and a tone of worship, I can’t explain how he could do that, but the man is a worshiper (no punt intended). 

He kisses and caresses a lot 

When you two are linked, he expects you to be on the top in every way (especially because he is aware of his lack of experience and also because he turned him on to see you being in charge, more than he would like to admit) 

During your first time he didn’t last as long as he expects to last, especially because he was overwhelmed by all the feelings and the love he could feel through you. 

He tends to last longer after that 

I didn’t underline it enough, but I think the man is pretty sensitive in all way. He may look like a cold soldier but he is doing a good job at internalize his feelings. Which could be a huge obstacle for a relationship cause he tends to not talk about his feeling hence the difficulty for you sometimes cause you don’t know what to do to make him feel comfortable enough to talk to you. 

Don’t worry just give him time, remind him that you’re here to help him, that he is not alone. Let him go to you when he feels like it. 

It will take time but it’ll be worth it : he is very carrying, he would love you in a way you would never expect someone to love you like this. He would be your friends, your lover, your protector. 

Yeah because he is overprotecting don’t ever try to protest that’s a battle you won’t win : you’re too precious. 

[vaire-gwir]

I’ve run out of my words

Post-mountain incident, Jaskier is a heart broken mess. The last thing he needs is an unexpected visit from Geralt. 

I have accepted that it’s never going to be the same amount of words as I Find you all Unwoven, cause I re-wrote this three times and it just doesn’t happen.

Again, I was sad, that’s my excuse. English is not my first language, hope it doesn’t terribly suck! 

***

It hurt a great deal when Jaskier sold his lute. He was attached to it for more than just sentimental reasons. Sometimes he felt like his life truly started the day he got that lute.

He was used to pain by now though, pain was just another thing creeping under the surface, it came and went in waves like the ocean, sometimes threatening to overwhelm him with memories and sometimes resting among the broken pieces of his heart, hissing like a snake waiting to strike.

It was always there, he just perceived it in different ways: some days it was like being on the edge of an empty abyss of nothingness, about to fall but never really tipping over, just going through the motion. Other times, there were the long nights when sleep refused to visit him and he'd get this urge under his skin, to move, to do something, anything to not feel trapped in his own flesh, caged by his own mind.

He tried to fight insomnia with the ink, but he proved a terrible fighter. He couldn't write anything anymore. When he tried to play, his fingers seemed to have a mind of their own, and he'd get even the simplest of melody wrong, resulting in endless frustration that kept him up until dawn.

As much as he tried to outrun his ghost, he always ended up running right into it, and if he managed to keep his waking hours relatively Geralt-free, the dreams were always there. His journals paid the price of waking up for the hundredth time, after a nightmare that leaves him choking and incapable to stop the tears from falling down his cheeks.

He thought he'd feel relieved after watching it crackle and burn to ashes, as if destroying the evidence of his time with the Witcher could also destroy the heartache that came with it, but it doesn't work like that. Nothing he ever does stops him from being hollow.

Jaskier walks around the Academy like a shadow, trying to keep himself busy between lessons or at least trying to keep Geralt out of his thoughts. This simple task proved to be more complicated than he anticipated. He doesn't want to be here, he's not made for teaching and his students get on his nerves all the time. To be fair, most things get on his nerves since the mountain incident, but he doesn't have many options.

Sure, he could go home to his family, beg their forgiveness and implore his father to allow him back into court. That sounded as promising as jumping off a bridge.

Compared to that, even the room Madame M. offered him at the brothel looked like a golden palace. At least he had some talent for sex, he managed to convince even a Witcher to sleep with him, that hadn't been easy.

Jaskier stirs his mind in a safer direction, cause thinking about those nights will not do him any good. He still blames and curses himself for coming up with that stupid arrangement, cause why not Geralt, I'm here all the time, and I'm obviously very willing, besides you don't have to pay me, looks like a win-win situation to me. Looks like you're a special kind of idiot, Jaskier, that's what you are. Why did Geralt even accept anyway?

Jaskier blinks the memories away and focuses on trying to have lunch, cause that's what sane, normal people do. He's still struggling with normal though.

His plan flew out of the window when someone started to sing. Jaskier froze in his spot when he recognized the song. He wrote that. He should be pleased to hear it, but it's not pride he feels when he glances in the direction of the curly-haired boy in green velvet.

He will never play or sing another song again, and people will forget him sooner than Geralt did. The folks in this tavern don't know him, they don't know he wrote those lyrics to distract himself the first night Geralt didn't come back from a hunt and he feared for him every second of that dreadful night.

He spent hours cursing the Gods for making him so useless and prayed to them in the same breath, begging for their mercy. He felt stupid later, when Geralt showed up at dawn saying it took him longer than expected to break a curse. Jaskier told the Witcher how scared he had been and Geralt dismissed him as the fool he was.

He's scared of being forgotten, of being meaningless and unimportant. No one is going to remember Jaskier, the bard that traveled the continent with the White Wolf and shared his adventures.

He left Jaskier on top of that mountain, he's just Julian now, just a teacher, just another idiot that got his heart broken. Geralt left him like everyone else. That's what people do, they just leave and move on with their lives. So why couldn't he move on too?

There's a small shift in the air, and while he tries to regain control of his thoughts, for some unknown reason, destiny, the universe, life or the Gods, make him turn his head toward the entrance.

There is no mistaking the white hair he sees, or the dark armour. Jaskier knows he has to leave before Geralt sees him. The sole idea of Geralt being here is enough to leave him shaking.

What are the chances of meeting the Witcher outside Oxenfurt? There were no contracts in town, why was fate trying his best to mess with his life today, was the song not enough? He feels like his head is swimming and he knows he doesn't have time to panic cause his heart beats so loudly he fears Geralt will spot it in a second.

He puts some coins in the maid's hand and stumbles out of the place.  

He can't face him. Not today. Probably not ever, cause he can't imagine he'll ever be ready to face the one that broke his heart without holding any anger or resentment towards him. Why must he feel like this, Geralt never cared for him, so why is he still drowning in his feelings for the idiot?

Jaskier is a poet, he should know a thing or two about heartache. He should also know that he's out of luck today.

"Why did you follow me, Witcher?" Jaskier feels his presence a few paces behind him, still so painfully familiar to him even after all these months.

"How did you know..." There's a puzzled expression on Geralt's face. Jaskier knows he's not prepared for this.

It takes him a second to realize that no matter how angry he is at the Witcher, how deep his sorrow runs and how broken his heart is, a small part of him is almost glad to see him. It's the same small part that decided to talk to a stranger and follow him on a dangerous journey, the one that figured out first that what he was feeling was more than a crush, and that accepted every scrap of affection Geralt showed him like he was being handed the world on a silver plate.

Geralt is exactly how he remembers him, and his betrayer heart jumps in his chest when their eyes meet.

"I saw you at the tavern. I spent so long searching for your face in every crowd I started to think I was seeing things, but apparently I was right this time." I love you, I'd recognize your steps everywhere, the cracking of the leather in your gloves and the click of the metal of that buckle in your armor you always forget to fix after a hunt, I know them as if they were my own. I love you, and you broke my heart. That's what he wants to say, but the words get stuck in his throat, they're no use now.

"I... You were not singing." Jaskier knows it's not surprise he sees on Geralt's face when he answers "I don't do that anymore." but he can't figure out what it is.

It hurt when he realized he couldn't bring himself to sing or play anymore, it left him feeling even emptier than before, cause he always thought he'd have his music to console him, to defend him from the things life was throwing at him, to build a wall around himself and protect whatever was left of him. How wrong he was.

"Why not?" Jaskier wishes he could explain that when they parted on top of the mountain, when he forced himself to say "See you around Geralt" knowing he'll never see him again, when he tried to process those heavy words that rolled off the Witcher's tongue, his love for music, for poetry, for life, rolled off too and hid somewhere he couldn't reach anymore. But Geralt never cared for his music.

"Don't act like you care. I'm not the same person I was ten months ago. Besides, you hate my singing, you can barely stand my voice, what difference does it make to you?" Keeping his tone even and preventing his voice from breaking is hard, harder than any performance he ever had to do. Ten months ago feel like a lifetime away now, it doesn't even seem real. The ache in his chest is always there to remind him that it is.

"That's not true." Jaskier sees how he clenches his hands as if those words meant a great effort for him. The Gods know how many times he looked into Geralt's eyes after singing, desperately seeking his approval and finding only a mild annoyance, like this was just another thing he had to endure.

"It's like ordering a pie and finding it has no filling. There's a word for that, in case you didn't know, and it's called disappointment. Now, why did you follow me out here? I don't think it was to tell me you suddenly like my voice cause we both know you don't and honestly, bit late for that, don't you think?" Jaskier wants to be annoyed, he should be furious for what Geralt did to him, for leaving him like he meant nothing, but these days being mad is a lot of effort. He doesn't have it in him anymore, it's easier to let go of the anger. It doesn't make him feel less empty or less broken anyway.

"I just thought...we could maybe....talk?" Jaskier laughs bitterly.

"Really Geralt? That's rich coming from you. Now you want to talk? You know what, no. No, you don't get to come here and tell me you want to talk after I spent ten gods forsaken months trying to forget you. Don't you fucking dare. Not like this. Now if there's something I can help you with, do say so. If not, spare us both this conversation, I'm not sure I'm in the mood to have my heart broken again." Jaskier is not even sure there is something left to break.

He'll never admit it but deep down he knows there's no forgetting Geralt. And he curses that small part of him that wants to listen to him, to let him talk and explain, cause he knows that he'd go back to traveling with the Witcher right this second if he so much as says he'd take him back. Stupid, stupid Jaskier. A Witcher apologizing, as if.

"I'll leave you to your things then. Goodbye, Jaskier."  Saying goodbye, even knowing that it's for the best, doesn't make it any less painful.

"You were right." Geralt looks at him in a way he has never seen before, for a second he thinks it's hurt that he sees flickering in those golden eyes, but it lasts a second. He should know Geralt doesn't care about him enough to be hurt by something he says or does.

"You spent so much time trying to convince me to leave you alone and stop following you around and I never fucking listened. I realized you were right. Cause you, you got what you wanted, life, destiny, whatever, you had your sorceress and I'm finally off your hands. But what about me? That is why I wish...I wish I would have listened to you. Left. Before it was too late. Before having my heart broken."

His voice breaks at the end, he feels the tears stinging his eyes and he turns to walk away before Geralt notices it. Pain comes in waves, and today he's drowning.

[moonknightly]

and you keep me holding on : santiago “pope” garcia x reader (three)

Word Count: 5.5k+

Excerpt: “Had he told her? When she was leaving his office that night, had Santi told her how much he loved her?”

Warnings: Kidnapping, violence, mentions of blood, cursing, guns, uhhh that should be it?

[SERIES MASTERLIST]

OCTOBER 19TH - DAY THREE

Two days pass with absolutely nothing. Santi’s boss has given him strict orders to stay as far away from work as possible, and he actually decides to listen for a change. He knows he would be useless to his co-workers in his current state.

Cameron refuses to let him anywhere near the precinct either, saying it’ll only add to his stress. He knows she’s right, but part of him still wishes he could be there, just so he can sit right by the phone and be the first to know if she’d been found, but he doubts that Cameron would budge on the matter. He still begged her to call him if she heard anything at all though, and she’d promised she would.

It’s not a promise Santiago is taking lightly.

He’s hardly left Jay’s couch since arriving back in New York from Princeton. He only gets up when it’s absolutely necessary, and even then, it’s only for a minute or two at a time. He hasn’t combed his hair, has only brushed his teeth once. His drive and motivation are just completely lacking without her.

He’s been wearing the same set of sweats from the moment he was able to change out of his blood soaked clothes. He has no idea what Jay’s done with them, but he hopes they were put in the trash and not sitting at the bottom of the washing machine. He never wants to see those damn pants ever again, or the shirt for that matter. He’d been contemplating setting both articles of clothing on fire, but he was positive that Jay wouldn’t appreciate the smoke and ash filling his apartment, setting the fire alarm off and disturbing his neighbors.

But fuck, had he wanted to watch them burn.

The news of her disappearance spread rapidly, and Pope still doesn’t know if he’s thankful for the attention or if the coverage only continued to add to his rage and unease. He figures that he’s allowed to feel both.

Cameron had spoken at a press conference in the early morning following their trip to Princeton, and there had been an article printed on the front page of several newspapers. They’d used a fairly recent photo of her, one that was taken while she was dressed out in her scrubs. Santi was actually in it as well, though they’d cropped him out of course.

It had been one of his favorite pictures of the two of them together, but now it just makes his stomach sick every single time it flashes across the TV screen.

Her parents had been notified just prior to the press conference. Santi hadn’t been the one to make the phone call, and while he felt some sort of guilt over it, he was also glad he hadn’t had to face them yet — he’s not ready for her mother’s tears or her father’s icecold glare and sharp words. He knows they’re going to blame him for not protecting her properly, for not doing what was supposed to be his one job when it came to her, just as he was blaming himself.

He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to face them.

He doesn’t even know how to face his own parents. 

His mother calls him at least once an hour, and each time he lets it go to voicemail. He has 41 missed calls and almost twice as many unopened texts, but he never fails to check who they’re from, jumping to his feet and snatching his phone from wherever it lay each time a new one came through, just in case it’s an unknown number that might be her or even Nathan.

But it only continues to be his mom and sometimes the boys, though they’re trying their best to give him the space they know he needs.

He doesn’t think he needs space.

Santi starts to have second thoughts about staying away from work. The later the day drags on, the more and more anxious he feels. 

The more and more useless. 

He needs to do something other than just sitting there, watching TV and waiting for the phone to ring once again.

He’s better than this, worth more than this. If he could only work on his own or with the boys even, he was sure they’d be ten steps closer to finding her. He knows it and he can’t stand playing by the damn rules but his emotions are still running too high and he doesn’t even know where to begin.

All Santi knows is that he can’t fucking sit there and do nothing anymore.

He throws the blanket off of his legs and stands from the couch, immediately going to the bag he’d brought from the apartment, pulling out a pair of faded jeans and a black t-shirt. It’s obvious that his shirt hadn’t been properly folded, but he has his bullet proof vest to throw on over the wrinkled garment, not that he really cares and not that it really matters.

He’s out the door within ten minutes.

Parker is the first to see Santi enter the precinct. She’s sitting at one of the tables in the corner, idly talking with Cameron about a case from several years ago and she can’t help the sigh and the not-so-subtle shake of her head that follows upon seeing him walk towards them.

“I thought you told Garcia that he couldn’t be here.”

“I did.”

She doesn’t have to turn around to know that Santi’s approaching, and she still doesn’t turn around even when she senses him come to a stop directly behind her, just a few feet away.

“But you and I both know how well he tends to follow directions.”

“Yeah,” Parker scoffs, shaking her head once again and folding her arms across her chest.

Cameron finally turns in her chair, facing Santi after several long seconds. She feels a twinge in her chest as she takes in his dejected expression and tired eyes. He looks rough, and so so worried but that’s all to be expected. She swallows the lump in her throat and wills her own nerves to settle, giving her full attention to Santi.

“What are you doing here Pope?”

“Do you know how fuckin’ awful daytime television is?”

“What, Judge Judy not doing it for you?” Parker jokes, a smirk plastered across her face as she leans further back into her chair.

Santi cracks a small smile, his first one in days, though it’s nowhere near genuine. It’s so extremely forced, his cheeks ache with the effort even. He shuffles his feet gently, glancing at his shoes briefly before he looks back up to Cameron.

“I just can’t sit on Jay’s couch anymore. I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

Cameron nods her head in understanding. She can’t count how many times she’s sat at home, her mind captivated by a case that she wanted nothing more than to work on for every second of the day. She tries to relate her own experience to what Santi must be feeling, but she still can’t imagine what he must be going through, as the case involves his wife and not just a random victim. She would be so far gone had she been in his shoes.

“You know,” she starts, trying to think of the best possible way to word her sentence. “You’re her husband first, before anything else you’re her partner Santiago. You really don’t need to be her detective too.” She refrains from reminding him that technically, he’s not even officially on the case. “We can handle this, Pope. You’re allowed to take the time to grieve.”

“I don’t want to grieve,” he mumbles under his breath, almost inaudibly. He sounds so completely unlike himself. Cameron begins to speak again, but he interrupts her with a shake of his head. “Not yet.”

Cameron knows it’s not the time to talk about statistics and probability. She knows Santi doesn’t need to be reminded of her chances and Cameron’s not even really paying attention to the numbers herself because this is her they’re talking about. It’s far too close to home.

They’ve definitely recovered missing persons who had been gone for much, much longer.

So she only nods her head slowly, giving Santi a soft, gentle smile. “How would you feel about doing some paperwork for me then? There’s still some notes on my desk that need to be entered in.”

She knows it would be better to give him some sort of work — something to distract his mind so he’s not just sitting there, only further losing himself to worry and panic. Santi seems to feel the same way because he nods without question, not complaining or groaning in protest like he used to whenever she’d ask him to do her paperwork.

“I can do that.”

Santi walks off without another word, sitting himself behind Cameron’s desk, trying to drown himself in busy work. He just needs to turn his brain off, put it on something else for a while. 

And it works, kind of. At least, he thinks it does, but Cameron can’t help but frown at the haunted look that lingers in Santi’s eyes, still so noticeable even from across the room. Parker sighs quietly, looking between her lieutenant and Pope.

“You sure this is a good idea?”

She doesn’t know what to tell her, because no, she’s not sure. She’s not sure at fucking all.

Part of her think that he needs to take a step back and stay away, but a larger part of her doesn’t think having him cooped up in an apartment with only his thoughts to keep him company is a good idea either.

At least this way, he isn’t alone and they can keep an eye on him. Make sure that he wasn’t doing anything irrational, make sure he’s taking care of himself, drinking water and eating.

And so, she’s honest.

“I don’t know.”

Parker only nods, her stance on the situation exactly the same. It’s a hard position to be in, no doubt, having to decide whether you’re going to act as a friend or a person of authority.

Nothing else is said between the pair, and the day drags on slowly, though no one is complaining. Slow is a nice change, especially given the added stress they’re all under. Jay returns to the precinct from interviewing some of Nathan’s old co-workers sometime in the early afternoon, instantly noticing Santi sitting at Cameron’s desk, though after one look towards his Lieutenant, he decides not to say anything.

It was just before three o’clock when Santi is broken from an almost trance-like state. He’s been so focused on typing up report after report he’s hardly noticed the world around him in the time that’s passed. He isn’t even entirely sure what pulled his attention away until he feels his Apple watch buzz against his wrist.

He rolls his eyes, only slightly annoyed at the interruption. A sigh leaves his lips as he raises his watch to see who’d decided to text him — it was probably just his mother or maybe Frankie, trying to get in touch with him again, asking how-

Santi feels his blood run cold the moment the display of his watch comes up, because the name that flashes across the screen definitely isn’t his mother’s.

The name that flashed across the screen reads “Mi Vida”, or “My Life” from Spanish to English.

It’s her. Or, it’s at least her Apple watch. Her cell phone is still at the apartment, but Santi had completely forgotten about her watch.

He quickly shakes the shock away, blinking several times as her name fades away and the actual message comes onto the screen. It’s a picture, one Santi couldn’t see very well because of the small screen and he lets out a loud curse, not caring about the stares he receives in return, hastily digging his phone out of his pocket, unlocking it and pulling up the text thread in a matter of seconds.

Santi’s stomach drops. His face turns pale and he feels the need to vomit yet again, though his stomach still doesn’t have much of anything to offer.

Jay hears Santi’s outburst and promptly makes his way over to the desk. Santi hears him ask what's wrong, but he can’t form the words, can’t make himself say anything. He doesn’t want to, doesn’t know how to. His entire focus is on his phone, on the picture in his hands. Because she’s in it, but it isn’t a happy picture — not one that he would normally sit back and admire with a soft smile and even softer eyes.

She’s in it, but she’s tied up, legs and arms bound with a gag in place. There’s an obvious cut in her eyebrow, no doubt from the broken shards of glass of their once bathroom mirror. It looks as if her hands are tied to a bed frame or a pole of some kind — Santi can’t tell, doesn’t care enough about that aspect of the photo, no.

No, he’s much more focused on her face, on the terror that is so evident and haunting he’s sure that he’ll see the same image every time he closes his eyes for the rest of his life. She looks so scared, so terrified, and Santi feels his heart shatter even further, and his own fear grips him tight and refuses to let go, doesn’t allow him to move even a muscle.

He still holds completely still even after Jay yanks the phone from his grasp, still stares into thin air at where the phone had been. Jay looks at him, concern etched all over his face until he looks at the screen, suddenly understanding the horror that’s taken over his friend.

“Cameron!” Jay calls out, the panic evident in his voice, his feet not daring to move. He feels stuck in place.

Santi still doesn’t move, he can’t move, doesn’t want to move because he feels as if he might faint but Cameron is the exact opposite, rushing over with Parker right behind.

Jay holds the phone out to her with shaky hands, but reels back when he feels it vibrate again.

Another message comes through from her watch. She, or rather Nathan, started sharing their current location — somewhere in Allentown, Pennsylvania. Santi hears the buzz, and promptly snatches the phone from Jay, looking at it for a moment before Cameron does the same to him.

She stands silent for several seconds. Part of her feels like it’s a trap, a set up to lure them off-course. It’s just too easy, it’s never that easy. There’s something entirely off about it, and the nerves in her stomach pick back up at a rapid speed.

But she can’t just ignore it because her instinct is off. It was too large of a lead to be ignored.

“Jay, call down to Allentown. Have them set up roadblocks on all routes out. Parker, start calling the surrounding towns and have them do the same. No one approaches Nathan until we’re there.”

They both fall into action immediately, doing as they’re asked, but Santi continues to sit quietly in his chair, eyes void of any and all emotion.

Cameron leans over him, pulling the chair back so he rolls a few feet away from the desk.

“Come on, Santiago,” she says gently, clasping her hand on his shoulder, giving him an encouraging squeeze.

Santi stands without a word, taking his vest off the back of the chair, putting it on slowly, slower than Cameron has ever seen him. She watches him closely, her heart sinking as she does so, as she thinks about so many different outcomes and possibilities.

If they don’t find her, she doesn’t know what will happen to Santi. What Pope will do, who he’ll become in the midst of his grief.  

She isn’t ready to lose both Garcia’s

The drive to Allentown is even more agonizing than the drive to Princeton. Seconds feel like minutes, minutes feel like hours. The wait and uncertainty of it all is killing everyone, and the butterflies in the pits of their stomachs are buzzing around in a crazy sort of frenzy, though they’re by no means good or even tolerable butterflies. They so desperately want this lead to bring something promising, but the doubt still looms over their minds, causing nothing but anxiety and unwelcome thoughts.

Santi is leaning against the cool window of the squad car. Cameron’s driving, her knuckles white as she tightly grips the steering wheel. Every few seconds, she’ll glance over at him, just to check on him, though she doesn’t expect any change. He hasn’t moved since they left the city, hasn’t said a word and still she feels the need to just keep checking. Keep monitoring.

Santi watches the trees pass by in a blur. The last time he’d been to Pennsylvania, he’d been with her, when she wanted to take a weekend trip down to State College to show him around PSU, where she’d gone to school to earn her nursing degree. She’d taken him all around campus, even introducing him to her favorite professor. They went to eat at her favorite restaurants, she drove him past the house she had spent her senior year in. They had even caught the game that weekend against the University of Michigan.

It’d been such a fun weekend, but even the memory of it couldn’t bring a smile to Santi’s face. None of their memories together seem to trigger anything in that moment and he’s been flipping through them all, searching for one that doesn’t make him want to cry. 

He thinks about all of the different trips they’d taken together, he thinks about their lazy Sunday mornings spent between the sheets, the stolen kisses and the sweet nothings whispered into each other’s ears — words spoken with so much conviction and love and trust. He thinks of the late night Netflix binges and the endless amount of family dinners her mother invited them to. Even the memory of their wedding makes Santi want to break down and sob, but he figures that to be the fact that their two year wedding anniversary is quickly approaching and he doesn’t know whether or not he would be spending it alone.

He thinks back to the first day they’d met, when the DEA had been working with the NYPD on a bust and he’d gone to interview a victim at the hospital. All it took was one look at her and he knew that he was a goner. Her confidence and her beauty had completely knocked the breath from his lungs, and he remembers feeling absolutely floored when he’d witnessed her interact with a patient for the first time.

He’d asked her on their first date three months later, after taking every chance he could find to visit the hospital. He expected her to be hesitant but she had accepted almost immediately, taking him by surprise but making him oh so happy at the same time. When he had asked her why, months after the fact, she had simply answered by saying “because I knew I was going to marry you the first moment I saw you.”

Santi had known the same, if he was being completely honest, and so he proposed after only nine months, and they married fourteen after that. He’d never pictured himself proposing to someone after such little time, really he never imagined getting married at all, but it had just felt right with her. 

Everything with her just feels so absolutely right. He doesn’t want to think about what the last four years of his life would have been like if he didn’t know her.

And of course he can’t imagine going forward without her, either. Can’t imagine waking up for the rest of his life without her by his side, can’t imagine not being able to hear her laugh ever again, or being able to tell her he loves her.

Had he told her? When she was leaving his office that night, had Santi told her how much he loved her? Had he given her a kiss goodbye? Or had he been too preoccupied with the mountain of work that had been covering his desk?

He can’t remember.

He’s almost sure that he had, but he can’t help but second guess himself because he knows how easily distracted he can become.

There’s a new wave of guilt that comes washing over him, and he can’t help but feel so conflicted. He had tried to do something nice by letting her go home when she had been trying so hard to stay and wait for him. He knew she had been exhausted, but if he had just been a little selfish, if he had just let her stay with him then she might still be here. They would’ve entered their apartment together and there was absolutely no way in hell Santi would’ve let Nathan walk out with her.

He starts thinking about all of the times he had sent her home alone before, and how many opportunities that meant Nathan would have had to take her.

He quickly shoves the thought away after feeling his head begin to spin. Santi swallows the lump in his throat and gently shuts his eyes, trying to make himself think about anything else.

He doesn’t open them again until they arrive in Allentown thirty minutes later.

They flip their lights on just after they cross city limits, but keep their sirens turned off, a few Allentown PD cars merging behind them as they pass the roadblock. Cameron is following closely behind Parker, who leads the way in the other squad car. Jay had taken Santi’s phone before they left the precinct, and Santi had protested of course, but they all knew what would have happened had Santi kept it. He wouldn’t have looked away from it, not that Jay had been any better himself, but no one thought it was smart to let Santi suffer through the car ride with it in his hand, staring at a map and praying that the location didn’t go out.

Her watch has been sitting in the same location for the last forty five minutes — just outside of a book shop in the center of town. Jay has a bad feeling about the entire situation; a feeling he can only describe as somewhere between doubt and apprehension. He knows that if it had been her and only her, she would’ve gone straight to the Police Department or the hospital. She would have called for help, would have texted Santi, something. He knows there’s something wrong, something off.

“Pull off into this parking lot here,” Jay instructs when they’re only two blocks away.

Parker does as she’s told before coming to an abrupt stop, throwing the car into park and hastily climbing out.

Santi is already out of the other car by then, he’d thrown his door open before they were even completely stopped, but Cameron had done the same.

The squad wordlessly gathers into a small circle, all securing their vests and pulling their guns from their holsters, though they keep the safety on as standard protocol. The Allentown officers follow suit, and wait for instruction from Cameron.

She glances at each of her squad members, her eyes lingering on Santi for the longest. They’re all looking at her, all except for him.

He’s instead staring at the ground, jaw clenched and mouth set in a thin, straight line. His eyes are darker than their normal chocolate shade, and Cameron doesn’t like what she sees when she looks into them. There’s a certain sort of determination swimming in his irises — hollow and cold, calculated and oh so sure all at the same time. 

She can tell with just one look that he’s plotting something.

That he’s thinking about what he’s willing to do in order to get her back, what he’s willing to give up. She can tell that he’s made up his mind, that he’ll do and risk anything to save her, and that even then, having her back might not be good enough.

“Pope,” she murmurs gently, almost flinching when his eyes met hers with a glare she knows isn’t truly directed at her. “You don’t have to do this. You can stay here, in the car.”

Santiago scoffs gently, shaking his head and biting the inside of his cheek. “And why would I do that?”

“Because I know what you’re thinking. I know what you’re planning. And Pope, if you do it, you’re going to lose a piece of yourself that you can never get back-”

“I can lose everything!” he snaps, voice raised, the anger and the pain oh so evident in both his tone and the expression written across his face. It makes some of the Allentown officers take a step back, but the squad doesn’t even flinch. 

“I can lose fuckin’ everything but I can’t lose her.”

Cameron is silent, but she still holds his eye contact, still stands her ground. Santi is the first to look away, lip quivering slightly though he quickly sucks in a shaky breath to play it off, pushing his emotions down, down, down.

“God, not her.”

The anger quickly fades and is swiftly replaced by sadness and grief, the sudden change jarring for everyone. Cameron feels a pang in her chest as she watches him attempt to hold himself together — Santi has never been good at hiding his anger, but this is different from every other time he’s let his temper show around the squad. 

It’s different and it makes her nod her head and gently clasp him on his shoulder.

“We’ll find her, and then I promise you, Nathan will get what he deserves.”

Santi sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, biting gently as he nods himself, still refusing to actually look towards Cameron. Part of him feels ashamed for the thoughts running through his head, but a larger part of him, the part he’s given into more than once in his time with the military and in law enforcement, didn’t care.

A larger part of him wants nothing more than to watch Nathan suffer.

Cameron waits a few more seconds before giving the squad the order to move, the Allentown officers following closely behind. Jay decides to put himself in front of Santi, and they all quickly make their way towards the book shop, guns drawn and aimed at the ground.

Santi’s the only one with the safety already switched off.

Cameron is several steps ahead, and rounds the corner before anyone else.

She instantly feels the dejection settle in the pit of her stomach, but she’d been expecting it.

She isn’t there, and neither is Nathan. The only person on the street is a teenage boy, looking down and fumbling with something in his hand that looked a lot like-

She stopped in her tracks, a scoff falling from her lips. Jay comes up behind her just a second later, followed directly by Santi.

“Jay, you’re positive we’re in the right spot?”

Jay glances towards the phone that is still in his hand, nodding his head as he double checks, triple checks. “Yeah, I’m sure. The signal is coming from right over there.”

Cameron nods towards the young boy, her shoulders sagging with the words that followed.

“We’ve been played.”

All of the hope anyone had been holding onto quickly fades. The atmosphere surrounding the squad turns heavy instantly, but Santi only feels a fire ignite deep in his chest, twisting his veins, taking over his every thought.

Santi pushes past Jay and Cameron, not bothering to listen as they both call his name, asking him to just hold on for a second and to just let them handle it.

The boy doesn’t look up until Santi snatches the watch away from him, gripping it tightly in his fist before using his other hand to grab the front of the kid’s shirt, effortlessly hoisting him off of the bench.

“Hey, what the hell man-”

“Where did you get this?” Santi questions, voice sharp, caustic, venom dripping from his tongue.

The boy’s eyes widen, and he holds his hands up in surrender once seeing the fury on Santi’s face, shaking his head frantically as he fumbles with his words. “I don’t-”

Santi’s fist tightens around the fabric of his shirt, and he knows what he’s doing is wrong, he shouldn’t be manhandling a young teenage boy but he’s positively seething and all he can see is red and why the fuck did this kid have her fucking watch?

“I’m going to ask you one more time. Where did you get the watch?”

“Pope!” Cameron yells from just behind him, though he didn’t turn the face her, his eyes staying focused on the boy. “Santiago, that’s enough.”

He can’t stop, can’t make himself even if he had wanted to. Not until he gets an answer.

All of the control he has left is completely gone, vanished the moment he realized she isn’t here.

She isn’t there she isn’t here she isn’t-

“Where!?” Santi yells into the boy’s face, completely ignoring Cameron’s command.

“Some guy gave it to me! He said all I had to do was sit here for a little while and that it was mine to keep and-”

“What did he look like?”

“He had brown hair and I...I don’t know man, just let me go!”

“Was there a girl with him?”

The boy looks confused now, eyebrows furrowing and lips turning into a deep frown. “What-”

Santi shakes the boy violently, only once, just enough to scare him. “A girl, was there a girl-”

“No! No, I didn’t see any girl!”

Santi feels his heart sink even deeper into his chest. He only stares for a few seconds longer, the full weight of what he’s just done to a young kid finally settling in just as his sorrow started to outweigh the anger once more. Pope looks down at his feet as he quietly mumbles something that sounded like an apology before letting go of the boy’s shirt, turning on his heel and briskly walking away, but not before Cameron stops him.

“Santiago, what the hell were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t,” he mumbles, shrugging her off, desperately wanting to put some distance between him and everyone else, continuing to walk away, shoving his wife’s watch into his pocket as he does so.

Cameron calls out to him again, but just like every other time over the course of the past few days, he doesn’t listen.

As he makes his way back to the car, quickly walking past the squad and the other officers, Santi feels the anger flood into his body once again. He feels it settle between his ribs and make a home where so much love had once lived, where so much hope had been only moments before.

The constant back and forth is giving him whiplash.

Cameron still continues to follow him, still continues to call out his name but she really doesn’t think that he’ll stop, and she’s just about to give up when Santi whirls around with his gun still in his hand, though it isn’t aimed towards her. It isn’t aimed at anything, really.

The look in Santi’s eyes is even colder than before, if that’s even at all possible. Cameron feels fear prick at her skin, her hair standing on edge and her blood turning to ice. All she can do is take in his every movement and wait for a moment where she’s forced to intervene. Santi lifts his arms up, and for just a split second she thinks that he’s going to place the muzzle of the gun to his temple but he only lets the barrel rest against his skin, eyes falling shut.

Cameron still doesn’t like the fact that his finger is hovering near the trigger.

She cautiously approaches, making sure not to walk too fast, not wanting to scare him and cause him to panic. She reaches her own hand up and gently puts it overtop of Santi’s before slowly pulling the gun from his grasp.

His eyes snap open, and there’s absolutely no denying it. Not with eyes so dark and harsh and so devoid of emotion. Eyes that are almost dead.

Santiago is out for revenge. Out for blood.

He’s over this game of cat and mouse, he’s over chasing Nathan.

He’s over being toyed with.

Cameron is done watching her friend lose his mind.

And so, not caring about the anger from the entire squad that her decision will bring, she makes the only call she can think of. One she should have made at the very beginning.

One that will hopefully keep her from losing anyone else.

“I’m turning her case over. We’re done.”

[razieltwelve]

Warning (Final Rose)

Fang was not someone who took offence easily. Perhaps that was why some members of her clan had decided to voice their objections to her choice of spouse. True, she was the bearer of Ragnarok, a legendary Semblance that was considered something close to divine by her clansmen. Many had believed she would marry within the clan, thereby ensuring that any future bearers were pure-blooded Yun.

Before proposing to Lightning, she had spoken to her chieftain about it. If he had objected, she would have simply proposed anyway, but he was a good man and a fine leader. She wanted to at least let him know that there might well be trouble on the horizon for him. After all, anyone who was dissatisfied by her choice would undoubtedly go to him.

“Marry who you wish,” the chieftain had said to her with a shrug. “You are Yun, so your children will be Yun.” His lips twitched. “After all, was the Mother of the Yun a Yun by birth? No. She became Yun when she married our great ancestor, the Father of the Yun. Besides, do you mean to abandon your heritage and your people? Will you raise your children without ever teaching them the ways of your ancestors? Will they never climb our mountains or run through our forests?”

Of course, she had told him that she had intention of doing that. Her children would be raised to know who their ancestors were, and they would learn the ways of the Yun as Fang had. And though they might not live in Oerba, they would visit. They would see for themselves the soaring peaks of the mountains. They would know the feel of the forest’s grass beneath their feet and the icy rush of the wind atop the mountains. They would see the towering walls of Oerba and walk its bustling markets. They would speak the language of the Yun and take the Trials when it was time. They would be Yun.

“Then I have no complaints.” The chieftain smiled briefly before his expression turned serious. “But there are others who may not be so accepting. Do what you must, Fang. You know our ways. There are some who will not learn until they are taught.”

And so it was that Fang found herself invoking one of the oldest laws of the Yun after one insult too many. The Circle of Honour, a fight to the death to settle matters of honour. It could not be called upon lightly, for the Yun did not slay their own without reason. But although most insults could be forgiven, to intrude on a marriage celebration and insult one of the celebrants to their face was not one of them. Worse, the insults had been amongst the worst a Yun could offer although from her expression Lightning did not quite understand the nuance. She wasn’t happy about what had been said, but she didn’t grasp exactly why the Yun and Dia in the room had gone still and quiet. And given how rowdy most wedding celebrations were, that was no small thing.

So Fang had gotten to her feet and issued the challenge. Her opponent could now either crawl out of the marriage hall on her belly, offering the most humble and sincere of apologies, or she could meet Fang in combat. Fang was coldly pleased that she decided to give combat instead.

X     X     X

Fang glanced briefly at the circle of Yun that had formed around her and her opponent. They were standing silent sentry, shields locked, spears at the ready. By ancient law, whoever tried to flee the challenge was to be cut down, for cowardice would not be tolerated in matters such as these. A few of the Dia stood nearby taking notes. The Circle of Honour was rarely invoked nowadays, and there were few living who could remember the last time it had been used. As hotheaded as some Yun could be, it was rare for matters to get so far out of hand.

Usually, the chieftain or the veterans would step in to settle disputes, but her opponent had ignored their wise counsel. The chieftain took a moment to explain the rules and the reason for the Circle before giving the signal to begin.

The first thing Fang did was toss aside her shield and spear.

“What are you doing?” her opponent hissed. Amadan was a tall woman, taller even than Fang, though only by half a head or so. She was a fine warrior in her own right, and Fang was glad that she had no children. It would be a shame to make orphans of them. At least, she had a younger brother, one as gifted as she was in the arts of war, so her bloodline’s talent would not be lost to the Yun. That brother was part of the crowd watching, and his face could have been carved of granite, his expression was so stony.

“I need no spear or shield to kill you.”

“You mean to use your Semblance?” Amadan skipped forward, swift and deadly. Her spear flashed out twice, each thrust aimed at a critical point. Fang swayed away from the blows and then ducked, circling around Amadan as the other woman swiped at her with her shield.

“My Semblance?” Fang laughed, and the sound was cold and ugly. “Rangarok is a treasure of our people, the greatest weapon we possess. You are not worthy of death at its hands.”

“Then how will you kill me?” Amadan growled. She lunged forward, her form perfect as she struck three more times. Yet three more times, Fang dodged, reading the path of each blow as clearly as though they were constellations in the clear night sky.

“With these hands of mine,” Fang replied. “And these hands alone.” She circled around Amadan again. “Because you are not worthy of anything more.”

“You will try,” Amadan retorted. “But you have yet to throw a strike.”

“I will need only one.”

Fang made a show of tossing aside the daggers and knives she hid on her person. Like any good Yun, she had one in her boot and another at her waist. She also had one hidden in her bracers, and she cast that away too.

“When you die,” Fang began, the words coming in the singsong rhythm of a death promise. “The winds will not whisper of your deeds. The trees will not bear your name. The walls will not remember you. You will die a fool, and all the Yun and Dia will remember you only as the fool who thought to insult my woman as we celebrated our marriage.” Fang beckoned Amadan forward. “Come then, fool, or are you coward also?”

“I am no coward!” Amadan sprang, her strong legs closing the gap in an instant.

Fang stepped to the side, and Amadan’s spear shot past her. In the split-second it took the other woman to realise she’d missed, Fang’s right hand came up, claw-like, and seized her throat. There was a flash, a spark of light, and then Amadan’s Aura shattered and Fang’s fingers closed around her throat. A moment later there was only red, and Amadan staggered, dropping her shield and spear as she tried in vain to staunch the bleeding.

Fang tossed aside the scrap of flesh she’d torn loose and spat. 

“Do you hear that?” Fang asked. “There is no wind to mark your passing. The trees do not sighing grief. And even the walls are silent. Die in the dirt where you belong.”

X     X     X

Author’s Notes

As easy-going as they often are, it is easy to forget that the Yun have basically spent their entire existence locked in battle. Every single member of the Yun is trained in combat, and this is reflected in many of their customs. Even so, matters of honour rarely escalate this far. The veterans and the chieftain do their best to ensure that such matters are handled in private without anyone ending up dead. Of course, there are people who can’t take a hint. Amadan was one of them.

As for what Fang said to her, those three references are insults of the highest order. According to Yun custom, when a person dies, their ashes are to be scattered from the peaks. This is so that the wind might take those ashes and whisper of their deeds to all the world. Someone that the winds do not whisper of is said to have done nothing in their life that is worthy of praise. Likewise, it is also customary for dead Yun to have their names carved into the titanic trees of the forest around Oerba as a living and permanent reminder of who they were and what they had accomplished. To not have someone’s name carved into the trees is to deny their existence, to say that they were so inconsequential that there is no need to remember them at all. And finally, it is said that the great walls of Oerba themselves have a memory, that their foundations are built upon the blood and sacrifice of the worthy. To be remembered by the walls of Oerba is to be immortal, to be honoured by everyone who looks upon them. To be forgotten by the walls is to be shamed, especially for a warrior. Those three insults combined are truly stinging for someone of Yun ancestry, and they would never be used even in jest outside of a situation like this.

Fun fact: When Diana married outside the clan, nobody was dumb enough to say anything during the celebration. Admittedly, part of that is because Fujin does have clan ancestry (not Yun, however), but still... anyone who even thought of saying something remembered what Fang did and thought that maybe it wasn’t worth it.

If you’re interested in my thoughts on writing and other topics, you can find those here.

I also write original fiction, which you can find on Amazon here or on Audible here.

[madsthewordclown]

Fire Lily | Pt. 10

warnings: none ig?

Eventual Zuko x Reader

a/n: sorry it took me so long to get this up! I took some time with my family over the holidays and struggled a little to get back into Writing Mode. This chapter is very focused on Y/N, and at this point she’s basically blocking out thoughts of You-Know-Who. She’s got more important things to worry about. Also, I just feel like Sokka and Y/N would vibe. I think anyone who would end up with Zuko would have to get along really well with Sokka. Anyway, enjoy!

Fire Lily Masterlist

Y/N found ways to be useful and tried to stay distracted. It turned out to be very useful, having a firebender on their ship. And, as it turned out, Y/N could make a career out of acting. Even Toph said so, which Y/N felt was quite the feat.

There were, of course, whispers about her. Y/N wasn’t stupid. She knew that not everyone trusted her. But Katara seemed to, for whatever reason, and Sokka was slowly coming around. Toph already liked her well enough.

“Where’d you learn that?” Toph asked Y/N as they sat in the small room that they shared with Sokka and Katara in the belly of their ship. “I’ve been meaning to ask. I recognized your bending. Those are earth bending forms.”

“I wondered why they weren’t so… Ka-pow!” Sokka punched the air for emphasis. Sokka tended to be very goofy, Y/N had noticed in the past few weeks aboard the ship. But Y/N could also tell he had a tactical mind. Sokka was crazy intelligent; you could tell even from his nonsensical rambles.

“My father gave me an earthbending scroll when I was little.” Y/N thought back to the moment. It had been a surprise when he came back from a visit to the city. “He thought it might help me, even if it’s not the same kind of bending.”

Y/N didn’t mention that she spent most of her time neglecting practicing. She didn’t want to firebend at all for a long time. But in the past few weeks, the others had needed it. So, Y/N delivered. Casually lit a flame in her hand to trick enemy ships.

Y/N didn’t want to admit it, even to herself, but it felt good, even in small moments.

“Well, it sure does work!” Sokka replied, putting his arms behind his head as he leaned back on his cot. “You know, Fire Girl, I wasn’t sure what to think of you at first, but you’ve really helped us out.”

“Thanks.”

“Yeah, it’s been great kicking some Fire Nation butt with you,” Toph agreed. Sokka and Y/N laughed. There really hadn’t been much butt-kicking, but it was a nice sentiment. Y/N had mainly stood back and let the others lead the way when they’d captured the ship from Chameleon Bay.

Sokka had actually offered to spar with her with the hook swords. Y/N had declined for the moment. She kept the hook swords underneath her cot. She’d have to rely on what bending she could do, for now.

“And,” Sokka added with a smile, “I think we look great in the armor.”

It was nice, Y/N thought, to sit and laugh with Sokka and Toph. They didn’t trust her completely yet, and with good reason. But Y/N had a feeling that they could get there.

And it was nice to laugh despite their situation. Aang wasn’t awake yet, and Katara spent every moment she could by his side when she wasn’t providing the ship with fog cover. But here she could light the lanterns and take a minute to laugh. It was almost better than the tea shop.

Almost.

Y/N tried not to think about Lee—Zuko. She had to keep reminding herself about that. He wasn’t her friend, not really. He wasn’t from the Earth Kingdom at all. He was Crown Prince of the Fire Nation. A firebender. And apparently obsessed with hunting the Avatar, as Sokka kept saying.

The Avatar. Y/N hadn’t been there when it had happened—when the lightning struck Aang down. Azula’s lightning, and Zuko had joined her. Y/N’s sadness and anger was almost overshadowed by heavy disappointment. The boy that she had known was grumpy but kind as well as caring. She remembered the careful hand he’d placed over hers. Lee would’ve jumped out of the palace with Iroh, and she would’ve followed him. But Y/N knew Lee was gone.

“The armor isn’t very comfortable,” Y/N noted, leaning back on her cot and enjoying the feeling of her light clothes after a day up on deck.

“Sometimes you have to suffer for fashion, Y/N,” Sokka joked. “Speaking of fashion, I think we all need some new clothes. You guys stink.”

“Speak for yourself.” Toph reached over to punch Sokka in the arm. Y/N laughed. Sokka wasn’t wrong—she was wearing the same clothes that she had been when she went to the palace in the first place. While they had been washed, they had definitely seen better days. There were a few tears in the sleeves of her dress, and it was stained with dirt, and the neck was starting to stretch out.

Y/N was grateful that they’d managed to find her a pair of pants on board, although they did look a bit ridiculous with her rag of a dress over it. The apron she had was tossed overboard shortly after they had reached the boat. Y/N might have set it on fire first, but that was nobody’s business.

Y/N had trouble sleeping on the ship some nights. It was always rocking at least a little bit. But she had a cot and having other people in the room turned out to be a comfort. There was the constant rhythm of Sokka and Toph’s breathing, and then Katara’s when she would finally slip in after hours spent watching over Aang.

Y/N’s months spent traveling felt so far behind her, but she could remember when she had to sleep outside on the ground, sometimes in the middle of the woods, if soldiers were nearby. Luckily, lighting a fire was always easy, if not terrifying. Y/N curled up under her blanket and let the soft sounds of the ship lull her to sleep.

“You’re a liar. If you would have just told the truth I would still be here.” Y/N recognized the voice, but she couldn’t see it. Everything was dark. Her hook swords were in her hands.

“Why did you have to let me take the fall?” Jet’s voice whispered.

“I didn’t mean to,” Y/N called back, desperately. “I didn’t mean to!”

“Y/N, calm down!” Suddenly, her brother was in front of her, holding out a hand. Y/N looked down and saw the molten metal of the hook swords dripping down onto the dirt, handles charred beyond repair.

“I can’t,” Y/N’s chest heaved. “I can’t.”

“Listen to me, Y/N,” Bihun said, stepping closer. “I don’t have much time.”

Suddenly, Bihun’s hand seemed to begin to fade, bits and pieces of it seeming to float off into the air like ash.

“Y/N, look at me.”

Y/N finally tore her eyes away from the burnt handles of her swords and met her brother’s eyes.

“Boiling rock, Y/N. Don’t forget it.” Bihun’s entire right arm was gone now, grey bits of ash floating through the air. Bihun smiled kindly, and Y/N wished so desperately to reach out to her brother, to hug him, but her feet felt stuck to the ground. “Now wake up.”

---

Y/N awoke, sweat sticking pieces of hair to her forehead. She wiped it away. Y/N was startled as she noticed Toph standing over her.

“Finally, sleepy head. Up and at ‘em.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Y/N swatted, pushing her blanket off of her before standing. “Where are we today?”

“Heck if I know,” Toph responded, turning away to lead Y/N out the door. “That’s a Sokka question. I can’t see anything past this ship.”

“Am I up on deck again?” Y/N asked, changing the subject.

“You’re the only firebender we have, Y/N, even if you aren’t very good,” Toph stated in answer.

Y/N frowned at the slight insult, although it was true. She knew little beyond a few earthbending forms, but she was the only firebender on the ship. If they came across other Fire Nation ships, she was their best shot at convincing them to let their ship pass.

“Go get your gear on,” Toph said, pulling her own brown cloak over her head. Y/N was a bit jealous of Toph’s very lightweight disguise—the first time she put on the Fire Nation armor she had almost fallen over. She also wanted to puke a little bit when she saw herself in the mirror.

After a solid ten minutes of struggling—a great improvement from the twenty it had taken the week before—Y/N placed the heavy helmet over her head, opting to keep the face plate tucked away in a pocket for now. She didn’t particularly like having her face covered. It made her feel less like herself and even more like a Fire Nation soldier, although it did come in handy to have her facial expressions hidden when they came across other ships.

Y/N made her way up to the top deck of the ship with only slight difficulty. The Fire Nation armor was much more mobile than she had imagined.

Y/N blinked at the sudden brightness of the sunlight streaming down onto the ship. The open ocean was already enough to deal with, but no one had ever said anything about how hot metal ships could get with the unblocked sun shining down on them all day. Luckily, Katara seemed to be periodically dousing the deck with sea water.

“Y/N!” Sokka called, walking over to where Y/N was standing. He was also in his Fire Nation get-up, but he wasn’t wearing the faceplate either. “Ready for another day?”

“Sure,” Y/N deadpanned. “It’s too hot to function.”

“Where’s that fiery spirit, huh?” Sokka grinned, bumping Y/N with his elbow. “Get it?”

“No,” Y/N lied, trying to ignore the terrible joke. “Do you know where we’re at?”

“Not really,” Sokka admitted. “My dad tried to describe the general area to me, but I haven’t spent enough time looking at the Fire Nation maps.”

“I’m just glad we’re through that pass,” Y/N shuddered. “As long as we don’t go back there.”

“Yeah, the Serpent’s Pass is… difficult,” Sokka agreed. “Keep an eye on the water and let me know if you need anything, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Y/N nodded. “Any news on Aang?”

“Not yet,” Sokka frowned. “But I have a good feeling about today.”

“Sokka!” Hakoda called from across the deck, waving an arm to beckon his son.

“Duty calls!” Sokka dismissed, turning and leaving Y/N to look out onto the wide expanse of sea.

The one advantage of Y/N’s position is that she wasn’t usually asked to do many chores. Not that she would mind helping, but Hakoda had said that they never wanted to have to struggle to find her if they came across another ship.

The clear sky clouded halfway through the afternoon, darkening the sea beneath them and turning the sky a depressing gray. “What was that about a good feeling?” Y/N asked Sokka nervously as he came over, three scrolls tucked under his arm.

“It’s not storming, is it?” Sokka pointed out, sitting down on the floor of the ship, armor clanking. “Look at these maps with me.”

Y/N hesitantly took a seat next to him, sliding the helmet off of her head to wipe the sweat from her brow. She enjoyed the cool breeze that swept by. Sokka took his faceplate out of his pocket to put on the edge of the scroll to hold it down.

It was a map of the Fire Nation, Y/N realized. The country was shaped almost like a loop of islands, Y/N realized, with the capital city of Caldera, home to the Fire Nation palace in the center of it all.

“We’re about here, I think.” Sokka pointed to a blue spot on the map, just off the shore of the Earth Kingdom.

“By the colonies,” Y/N realized, gasping lightly. She hadn’t realized how close they were to her home.

“Yeah,” Sokka said nonchalantly, before seeing the look on Y/N’s face. “Are you okay?”

“I hadn’t realized we were this close. I used to live there.” Y/N pointed to another spot on the map, her finger nearly touching Sokka’s on the scroll. “Just a handful of miles north.”

Y/N stood, looking to the north. Land was just barely visible in the distance. Somewhere on that piece of land, a little way inland, was her parents’ home. She briefly wondered if they were still there.

“That’ll be our first stop after the invasion, then,” Sokka offered. “Well, maybe not the first stop. But it really would be a good waypoint on our way to… whatever’s next.”

“What is next, Sokka?” Y/N asked. She surprised herself with the question. She realized none of them knew what a life without the war was like. Even when Y/N was too young to be aware of it, it had affected her.

“I’m not sure,” Sokka admitted, looking at Y/N with kind eyes. “But’s it going to be awesome.”

“Do you know what ‘boiling rock,’ might mean?” Y/N looked back down at the map. It was silly, her dream wasn’t real. But weirder things could happen, she was sure.

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s a landmark of some kind. But it’s not on this map.” Sokka recognized Y/N’s expression fall. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Y/N assured him. “Just thought I’d heard of it somewhere.”

---

Y/N was not prepared for when the Avatar stepped out onto the deck that night. She had been the only one who hadn’t gone to visit him while he was out. She felt like it was wrong. She didn’t really know any of them well, least of all Aang. And Katara watched over him like a hawk. Y/N felt like she needed the privacy.

Y/N also did not take into account how Aang might react when she casually lit a torch for Hakoda with her firebending. She hadn’t thought of how backwards the Avatar’s world would seem when he first awoke. It was weird for all of them, but at least they were conscious for most of it.

Y/N sat with Sokka and Toph as Katara spoke with Aang and brought him back inside for another healing session.

When the Avatar resurfaced again, Sokka brought Y/N and Toph over to where Aang and Katara were sitting to explain the invasion plan.

“We’re working on a modified version,” Hakoda added.

“It’s Sokka’s plan,” Katara snapped before turning back to Aang. Y/N had sensed some tension between Katara and her father since arriving on the ship—she had seen the other girl storm off a few times. It appeared that she wasn’t wrong.

“Yes, Sokka’s plan,” Hakoda looked at his daughter out of the corner of his eye, a confused look on his face. “We can’t execute a massive invasion without the Earth Kingdom’s army, but the Fire Nation is still vulnerable.”

“So, we’re planning a smaller invasion,” Sokka explained. “Just a ragtag team of our friends and allies. We’ve already found Pipsqueak and the Duke.”

Pipsqueak and the Duke waved from where they were chowing down on noodles a little way across the ship.

“And our biggest advantage is we have a secret… you!”

“Me?” Aang blinked.

“Yep!” Sokka said proudly. “The whole world thinks you’re dead!”

Aang’s face paled. The Avatar stood quickly and ran to the side of the ship. Y/N wondered if he was about to be seasick over the side. She averted her eyes. Sokka stood to go and reassure Aang.

Y/N looked out over the ocean on the other side of the ship and noticed the shadow approaching. “Hey, there’s a ship!” Y/N called. Sokka and Aang turned around to look.

“I’ve got this.” Aang’s glider snapped open. “The Avatar is back.”

“Wait!” Katara rushed to Aang’s side. “Remember, they don’t know we’re not Fire Nation.”

“We’ve got it,” Hakoda said, putting a hand on Y/N’s shoulder.

“I hate not being able to do anything,” Aang muttered.

“Don’t worry, buddy,” Sokka reassured him. “We’ve got a firebender on our side.”

“What?!?” Aang looked around frantically. Y/N gave a shy wave. She’d have to explain that later.

Katara helped Aang and the others get below deck as the ship came into view. A man in a uniform matching Y/N and Hakoda’s called out to them. Y/N took the faceplate out of her pocket and slid it into place.

“Commander, why are you off course? All Western fleet ships are to be moving toward Ba Sing Se to support the occupation.”

“We’re from the Eastern Fleet, actually,” Hakoda corrected. “We’re delivering cargo.”

“Nice of Admiral Chan to let us know…” The Fire Nation commander replied. Y/N got a sinking feeling. They weren’t convinced.

“Are you questioning my authority?” Y/N called out, praying to the Spirits that she sounded confident and in-charge.

“Who exactly are you?” The commander questioned. Y/N thought of a lie—a Fire Nation name she had heard from home.

“Captain Yai,” Y/N replied as smoothly as she could manage. “And who are you?”

“Commander Muso,” the man replied. “I didn’t know Admiral Yai had a daughter.”

“I didn’t know our army promoted insolent men to command,” Y/N answered.

“I didn’t know our army promoted a girl to command,” Muso sneered. Y/N dared to light a fire in her palm and watched as Muso recoiled.

“I would hate to have to issue a challenge, Commander. Be on your way.”

“Yes, of course, ma’am.”

“Captain,” Y/N corrected.

“Yes, Captain,” Muso amended glumly, motioning to his men. Before long, the Fire Nation ship was pulling away. Y/N let out a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding.

“That was awesome, Y/N!” Toph cried as the others emerged from below deck.

“Thanks.” Y/N smiled.

“And that was a really lucky guess with Admiral Yai,” Sokka added.

“I know!” Y/N felt the excitement catch up to her. She had been pretty cool.

“Nice work, Captain,” Hakoda praised, giving Y/N a pat on the shoulder. Y/N smiled as the Fire Nation ship faded out of sight.

Fire Lily Masterlist

taglist: @kaylove12, @akariblue, @wolfiemichele, @aquatickanye, @sunflowerr-mami

[carewyncromwell]

The Cinderella AU is back, and...ahhhh, my babiiiiies. *dissolves into a pile of happy goo*

The Winter Festival presented in Royaume is most strongly related to the celebrations for Saint Nicholas in French provinces such as Lorraine, which are held on December 6th and include lots of music and a parade led by Saint Nicholas (or Pere Noel, as he’s also called), the French alternative to Father Christmas and Santa Claus. Florence’s holiday likewise resembles Italy’s Feast Day, which is hosted on December 8th. 

Back in the olden days, dancing wasn’t just done for fun -- it was considered a standard form of socializing. Prior to the 19th century, it was far more common for Europeans to dance in large groups that then switched partners frequently, as opposed to being locked onto a specific partner, and this applies to both formal gatherings and more informal ones. Strict pair dancing really came more in vogue in the early 1800′s with the German waltz, so during the Renaissance, one could expect to see a lot more swapping of partners at parties than one generally sees in the modern era. There were couple dances at that time, of course, such as the lavolta -- they just weren’t as popular as dances like the waltz became at formal gatherings later on. Country dancing, or dances performed at informal gatherings, was generally seen as more lighthearted and easy for people to join in without being expert at it, while court dances, which were generally saved for more formal events, were much more performative and choreographed.

Carewyn’s dress in this sketch was strongly based off of this absolutely gorgeous dress, which was inspired by real Renaissance artwork.

Previous part is here – whole tag is here -- Katriona “KC” Cassiopeia belongs to @kc-needs-coffee -- and I hope you enjoy! xoxo

x~x~x~x

With the arrival of winter, Carewyn found herself busier than ever. The King and Queen of Royaume had ordered that the palace be fully furnished with holiday cheer, so Carewyn and the rest of the staff soon had their hands full, putting gold-trimmed garlands around every banister and decking every hall with holly and ivy. Carewyn wondered how in the world the King and Queen could afford such finery when they still couldn’t seem to scrounge up enough funds to have the proper tools and supplies in stock for their staff, let alone to give them proper food rations -- but from what Bill and Charlie told her, this wasn’t too uncommon.

“It’s like this every year,” said Charlie, sounding very surly. “The royals and the court always pig out on the most sumptuous feasts, and then we have to pay for it after the fact. Just you wait until New Year’s -- the Queen always likes hosting a huge masked ball to ‘start the new year off right’ and the nobles end up leaving the worst messes behind...”

Bill sighed. “I don’t think it’s all selfishness on their part, really. I think it’s to try to lift the Prince’s spirits, more than anything. You know he isn’t allowed to leave the castle grounds...and I’m sure he no doubt hears all about the Winter Festival and all the other celebrations in town around this time of year, from the staff. The holiday season can’t be that much fun, when you’re forced to sit and watch from the sidelines...”

Andre did indeed seem to be in a forlorn mood. Whenever Carewyn caught sight of him walking through the palace gardens with her cousin Iris, he seemed to always be looking away, off into the distance, while Iris tried to engage him in conversation. Carewyn couldn’t help but feel sorry for him -- as much as his parents clearly were spending beyond their means, it seemed to be largely so that they could try to shield him from the War going on outside. It wasn’t a good decision, Carewyn thought, but a slightly understandable one...and more importantly, Andre himself had no hand in either the staff’s struggles or his own captivity.

One day Carewyn was polishing the floors in one of the guest suite, singing the song Orion had given her for the second time that day, when the partially ajar door was very quickly shoved open. Carewyn looked up just in time to see a ruffle of bed curtains, as if someone had leapt onto the guest bed and drawn the curtains so that they were hidden from view.

Carewyn opened her mouth, ready to ask who was there, only to be interrupted by a familiar voice echoing down the hallway outside.

“Your Highness?”

Iris?

Carewyn frowned deeply. She heard heels clapping down the hall, and sure enough, her brown-haired, slender cousin came into view through the open door.

Iris caught sight of Carewyn inside the guest suite, and her confused expression instantly turned ugly.

“Have you seen the Prince?” she demanded.

Carewyn raised her eyebrows innocently. “No.”

“Well, if you do, tell him that Lady Iris is looking for him,” said Iris waspishly. “And see that you don’t speak to him either.”

“I don’t quite know how I can tell his Highness that you’re looking for him, if I’m not allowed to speak to him,” said Carewyn rather coolly.

“You know full well what I mean,” Iris snarled under her breath.

Eying the almost completely polished floor, she rather pointedly strode right through the part Carewyn had just finished cleaning, dragging her heels to leave long, streaking footprints through it.

“Prince Henri might like using you as his little dress-up doll, but don’t think it means he actually likes you,” she whispered coldly. “Why would a prince ever be interested in a servant girl with no dowry or prospects?”

Carewyn’s eyes narrowed upon the streaks on the floor before flitting up onto Iris’s face with a very stony look. She was very tempted to remind Iris that she had no interest in kissing up to the richest man that would have her, and that a man and a woman didn’t have to be romantically interested in each other to engage in conversation...but, honestly, she didn’t see much point. She wouldn’t be able to soothe Iris’s jealousy no matter what she said, and Carewyn quite frankly liked the thought of Iris leaving far more than to try to make her feel better.

Satisfied that she’d gotten the last word, Iris picked up the skirts of her lavender brocade gown and strode quickly from the room and down the hall in search of Andre.

Carewyn remained on the floor for a moment, waiting for the sound of her cousin’s footsteps to fade away. Then she slowly rose to her feet, walked over to the door, and closed it, before she got back down on her hands and knees so she could start cleaning the part of the floor Iris had slid her feet through.

“Andre?” whispered Carewyn without looking up. “Is that you, hiding in there?”

There was a rustle. Then the bed curtains parted, to reveal Andre sitting on his knees on the bed.

“You knew it was me?” he murmured.

“I thought it might be,” said Carewyn, offering him a small gentle smile even though she didn’t fully look up from her work.

Andre looked almost guilty. “...Thank you for covering for me, Carewyn. I don’t mean to insult your cousin, I just...need some space.”

“It’s all right. It can be draining, not to have any time to yourself, even when you are around people you like. And really, I didn’t lie -- I hadn’t seen you, however much I thought I might know where you were,” she added with a wry smile.

Andre tried to smile, but it came out rather forced and faded very quickly. He glanced from Carewyn to the closed door and back.

“...Does she always talk to you like that? Iris?”

Carewyn paused in the work and looked up. Andre’s face was twisted in a very troubled frown.

The maidservant returned her focus to the floor so as not to look at him, scrubbing at a particularly dirty streak.

“Not always,” she said mildly.

Sometimes she says worse things.

Andre’s eyes narrowed slightly, becoming sadder still. “Carewyn...I had no idea. I mean, I understand your mother was estranged from your family and your father skipped town, but...Iris is your cousin. Even if she’s nobility and you’re not, the way you talked about your family, I thought...”

He trailed off. He felt incredibly foolish, for not having questioned whether Iris and Carewyn’s relationship was really that good. KC had even complained about her mother trying to matchmake her with Carewyn’s cousin, Arsen Dupont, hadn’t she? Did that mean that all of Carewyn’s family talked to her the way Iris did?

Carewyn, however, was very stoic in her response. “Please don’t judge Iris based on how she speaks to me, Andre.”

Grandfather would be furious if I were the reason Iris didn’t marry Andre. The only reason that Iris and Andre shouldn’t marry should be Iris herself, and her own stupidity.

“Good people don’t have to get along with everyone, not even their own family. The way Iris speaks to me is just as much my own doing as it is hers -- and truly, her words are just words. They don’t injure me. If you enjoy her company, then you mustn’t judge her too harshly for something like this.”

Judge her harshly for other reasons.

Andre didn’t look very comforted. He adjusted himself on the bed so that he was sitting on the edge with his feet on the floor.

“...To be honest...I don’t really enjoy it that much,” he muttered.

Carewyn looked up again.

“She’s amiable enough, I suppose,” said Andre uncomfortably, “but...well, I was curious to meet her because it sounded like she enjoyed fashion and might have some good ideas for me to try out. And she had a few -- I mean, I still don’t think ash gray suits you at all...but I ended up finding a rather nice shiny pewter fabric for your shoes, and -- well, you’ll see it when they’re done. I think you’ll like them. But even with that...it just feels like, a lot of the time, she’s only saying what she thinks I want to hear, rather than what she really thinks! Don’t get me wrong, I don’t dislike flattery -- but I already get that all the time at court. Especially around this time of year...”

He looked down at the floor, his shoulders dropping as he rested his arms in his lap.

“I have plenty of servants and subjects and...well, people who only want to be around me for my crown,” he said dejectedly. “I guess all I was really hoping for was...”

“A friend.”

Andre looked up at Carewyn in surprise. She’d put down her rag on the edge of her bucket, her eyes full to the brim with compassion.

Within seconds, the Prince’s face had burst into a delighted, relieved expression.

“Yes! Oh, I’m so glad you understand, Carewyn. Erika always says I shouldn’t complain so much...and I know she’s right -- I have a lot to be grateful for. It’s just...”

“You can have a lot to be grateful for and still be missing what you need,” said Carewyn very primly. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to do more or be more. It’s how you express that feeling that matters.”

Andre cocked his eyebrows curiously. “Express it?”

Unable to meet the Prince’s eye straight-on, Carewyn fixed her ponytail so that some of the hair coming out of it was restrained again.

“Well...to Lady Rath’s point, complaining about a problem, or wishing it would go away, never really solved anything. My mother used to say that ‘dreamers never make a dream come true’ -- if you want something to happen, then you need to act on it, not just sit around and wish that things might change.”

That’s why I can’t just sit back and wait for the War to end so Jacob can come home. If he’s out there on the battlefield, in pain and alone, I need to find out where and figure out some way to reach him.

Andre considered this for a long moment. At last his face split into a huge, blazing white smile.

“You’re right! You’re absolutely right, Carewyn...”

He leapt off the bed, bent down to get down on Carewyn’s level, and grabbed both of her shoulders.

“Will you go to the Winter Festival with me?”

Carewyn was taken aback. “What?”

“I’ve never been, not even once, even though I’ve always wanted to,” said Andre, his eyes bright with excitement. “Of course we’d probably have to be sneaky about it...but the courtiers will be plenty occupied all night here, with Mother’s ball. There are plenty of times I’ve been able to sneak out of the ballroom and no one’s ever found me, even when they were actively looking. I have the perfect purple brocade doublet I could wear...and I’m sure your new shoes will be stunning with the dark blue velvet gown I made for you...”

“Andre,” said Carewyn, a bit taken aback by his enthusiasm, “hold on. Brocade and velvet...those are hardly things to wear outside the palace, if you don’t want to be noticed.”

Andre blinked. “They’re not?”

“No,” Carewyn said very firmly, her eyes narrowing reproachfully as she slid out of his grip. “Only people of status and wealth wear those materials. People in town wear cottons, linens -- wool -- and they’re far simpler than even the uniform I’m wearing right now. You and I would stick out like sore thumbs, especially since all of the nobility will be at the Queen’s Ball. I doubt we’d last more than five minutes in town before we got caught.”

Andre deflated visibly.

“...I see,” he said, disappointed. “If only I’d thought of this sooner...I could probably have made us something else, if the Festival wasn’t the day after tomorrow...”

Carewyn bit the inside of her cheek. She didn’t love the thought of going against the King and Queen’s wishes, and of course spending time with Andre was uncomfortable considering she was supposed to stay out of Iris’s way, but...well, she agreed with Bill. It had to feel pretty rotten, to be stuck on the sidelines, watching everyone else have fun and longing to join in, during the holidays. Carewyn had never really gone to the Winter Festival as a kid since her mother didn’t like large crowds and she’d preferred spending quiet time at home with her and Jacob...but Andre clearly wanted to go to the Festival so badly...

“...I could...always go pick something up, in town,” Carewyn said slowly, her eyes lingering on Andre’s shoulder rather than his face. “I’m supposed to be meeting a friend at the castle gate around noon...I could always convince him to walk with me to look for some festival clothes for both of us. Then you could always tailor what I bring back, in case it doesn’t fit correctly...”

Andre looked like Carewyn had just presented him with a unicorn for a Christmas present.

“Oh, Carewyn...you’re absolutely brilliant, that’s what you are! Don’t worry, I’ll give you plenty of money -- buy whatever you think is best -- ”

And that was how Carewyn got roped into going to the Winter Festival. But really, she knew she couldn’t in good conscience let Andre sneak out on his own...and despite herself, her heart was much too gentle for her to even think of trying to tell him not to go, however much trouble she knew both of them would be in if they got caught.

All the more reason to make sure we don’t, she told herself.

When she met Orion at the gate that day, she told him she had some shopping to do before the Festival. Orion had quirked an eyebrow when she had him hold up several peasant-worthy outfits over himself so Carewyn could examine them, but Carewyn refused to tell him who she was shopping for, merely that he was around Orion’s height.

“Can I take this to mean you’ll be attending the Festival after all, my lady?” Orion asked, his eyes trailing over her face with some interest. “I believe you told Ginny Weasley that you’d be too busy.”

Carewyn avoided his eye as she took the outfit he was holding from him and placed both it and a forest green and white dress she’d found on the counter so she could pay.

“I am -- but I’ve opened some time in my schedule for it all the same, at least in the evening.”

Something flickered in the back of Orion’s eyes. Was it curiosity, or was it disappointment? “The gentleman you’re shopping for must be someone special, for you to reschedule your plans.”

Carewyn couldn’t fight back a proud huff. “He’s special only in the way that he needs help, and I’m the person who can give it.”

She took the clothes from the cashier and started heading out of the shop. Orion followed along behind, his black eyes running over her face even while she refused to look at him and narrowing ever-so-slightly.

“...I see.”

Andre was pleasantly surprised by what Carewyn had brought back for them. Although yes, they were made of far less expensive fabrics than he was used to and lacked decoration, he was very pleased with the colors. He’d mentioned having a purple doublet before, so he wasn’t surprised she picked that color of tunic for him, but he was very happy when she picked out some very handsome emerald green trousers trimmed with gold embroidery to go with them, as well as some tall black leather boots with gold buckles. Andre hadn’t really put purple and green together much before, but he really liked how the shades looked together. Carewyn’s dress, however, he did make one large alteration to besides just the fit -- adding a rather pretty trim to the front and back of bodice and the bottom of the skirt made of thick silvery linen ribbon. (He claimed that it was to help the dress better blend with her new pewter gray silk slippers, but Carewyn also just suspected he couldn’t help himself, seeing how plain the dress she’d gotten was.)

The night of the Festival, Andre went down to the Queen’s Winter Ball. After going through the motions for a half hour or so to throw off suspicion, Andre slipped away, and -- after quickly changing into his peasant clothes -- met Carewyn by the gate of the palace. When he got there, he found Bill, Charlie, and their little sister Ginny waiting just across the street, ever so “casually” looking away from the castle wall as Carewyn carefully opened the gate and she and Andre slipped out. Once the gate was closed, the three Weasleys swooped down on Carewyn and Andre, Charlie grabbing Andre’s arm and Ginny grabbing Carewyn’s, and the group flooded into town to meet up with the rest of the Weasley clan.

From the moment they arrived, Andre looked happier and more laid-back that Carewyn had ever seen him. Carewyn couldn’t help but feel like just walking around the Festival, surrounded by ordinary people who had no idea who he really was, made this the best day of the young Prince’s life...and she had to admit, as much as she could take or leave parties, his enthusiasm was infectious. When Ginny suggested they go dance, Andre was absolutely thrilled at the thought of learning how to do a country dance, and pressured Carewyn to show him how. Carewyn hardly thought herself the best choice for this, but found it difficult to say no, seeing how excited he was. Once Carewyn, Charlie, Andre, and Ginny jumped into the fray, though, she did find herself having fun. The steps were actually pretty easy to follow along to, especially compared to the sorts of court dances she’d always seen her older cousins practicing at the Cromwell estate, before any private balls they were invited to.

It didn’t take long, though, for someone to spot Andre. In the middle of one of their dances, a hand came from out of nowhere and snatched a hold of the back of the Prince’s purple tunic, pulling him back out of line.

“Hey!” yelped Andre. “What are you -- ?!”

He looked up, to see the rather tall and foreboding frame of his fencing instructor.

Andre gave a very weak smile. “Aha...hi, Erika.”

Erika’s expression was very stony. Carewyn, Charlie, and Ginny immediately hopped out of line and over to them. Standing right behind Erika and dressed in a sapphire blue cloak that obscured her elegantly trimmed linen dress was KC.

“Lady Rath!” said Charlie with his best attempt at a winning smile. “KC! What a nice...surprise! Heh...”

KC raised her eyebrows coolly. “Hello, Charlie...Carewyn.”

Bill had rushed over too, sensing trouble.

“It’s not their fault, KC,” said Andre quickly, “I can explain -- ”

“Oh, don’t worry,” said KC, her arms crossing as she looked at Andre. “We know full well it isn’t their fault.”

“I say it is,” said Erika rather bluntly, her eyes flashing dangerously at Carewyn and the Weasleys, “considering they encouraged it.”

“It isn’t their fault because they wouldn’t have felt able to say ‘no’ to the Crown Prince of Royaume, even if they’d wanted to,” KC pointed out logically.

Andre suddenly looked very guilty. He glanced from the Weasleys to Carewyn, almost silently asking if he’d pressured them into any of this. Charlie, in response, spoke rather forcefully.

“Well, frankly, we did want to! Andre deserves a fun holiday, for once. Reckon it’s a helluva lot better than that stuffy old ball going on up there.”

He jabbed a thumb behind him in the direction of the palace.

“The Prince’s safety is more important than a fun holiday,” Erika shot back coldly, “as are the King and Queen’s orders. You’d do well to remember that, Weasley.”

“Erika, please,” said Andre desperately. “No one from Florence would dare come this far west of the border...and even if they did, none of them would recognize me, dressed like this. And you said it yourself, KC, it’s likely they won’t attack our forces anyway until after the 8th -- that’s when their winter holiday is, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” granted KC with a frown. Her voice became much more thoughtful as she added, “Though if they wanted to be really clever, they’d strike on or the morning immediately after a holiday, when everyone’s got their guard down...”

Carewyn faced Erika with as much conviction as she could, even though she was completely eclipsed by the taller and stronger woman’s shadow.

“I realize the Prince’s safety is important,” she said in a very low voice, so as not to be overheard, “but if there truly was anyone who meant to target him, wouldn’t they be more likely to look for him at the Winter Ball, rather than here among the peasantry? And considering that the palace is only about five blocks away from here and he’s in the company in one of the castle’s most capable guards,” she nodded in Bill’s direction, “and both his combat instructor and our army’s chief military strategist...I’d say that he’s quite well protected.”

Erika gave Carewyn a beady look.

“People say you’re nothing like your family, Cromwell,” she said rudely, “but I think they’re full of it. You’re just as pretentious and fawning as the rest of them.”

She nonetheless released the back of Andre’s collar.

“I’ll stay for two hours only,” she muttered to him sourly. “When I go, you go.”

Andre beamed from ear to ear.

KC and Erika weren’t much for dancing, but they did loosen up in time, while sitting with the rest of the Weasleys and enjoying some of the fresh sugar-dusted crepes, mince pies, cocoa, and coffee. Before long as well, Andre had mastered the art of the country dance. Ginny was thrilled to have someone else who was just as excited to dance as she was, and -- bless her heart -- the twelve-year-old treated Andre with the same amount of cheer and respect as she probably would’ve anyone else, just like her brothers did. She even ended up giving Andre pointers about how to do the dances better. Carewyn soon found herself getting pretty tired, but Ginny, Charlie, and Andre all kept pulling her back into line with them, and she bit back her exhaustion if only to see them smiling a little longer. It had been a really long time since she’d been able to make anyone smile like that, while doing so little -- it made herself feel that little bit better about herself, and made her stand just that little bit taller.

While dancing to a particular song, the woman playing the fiddle sped up very abruptly, changing tempo. Soon everyone was rotating in chaotic, joyful circles, switching partners constantly. As to be expected in country dancing, a few people made mistakes that they had to correct, but nobody really cared. One mistake, though, was Carewyn losing her footing and tripping over her skirt. The new gray silk shoes Andre had made for her, as lovely and comfortable as they were, were more like slippers than any proper outdoor footwear and didn’t have great traction, so she would’ve fallen right off her feet if someone hadn’t suddenly appeared behind her and caught her with an arm gently looped around her back.

It was Orion. He was dressed in clothes that were nicer than usual, but still modest, including some brown suede boots and a handsome forest green doublet that ended up being the same shade as Carewyn’s dress, though he still lacked the high-collared undershirt one would usually see from a nobleman.

“Forgive me for catching you twice, my lady,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.

Carewyn couldn’t help but smile. “At least you weren’t hurt after throwing yourself under me this time -- ”

They couldn’t continue the conversation, though, without getting locked up in the midst of the group dance. Carewyn was forced to twirl in sequence, just to avoid another pair moving on through.

“Shall we?” she asked.

Orion suddenly looked oddly wary, like a foal learning how to walk.

“I’m afraid I’ve never done this before,” he murmured, just barely dodging another pair of dancers.

Following the sequence, Carewyn rested an arm lightly around Orion’s waist, steering him in a circle.

“Don’t worry,” she said, as she offered him an encouraging smile. “It’s only a pattern...no one will complain if you make a mistake. Follow me.”

His face betraying some hesitance, Orion nonetheless found himself letting go, mirroring Carewyn in stylized turns and spirals through the dancing crowd.

Orion had come to the Festival because he’d guessed that the mysterious “guest” Carewyn was shopping for was -- in fact -- the Prince of Royaume, and thus this would be the perfect opportunity for Orion to meet him and get a better fix on his character. But even with this goal in his mind, he’d found his inner balance oddly disturbed, when he caught sight of Carewyn. She’d always been a rather pretty woman, but in the company of her friends -- smiling with such pure, undiluted happiness, at the sight of how happy they were -- her blue eyes sparkling with such soft emotion, every time they laughed -- her ginger hair flying free as a flag behind her as she twirled around them...it distracted him. It was an unwelcome distraction, one he was quick to scold himself for, before trying to relocate his center and return to the task at hand. And yet, when Carewyn lost her footing, he found himself once again throwing away his own internal balance and laser-pointed focus in favor of turbulent, emotional chaos...and soon they were dancing, and Orion found himself surfing in that chaos -- relishing that wild, but liberating warmth he felt coming off of her. Was it some magical aura she had, that made him feel like he was dancing with a blazing, soothing fire even as the snow began to fall overhead?

Carewyn Cromwell truly was a remarkable woman, to divert the Prince of Florence’s focus away from his one and only goal...and yet, as Orion danced with her, he couldn’t help but think...oh, if their world could be but a world where they could dance like this anywhere...even in Florence, where everyone knew his face...

When the dance came to an end, everyone clapped, and Carewyn and Orion moved off to the side together to sit with Bill, Ron, KC, and Erika. Erika was very suspicious of Orion from the off-set, finding him way too “pleasant” for her tastes, but Orion wasn’t the least bit offended. If anything, he said with a wry smile, her aggressive aura in some ways reminded him of a good friend of his. After several more rounds, Andre, Charlie, and Ginny finally came to sit down with the others for a quick break.

“Whew! I’m parched,” said Andre. He brought a hand up to wipe the sweat from his brow.

“Here,” said Bill.

He offered the Prince a stein of apple cider. Andre gulped down about half of it before lowering the stein, his mouth stretched into a broad smile.

“Oh, Carewyn, thank you for this,” he said, reaching out a hand to squeeze hers. “If I’d had any concept just how much fun this was, I would’ve come years ago.”

Carewyn smiled, looking genuinely touched. “I’m glad you’re having fun, Andre.”

Orion glanced from Carewyn to Andre and back. His face was very unreadable, but his black eyes had widened noticeably.

This must be him, he realized. Prince Henri.

The thought was a club to the back of the head, knocking some sense back into him after having gotten so thoroughly distracted. Orion’s thoughts moved very quickly as he watched the two interact.

“I am,” Andre said fervently, his eyes squinting slightly as he beamed. “And I hope you know how grateful I am...”

Something grimmer flickered over his face.

“...I hope you know...Iris was wrong, about how I see you.”

Carewyn was startled. “Andre...”

“I don’t just see you like a little dress-up doll,” said Andre very seriously, as he squeezed her hand. “You’re my friend, and a good one, at that. And for what it’s worth...” he smiled broadly, “...I’d say any royal should be proud, to have you on their arm.”

Carewyn was clearly a bit overwhelmed by the Prince’s complimentary words. Her gaze had drifted down to the table.

“...Thank you, Andre,” she said very softly.

Although her face was demure, her sparkling eyes and voice betrayed some deep, genuine emotion -- and despite himself, Orion felt some warm pride welling up in his chest, at the sound of it. Catching himself, Orion forced himself to return to the task at hand and lightly cleared his throat.

“Forgive me,” he said politely, “but I don’t think we’ve met.”

Carewyn looked from Andre to Orion quickly.

“Oh -- yes,” she said, “Andre...this is Orion. Orion, Andre.”

Andre’s eyes lit up at the name.

“So this is the infamous Orion you’ve been telling me about, KC!” he said, shooting a bright grin over at his cousin.

Orion raised his eyebrows curiously. “‘Infamous?’ I must wonder what she’s told you, for me to have earned that title.”

KC grinned. “Just that you saved Carewyn from a bucking horse, pulled her out of a ravine, and climbed over the castle wall twice just to visit her.”

Ginny’s freckled face lit up. “Orion, you did all that? That’s so romantic!”

Both Orion and Carewyn immediately tried to correct the record, but no one seemed to care much. Andre was laughing most of the time.

“Are you well-traveled, Orion?” asked Andre. “Judging by the way your doublet is distressed, I’d guess you’ve been to the Islands in the Southern Sea -- I’ve only seen such fabrics as imports.”

“I’m...afraid I haven’t, actually,” confessed Orion. “Though I have been to the Southern Sea.”

Florence’s castle was actually positioned on the shore, right by the sea. It was one of the few things Orion could say in its favor, even though there were times it made him long to cast off and never return.

Everyone seemed interested in this.

“You have?” said Charlie eagerly. “What’s it like?”

“Did you sail on a ship?” asked Ginny.

“Were you ever attacked by pirates?” added Ron.

“Nothing that exciting, I’m afraid,” Orion chuckled. “I’ve only seen it, not sailed it...at least, not yet.”

Carewyn’s red lips turned up into a full, pretty smile. “It must be beautiful, though.”

Orion turned to her, his own mouth spread in a grin. “It’s breathtaking. A seemingly endless void of blue that nonetheless sparkles as green as jade and as white as pearl. It’s as translucent as crystal, and yet so deep and mysterious that ships have been swallowed whole by it, and no man could ever discover all of its secrets. Its waves whisper to you as it ghosts the shoreline, and yet it can also roar and ravage like a beast, without warning or mercy. It can hypnotize you, draw you in...make you long to drown yourself in it, while simultaneously wanting it to spirit you away, over the horizon...”

Like your eyes.

Orion caught himself staring in them. Closing his eyes and bowing his head, he forced a soft laugh.

“Forgive me -- I’ve gotten carried away...”

“Not at all,” said Carewyn gently. She rested a hand lightly on top of his forearm. “It sounds wonderful.”

Orion found himself unsure of how to respond to her touch. He’d never really been around a lot of physical affection before, so he was at a bit of a loss of what to do in such a situation. Fortunately Carewyn withdrew not long after, and Orion tried to find his center of balance again by turning his focus back to Andre.

“...I must say, though...your attention to detail is impressive, Andre. I can see why you and Carewyn get along -- she also has an eye for hair and clothing pieces.”

“Of course she does,” said Charlie, sparing a playful smile in Carewyn’s direction. “Carey is our little lady, after all.”

Carewyn shot Charlie an attempt at a sardonic look, but it was foiled by the broad smile that had conquered her face.

“That she is!” Andre laughed.

“A lady with considerable grit, however,” said Bill, his mouth turned up in a wry smile not unlike Charlie’s. “I’ve never seen anyone else climb up onto a mantle, just to reach a chandelier.”

KC looked at Carewyn incredulously. “What? Why didn’t you get a ladder?”

“It wasn’t necessary,” said Carewyn primly, crossing her arms. “I had it under control.”

Orion’s black eyes sparkled affectionately. “I’d say even an experienced soldier in the field would hesitate before climbing over a steep cliff and into a briar patch at the bottom of a ravine...wouldn’t you agree, Andre?”

Andre nodded. “I daresay so! Though I’ve never been to the battlefield myself, or met any soldiers...I would dearly like to, though.”

Orion frowned. “Like to?”

“Well, yes,” said Andre, his tone becoming more serious. “We could use all the help we can get out there...I’d love to feel like I could really help the war effort on the ground, rather than staying at home. Especially when my comfort is built on the backs of those who are hurting.”

Orion’s gaze fell down onto his hands as they clasped together on the table.

“...Your conviction is inspiring,” he said softly. “But believe me...a battlefield is not a place anyone should like to visit.”

Not long after, Erika rather abruptly rose to her feet and told Andre it was time to leave. The group all left the festival together, though Carewyn lingered behind with Orion, so as to try to give Andre cover for getting back inside the palace without anyone noticing.

Once they were alone, Orion once again found himself off-balance. He’d acknowledged before that Carewyn indeed was a person to be admired, as well as a person who could be admired by anyone...even him. He did admire her. He enjoyed her company -- he found her witty and engaging -- he identified with her independence, resilience, and determination -- he was struck by her compassion and utter selflessness. She was like him in so many ways, and yet she was methodical and insightful, as well as braver than a bear, despite her size. Her voice was so soothing, and yet it rippled with a kind of deep passion and emotion that it truly rivaled the deep, dark sea. And tonight especially...tonight, he kept catching himself staring...but none of that mattered. None of it should matter, in the face of achieving peace for Florence.

“She’s not on your side,” McNully’s words returned to him. “She’s on Royaume’s. Just...mind that you use your head as well as your heart, all right?”

Orion couldn’t help but feel as though using his head would be easier if he could more easily tell which way was up.

“I’m glad you came, Orion,” said Carewyn. “I’m sorry I wasn’t a better dance instructor -- dancing isn’t really my area of expertise.”

Orion’s black eyes sparkled mischievously. “Perhaps we shall simply have to dance again in the future, so that we might practice.”

Carewyn giggled. “Somehow I doubt either of us will be attending any grand balls in the future.”

Orion’s amused gaze softened as it trailed over her cold-kissed pink cheeks and along the snowflakes clinging to the ginger waves cascading down her back.

Carewyn tilted her head, her lips twisted up in a wryly questioning smile. “...What?”

Orion looked away quickly.

“Forgive me -- I merely...don’t recall ever having seen you wear your hair down before. It’s...different.”

Carewyn brought a hand through her hair absently. “Mm...yeah, I guess it would be. I don’t wear my hair down much, but...well, I figured for a casual event like this, it wouldn’t be a problem...”

“It’s no problem at all,” said Orion. He kept his tone as level as possible, even though he felt a flush creeping up his neck. “I was just thinking it was appropriate...to see you letting loose with your friends, the same day you chose to wear your hair free...”

He came to a stop, and Carewyn stopped too, turning around to face him properly. Orion reached out his hand and -- very tentatively -- took hers, holding it between their chests like a gentleman.

“...You should be allowed to feel like that more often,” Orion murmured. “Free.”

Carewyn scanned Orion’s face, her eyes lingering on his before dipping into the corners of lips. Orion felt his heartbeat pounding in his ears. He wanted to kiss her hand, but...did he dare?

“She’s not on your team.”

“You reckon little Miss Knight-in-Shining-Armor would take kindly to that, when she finds out?

“Mind that you use your head as well as your heart, all right?”

It was just too much. Orion couldn’t think, whenever his thoughts got too loud. Closing his eyes, he took several deep, measured breaths. Only once he’d brought his heart rate down did he open his eyes again.

“I should go,” he said at last, his voice coming out much more calmly than he felt.

His eyes flickered down to his hand holding hers again, but he’d already lost his nerve. He released her hand, even though his hand felt like it had chilled as soon as the contact was broken.

“...Good night, Carewyn.”

He turned to go.

“Orion.”

Carewyn’s hand enclosed over his. Orion stiffened, his heart pounding full-force once more, and he turned back around to face her, just as she raised his hand up to her own lips and placed a gentle kiss to the back of it.

Orion stared. She raised her head with a smile, releasing Orion’s hand with a kind of muted confidence even despite the pinkness of her cheeks.

“Until we meet again, Mr. Freeman.”

With this, she picked up her skirts and darted away up the street, in the direction of the palace.

Orion stared after her. He stared long after she was out of sight, his galaxy-like black eyes staring at the swirling snow without even seeing it. He tentatively took his own hand, trailing his thumb over the place her lips had grazed...and despite all judgment, despite all rational thought, he found his lips turning up in a smile of their own accord. He’d never felt so light and so off-balance in all his life -- was this what it felt like, to glide on a bird’s wings? And yet he knew, despite the weightlessness he felt, it was instead indicative that he’d fallen.

In the midst of using her to get intelligence about her kingdom...in the midst of him following the strategy he’d laid out to get the end of the War he wanted, by learning their weak points and using them to soften others to him...Prince Cosimo Orion Amari, heir to the throne of Florence, had fallen head over heels in love.

[watarigarasu]

October 23rd – Monster

13 Days of Spooky Writing Event

Pairing: Thranduil x Reader

Word count: 1,896

Warnings: Big sad, much emotion.

Author’s note: I really love Thranduil, okay?

During many years of your lone journey through the Middle Earth, you have heard many words describing the King of Mirkwood. Some of them revealed the hidden fear of the Elvenking, some included fascination and some said that he did not even exist in the first place, that he was a made up story for children, just like his whole kingdom. However, there was one term you could not so quickly forget, the one engraved in your memory for some peculiar reason—the one you repeated to yourself while crossing the borders of Mirkwood, wary of what you might encounter.

The rumour that the Elvenking was a heartless monster.

You were familiar with the infamous stories on how he paid no mind to those in need, how little did their lives mean to him, how his egoistic nature caused him to fight for what he believed was right only, how selfish was his attitude and how he considered his kin as above everyone else. Perhaps you would eventually believe in them all if you did not know better than to listen every rumour you hear along the way. Words spread faster than a diseases, every next one changed a little by the mouth they were spoken from and so, you wondered how much of a truth they actually contained.

Contrary to what you imagined to see, the Elvenking did not resemble any kind of monster in the slightest. His grace and pride was undeniable, his beauty outstanding and his voice deeply serene. The weight of his gaze upon you seemed to be enough to crash you to the ground but instead of that, you were invited to the feast as a guest. A storyteller, the one who could share the most recent news about the world outside of the kingdom.

He did not act like a monster when he shared his people’s food and wine with you, neither did he act like one when he was listening to you talking, lazy sight carefully picking out every single detail of your appearance. Firen was the only way he addressed you endlessly, no matter how many opportunities you took to remind him your real name.

You have lost the track of time soon after arriving to Mirkwood, all days melting together like one, the kingdom surrounding you so magical that you forgot about all the evil creeping outside. There was no flesh eating creatures under the magnificent roof with countless waterfalls flowing down the halls. There was no fear between the ancient pages of the books you were eventually allowed to look at. There was no tears during the evening feasts in the forests. There was no pain in dancing all night long in the pale starlight.

There was only calmness filling your soul, the steady rhythm of your beating heart and the utter peace of your soul where apparently nothing bad could reach you. Walking in a dream, you found yourself falling in love with the world you did not belong to and to your surprising notice, you could experience all of it simply because the Elvenking—Thranduil, as you learned—allowed you to.

Simply because his heart was not as cold as the rumours claimed it to be.

“Tell me about your ancestors, firen,” he ordered on one particularly warm day, when the first, vivid green leaves were poking their tips out from the thin branches. It was an early morning, the fog still not fading in the sunlight and it was an accident that you stumbled upon each other—the Elvenking attending his usual morning stroll and you, still not going to sleep after a truly interesting lecture you managed to find in the library, written in a language you understood.

“About my family?” you wondered. “With all due respect, I’m not sure if I can interest you with this kind of story, My Lord. They are no royalty.”

“If I wanted to listen about royalty, I would simply take a look upon the letters my father left me.” His voice was haughty yet soft, like a fresh rime. “I was wondering what kind of people could beget a woman willing to travel alone through the foreign lands.”

“Are you thinking about lunatics or heroes?”

He did not smile at your little joke, but something in his expression changed. Perhaps your words did amuse him, which might be the reason why he apparently enjoyed your company, or maybe it was just the small bullfinch sitting on a nearby branch which caught his attention.

“I suppose we are to find out about that,” he barely whispered, not taking his gaze off the bird.

And so, you started talking, carefully choosing what to say next so you would not bore him with this not so exciting story. Living for as long as all Elves did, you would be surprised if he thought of any part of your speech as even remotely interesting. He has seen it all and much more, already, he has witnessed war, loss and love, he had an adult son and once a wife also. Your history, no matter how much could it mean to you, would soon be nothing but a blink of an eye for him, just as fleeting the seasons were.

You were a whisper on the wind, made to be heard by his ear and eventually fade out.

“Give me your hand.” The command caused you to stop talking in a middle of the sentence and look at the Elvenking confused. A quick motion of his arm caused an expensive robes to move gracefully before he showed what he expected from you. “Like that.”

You did as you were told, slowly outstretching your arm and only then noticing how the bullfinch tilted its head to the right and jumped few times on the branch before opening wings and swiftly landing at Thranduil’s open palm. It was a breath-taking view to observe, the trust of the small creature completely unexpected. You stood in the same position, listening as the Elvenking started talking, while gently stroking the bird’s head with his index finger.

“There is beauty in simplicity, something a race of Men often tends to forget about. Ironically, since they are the ones who should cherish it the most, the gentle passing of time. I find your admiration to save as many moments as possible as equally pointless and fascinating. To know that one day your whole existence will turn into ashes brings out the most primal instincts—but only the wise can focus on the beauty of a fleeting moment. A single memory.”

Slowly, he reached to you and you held your breath when the bird cautiously jumped from his hand onto yours, it’s tiny feet gently tickling your skin and the smile appearing on your lips.

“Not many of the race of Men can find a beauty in evanescence.” Thranduil continued, watching you staring at the bullfinch as if it was the first time in your whole life that you experienced such a moment. “It is a rare ability among those who do not feel the impact of time and even rarer in those who are the most prone to it.”

The bird on your hand with its adorably red belly was fascinating enough that you did not notice the way the Elvenking looked at you, aware that he was going to savour this single image in his memory for many, many thousands of years in the future.

Thranduil was not a monster, although he understood why many were ready to address him as such. He was aware of his doings, of his regrets and faults but he also knew how much does it take to carry the weight of the necessity. Men were foolish, easily led by their own emotions which changed as quickly as the wind, and it was their doom they always brought upon themselves. Perspective makes history look different, the deeds appearing in a light nobody would expect them to centuries ago and it was the ability their kind lacked.

How could they possibly understand what was wise and what not, if they never truly lived to face the consequences of their own actions? If they had no idea what would their descendants have to endure?

The human he decided to invite to his kingdom was no less blind than the rest of her kind, nevertheless he found her presence and stories amusing. It was different; her point of view, the news she brought from the lands far on the east, and he found himself roaming through the halls of his kingdom with head full of the images of her face and the sound of her voice. She talked about the beauty of the lake she stayed by one night in a way which made him feel like a fool. As if it was him, who was blind for this whole time and could not see the world in the same way she did.

Ironically, it was his eyes which were used to seeing more, looking through darkness and illusions.

There was a reflection of the setting sun in her eyes when she spoke about it, a picture so clear that he could almost touch it, as if he was witnessing it for the first time in his whole life. There was a melody in her tone when she was repeating the legends she heard along the way and for some reason he grew fond of it, the excitement being something he has forgotten long ago. There were not many things which could still surprise him, after all, there was nothing to look for, nothing to long for.

Except, perhaps, for the gentle softness of her lips when he imagined how would they feel against his. Would it be different and refreshing, just like her stories were? Would he still be able to enjoy it? Would the kiss bring out new palette of unnecessary emotions from her fragile heart?

He was never a monster, he told himself. The real monsters were out there, in the world, ready to slay the weaker, the ones of her kind. He would be selfish if he did not offer his help to those in need, if he did not provide the food supplies and wine for people from the Laketown who needed it the most after the terrifying dragon attack. The great serpent was the worst monster walking upon this lands and suddenly Thranduil felt grudge for everyone who dared to compare him to the vicious beast.

The Elvenking was never heartless, not in the moment when he was trying to protect his people from the mindless slaughter the Dwarves suffered in Erebor dozens of years ago, nor when he was ready to fight until his last breath to reclaim the gems of his wife—the last physical memory of her that he could still own. But especially not when he was kneeling on the cold, hard ground on the battlefield, holding the body of the human storyteller to his chest and listening to the silence where once her heartbeat was, the echo of a sword slicing the air where he was supposed to stand still loud in his mind, just like her desperate scream and a pitiful attempt to shield him.

Thranduil was never a monster but he knew better than anyone that he was, instead, a fool.

[smol-and-grumpy]

Cross My Heart - CH.06

Pairing: Bodyguard!Dean x Reader; Chuck Shurley x Reader

Summary: After opening up a letter, the life as she knows it, changes forever. Her husband hires Dean Winchester to protect her but is Dean really who he said he was? And is her husband really worried about her safety?

Warnings: Angst, fluff a little, still a lot of tension

WC: 2446

SERIES MASTERLIST

They tried to reach Chuck again later in the day but Chuck still wouldn’t pick up so they tried to go about the rest of their day like they usually would. 

Dean left two more voicemails before they ate dinner and Y/N can see that he’s agitated when the clock strikes 8pm without so much of a return text or call from Chuck.

She’s worried too, doesn’t really understand why Chuck would tell the tabloids that she’s been kidnapped when it’s clearly not the case. Of course she can’t be sure if Dean’s telling her the truth either, but Dean’s been more sincere in the three days that she’s gotten to know him than Chuck ever was. 

Maybe, though, it can also be that she suffers from Stockholm syndrome. Who knows. She’s confused, that’s all she really knows.

Dean’s typing away on his laptop while she offers to clean the dishes and when she finishes, she walks out to him telling her that he has to go into town for a short while.

“Can I come?” She asks but he frowns at that. “You promised that you weren’t going to leave me here on my own anymore.” She then adds, just to remind him.

Dean sighs, rubs his hand over his face, strokes at his scruff, “I did, didn’t I?”

She braces her hands on her waist, and stares him down. 

Dean scoffs while he pushes his chair back with a screech, “Fine,”

He walks into the bedroom and gets something out of the closet, walks out with a baseball cap in his hand and comes to stand before her, “Wear this when we get there.” He places the cap on her head, brushes her hair back from her face, “No one will really recognize you like that.”

 *

 Dean parks his bike outside of a bar. The sign reads Harvelle’s Roadhouse and it glows in the dark in blinding neon letters.

They take off their helmets and she puts the cap Dean handed her before on her head. It’s too big but it's probably just better like that. It makes her look more invisible.

“You probably don’t even have to wear it here. The people don’t really care who you are but I’d rather be safe than sorry.” He says while he waits for her to walk around the bike. He takes her hand in his, pushes his way through the door, and pulls her along with him.

He shoulders his way past the people and they all part for him. It is really impressive. 

They reach the far side of the bar and the bartender greets Dean with a big smile. “Hey Dean,”

“Cas, this is Y/N.”

“Nice meeting you,” The bartender says and nods, his smile’s still big. 

“Right,” Dean clears his throat, “I need to see Ash,” And then Dean turns to her, “You wait here, I’ll be quick.”

“But—”

Dean places a hand on the back of her neck, his thumb brushes against her cheek, “Please, trust me.” 

She pouts, “Okay.”

Dean nods, and then he lets go of her. Turning to Cas, he says, “Can you watch? I’ll just be a couple of minutes.”

“Sure thing,” Cas answers and starts to tap a beer.

Dean nods at Cas and then at her before he disappears through a back door.

Ash? Who is Ash? She’s not sure if she really wants to know.

“Want anything to drink?” Cas asks her while he serves the beer to the person who’s standing next to her. That guy eyes her up but then he doesn’t pay her any attention, walks back to his peers at the pool table.

She turns her gaze back to Cas, “Uh, I don’t have any money.”

Her cheeks are on fire. She hasn’t even thought about bringing anything with her. Since she doesn’t have a phone anymore, carrying other things around seems pointless to her.

“It’s on the house, don’t worry about that. Gotta take care of Dean’s girl, don’t I?” Cas wriggles with his brows.

“We’re just friends. And I’d like a gin, please.”

Cas laughs, the sound of it bright and she can clearly hear it above the music, “Of course, you are. One gin coming up.”

A bar stool empties next to her so she takes a seat, and soon after, Cas places a glass of gin in front of her. 

“You sure I don’t need to pay?” She asks again just to be extra sure.

Cas braces his hands on the counter and leans down a little, “Can you keep a secret?”

“Sure,”

“I don’t really work here. Just helping out.” Cas winks before he goes about taking another order from someone across the bar.

She didn’t even finish her gin before Dean came back. He eyes her when he sees her drinking but there’s amusement in his eyes. 

“You ready to go?” Dean asks and downs the rest of her gin. 

“Well, I am now.” She pouts but Dean chuckles, and takes her hand, pulling her out of the bar. He didn’t even say goodbye to Cas.

 *

 They arrive at the cabin and the first thing they see is a limousine. Dean pulls his gun out of his pants, draws it and makes her hide behind him while they walk closer. There are two figures waiting on the steps to the cabin.

Chuck.

And there’s also an angry looking guy who she knows as Chuck's own bodyguard who Chuck always uses when he goes out of town.

“Where were you?” Chuck asks. He sounds angry.

Dean lowers his gun, tucks it back and proceeds to fish out the cabin key and unlocks the door for all of them to step in.

Chuck's bodyguard closes the door while they all stand awkwardly in the tiny space.

“Sir, we had to get food,” Dean lies, doesn’t look at her once.

“You didn’t bring anything back.” Chuck states.

“We decided to eat out.”

“Isn’t that risky?” Chuck paces around the cabin and cringes his nose.

“You putting out that she’s been kidnapped is risky, sir.” Dean stares Chuck down.

Her husband laughs, “Is that why you were bothering me with your calls?”

Dean and her don't say anything.

Chuck trails his hand through his hair, “We try to confuse the real kidnapper, we think if they know that someone else got to her, that they’ll give up.”

“You should have informed us.” Dean’s hand balls into fists on his side.

“You’re right,” Chuck says, “But also I don’t pay you to know things, Mr. Winchester, I pay you to keep her safe.”

It’s the first time Chuck even looks at her since he’s here. Her expression towards him is cold. She really doesn’t care anymore.

“Yes, sir.” Dean grits his teeth. He’s mad, she can tell by the tense of his shoulders.

“Anyway, I need to fly to Vegas. My private plane’s already waiting. Keep me updated, alright?”

Chuck’s out the door before either one of them even had the chance to say something.

After Chuck has left, Dean looks at her, the tense in his posture is gone, “You okay?”

She chuckles drily, “Yeah,”

“Fuck,” Dean breathes out, “‘M sorry. You definitely deserve someone who treats you better.”

Someone like you? She wants to ask but doesn’t.

Dean’s frown makes way for a small smile after they heard the car driving away. “How about we go back, have a drink, huh? I know I could use one.”

“Please,” She groans out and Dean chuckles, takes her hand, pulls her out and leads her onto his motorcycle.

 *

 There are even more people at the Roadhouse this time around, she can already tell by the cars and motorcycle. She put on Dean’s cap again and he grins when he sees that she’s thorough. 

He holds out his hand, waits for her to place hers into his and together, they make a beeline to the bar. There are two people behind the bar now. A young blonde woman and Cas. 

Cas looks at her with amusement in his eyes when she arrives. Wordlessly, he places a tumbler with whiskey in front and asks her if she’s going to stay with gin. 

“Actually, I think I’m having a whiskey, too.” She smiles, bright and wide.

“Woah, you be careful, alright? You need to be able to sit on the motorcycle on the way back.” Dean teases her but she just shoots him a glare which shuts him up. 

“Dean,” It’s a woman’s voice.

“Uh-oh,” Cas chuckles but she doesn’t know what he’s trying to say.

Dean turns around to face a pretty girl and she smiles at him, flashes him her white teeth. 

“Liz,” Dean greets the woman. She doesn’t know if she’s just making it up but he seems to be acting kind of cold to her.

“It’s just so nice to see you again, and listen—”

“—Not here Liz,” Dean cuts her off.

Dean turns his gaze to Y/N, and leans forward, his face inches from hers, “I’ll be right back, you stay, okay?” He whispers into her ear and then he nods at Cas before he walks a couple of yards away from her with ‘Liz’.

She watches them talk and she can see from here that Dean’s face stays cold. The frown is still there, still prominent. He steals glances at her while the woman talks to him and Y/N quickly looks away, doesn’t want to seem like she’s intruding. 

Cas is back in front of her, leans down and braces his elbow on the bar top, “Liz, is his ex.” Cas says, she didn’t even ask.

“Oh,” 

“They were together for a couple of years. I think for the whole duration when he was stationed in Afghanistan.”

Right. She forgot that Dean’s an ex-marine. She never asked what he did before he became a bodyguard.

“You wanna know a secret?”

She grins at Cas, “Just how many secrets are you going to reveal to me tonight?”

He chuckles at that and Dean looks over, sees them laughing and Dean frowns some more. 

“The night’s still young. I don’t really count,” Cas shrugs, “Anyway, turns out Liz cheated on him the whole time. Got pregnant and he thought that he was the father until he realizes that it didn’t add up with him being deployed.”

“Oh, that’s sad.”

“Yeah, but I think he made peace with it. At least they are on talking terms again.” Cas and her look over to Dean at the same time to which Dean’s eyebrow climbs up his forehead.

“Ah, so, what are you to him?” Cas turns his attention back to her.

“We’re friends,” She lies about the bodyguard part, and doesn't know how much she can reveal. The friend thing is the truth, she really does think that they’re kind of friends.

“Yeah, right,” Cas scoffs.

“It’s the truth,” She laughs now. 

“Y/N, I see the way he looks at you. That’s as far away from friends as it could get.”

She drinks her whiskey, squints at the burn, “So, you’re telling me that we’re enemies?”

Cas just smiles, and raises one eyebrow, “Sweetheart, he cares about you.”

She almost chokes on her drink, “He really doesn’t.”

“Watch this,” Cas grins and winks at her, before he looks over to Dean. She tilts her head too, sees that he’s in a deep conversation with Liz. 

Cas then leans forward, his nose brushes her cheek, “If he wouldn’t care, then I can do this,” Cas kisses her on her cheek, lets his lips linger there. 

“Cas,” Dean’s voice is deep and it’s now behind her, it rolls over the bass of the music, “Another whiskey, please.”

How did he get here so fast? Cas didn’t even pull away from her face yet. 

“Your glass is still half full.” Cas chuckles.

“I want another one.” Dean shrugs and sits on the empty bar stool next to her. 

She can see out of the corner of her eyes that Liz is still standing there, frozen in place, which probably suggests that Dean left to come back here before they finished their conversation.

Dean turns to her and there’s that intense gaze again. 

Cas is pouring Dean another whiskey, and he couldn’t help but wriggle his eyebrows at her behind Dean’s back. She has to compose herself so as not to laugh out loud.

“You like it here?” He asks her as Cas places another tumbler next to Dean’s still half full one. Dean ignores Cas, which prompts Cas to roll his eyes.

“Yeah. I do. But do you think it’s safe?”

“I know it is.” Dean says, and adds, “I know all of the people here. They’re all alright. Except of Cas.”

She snorts out a laugh and Dean grins.

“Can I ask you something?” Out of the corner of her eyes, she still sees Liz watching them. Dean can’t see it because he has his back to her.

“Shoot,” 

“Who’s the woman?”

Dean turns his head to see who she’s talking about and then he turns back to her, “Liz.”

“Yeah, I got that.”

Dean sighs, “It’s been a while since I saw her last. Don’t worry about her.”

“I mean, I do. Like, I don’t want to put you in an awkward situation. If you want to... you know, rekindle something, you can just drop me off and go meet her after?”

“Y/N,” Her name rolls off his lips, it sounds strict, and she thinks he’s a little mad at her?

“Just saying,” She shrugs.

“Jesus Christ,” Dean rubs over his scruff, tilts his head to look away briefly but then his eyes settle on her again. 

There’s a distance between them but their knees touch. 

“You’re my priority,” He says, his voice deep and it sounds kind of final, “I’m not going to leave you alone to go do something stupid that I’ll regret.” He then scoffs, it sounds more mockery, “Besides, I don’t want her.” 

Her gaze travels back to where Liz is standing. She’s talking to some other dude but every now and then, she would still look at Dean, “Well, she clearly wants you.” Y/N says, she’s really just stating the obvious.

Dean doesn’t look back, doesn’t avert his eyes from Y/N. “She had her chance and she blew it.”

“I’m sorry to hear.”

“It’s in the past,” He sighs, “Also, I still think that sometimes, things happen for a reason.”

She doesn’t say anything to it because she doesn’t know what she could say. He’s still looking at her, it seems that his eyes are a shade darker.

CH.07

[salt-warrior]

WHEN EARTH TURNS TO ASHES

Masterlist

Chapter Twelve: Mask of Darkness

Two pairs of brilliant eyes locked on Kai: one brown and one gold. He felt almost nervous to have such intense stares on his body, something he was not used to, and shrunk back a little bit. He was acclimated to hundreds of people gazing at him as he made speeches, but the stares of these two girls seemed to set his insides on fire. Or maybe it was just one of the girls...

"Oh." Iko's face fell for a moment, before her lips twitched up into an impish grin. "I was just leaving. I do have other patients, you know." Iko pointed an accusing finger at Cinder, quieting her protests before they could escape her lips. "I'll be back after I finish my rounds."

Kai nodded to Iko as she winked rather unsubtly and walked out the door. Cinder stared determinedly down at her clenched fist, her scars turning white and painful looking.

"Don't do that," Kai raced forward, placing his hand over Cinder's to prevent her from hurting herself. She flinched away, her expression shocked and angry, but all the same unclenched her fists. It pained Kai to know that she did this because of him.

Cinder didn't say anything, but simply remained staring a point that Kai would't see. Her jaw was set in a firm line, and her eyes were ice cold in deep contrast to the brilliant carelessness they had held before Kai had entered the room. His heart twinged.

"I came to talk to you," Kai said, not unkindly. "I have some things I need to tell you. You might not care to hear them, but you deserve to know." Cinder continued to avoid eye contact.

"I, um, know a lot about you, so I figured you have the right to know a little bit about me." Kai tried to keep his voice even, though anticipation of what he was about to open up to sent stinging cracks into his confidence. He had decided to go with Thorne's approach on things, to be gentle and open, instead of revealing how much he had dug up about her past. Honesty was not always the best policy.

Kai rubbed his sweating palms against his jeans, looking right into Cinder's face, but she did not look at him. "For starters, my name is Kaito Crown, Kai to you. You already know that, but whenever I practiced this in my head I always start like that." Kai blushed. "Forget about that last part."

Cinder's expression remained tense, but her face began tilting in his direction. "I'm twenty-one years old, I grew up in So-Cal in the San Diego area. My father is Rikan Crown, one of the most successful businessmen in the northern continent. My mo–" Kai coughed, trying to mask the pain. "My, um, my best friend is Carswell Thorne, who you've already had the pleasantries of meeting. We've been best friends since the first grade.

"I go to college at the local business school because my father wants me to take over his business someday. I should be graduating sometime in the spring. I love to sing, though I'm terrible at it. My favorite food is cereal, which my father detests and Thorne doesn't understand, but I love it. I enjoy writing and sometimes reading classics. I like knowing people and learning their passions. I'm kinda nosy, which I am trying to work on." Kai smiled to himself, knowing that he was doing a terrible job at working on his problem.

"I've never really felt like I have a purpose in life, though. When I was little, I wanted to be a journalist, but... things changed." Kai glanced down to his hands; they were bone dry. He drew his fingers inward, brutally crushing them into his palm. He hated talking about his mother. He hated thinking about her and her sudden departure. He hated, hated, hated–

Cinder was staring at Kai, all masks of anger relieved from her face to unveil a beautiful sheen of kindness. She had become gentler as Kai had spoken, and she reached out to lay a scarred hand across Kai's clenched fists.

She didn't speak, but her meaning was clear: Don't do that.

Kai relaxed his hands and the rest of his body followed suit. He let out a sigh, and smiled tight-lipped at Cinder. He couldn't seem to understand her sudden kindness.

"You don't have to tell me everything. You don't owe me anything." Cinder encircled her fingers around Kai's wrist absentmindedly, sending tingles down his arm. He couldn't understand why her touch could affect him so, but it did; and he didn't want her to stop.

"I'm not telling you these things to make myself even." Kai tried in vain to take his mind off Cinder's light touch. "I tell you these things because I want you to know me. I want you to trust me. I would like to know you." I don't want you to ever stop touching me, is what Kai didn't say.

Telepathy must have been a side effect of brain trauma, seeing how Cinder seemed to suddenly realize her grip on Kai and released him. His nerves burned with longing, and his cheeks heated in coordination with hers.

"I thought that I knew life pretty well until about ten years ago. My life was perfect; I had loving parents, a great best friend, something that I loved to do. That all changed when my mom got sick." Kai's words came out hoarsely, and Cinder's eyes widened with them.

"One week she was fine, and then she started vomiting and not being able to even get out of bed. By the time we found out, it was too late. There isn't much you can do with colon cancer, anyway," Kai said. His hands were trembling.

"She died a couple weeks later, two days after I turned twelve." Kai looked around the room, no longer able to stand Cinder's pitying look. This girl had suffered more than Kai could imagine, and yet she showed him compassion. An abrupt laugh burbled from within Kai's chest. "Stars, I hate this place so much."

Cinder flinched, but Kai didn't even notice. "I remember the white walls, and how they tried to mask the stench of death and cleaning product with flowers. I hate flowers too."

"In fact," Kai's voice entered into hysterics. "I hate her. I hate how she left me. I hate how everything beautiful and terrible reminds me of her. I hate it all."

A sob broke from within Kai, and his body shook with cries of despair as he covered his face in his hands. Cinder sat there, staring at a broken boy who claimed hate from a soul full of nothing but love. There was no hate inside him, only the agony that came with loving a person so deeply.

"You don't mean that," Cinder whispered. Kai jumped up to stare at her.

"Yes, I do mean it."

"No, you don't," Cinder said. "You speak with pain and passion, and the greatest cause of both is love. Nothing hurts more than to have someone who means the world to you leave it. Just... trust me on this one."

Kai stared at his angel in wonder. Her words were full of empathy, knowledge, and too much sadness for a girl so young. She was such a startling creature, full of light but surrounded by darkness; her cloak of shadows masking the luminous kindness within her heart.

"I..." Cinder cleared her throat. "My mother left me when I was six. She was taken to prison for drugs, and I haven't heard a word from her since. I thought that I hated her too, but I don't. I can't."

Kai listened to her words intently, eating them like a starved man. He digested what she said, internally noting that while she was being open, she was also lying; that is, if what Cress said was true.

"After that, I lived in Foster Homes until I was seventeen. None of them wanted me. None of them loved me. In over ten years of too many families, there were only ever two people that I loved and returned the burden." Cinder's eyes hollowed with darkness.

"The first was a boy, and his name was Ran. Ran Kesley. I was thirteen, and he was fourteen. He was my first real friend. He cared for me in a way that no one had ever before. His parents and older brother were kind to me as well, but Ran was the only one who loved me.

"The second was a girl, my sister, Peony Linh. She was kind and pure. That nurse, Iko, she reminds me of Peony a bit. I was sixteen and she was fourteen when we met. Both of them left me, and it hurts more than anything else in the world." Cinder's voice was full of gravel, but no tears shed forth from her eyes. She was empty.

Kai wondered what Cinder meant by her words. He wanted to know what Cinder meant when she said she loved Ran Kesley, though he would never admit to the bubble that was growing in his chest at his thoughts. Even more, he needed to know what had happened to both Ran and Peony. But for now, Kai wouldn't ask questions.

Kai stood from his seat, and moved to sit on the edge of the bed. He faced Cinder, their bodies terribly close, and took both of her hands in his own. She stared at him with startled doe-eyes, her lips slightly parted.

A strange impulse took over Kai, and he longed for nothing more that to close the distance between them and place his lips gently against hers. He didn't.

"You're a good person, Cinder. You don't deserve anything that has happened to you." Kai said, tracing his thumb along the back of her hands. She tensed, and Kai feared that she would pull away, but she seemed just as starved for his touch as he was.

"You can't know that." Cinder whispered darkly, lowering her lashes.

"But I do. I can feel it. Just because bad things happen to you doesn't make you bad." Kai released one of Cinder's hands and placed the tips of his fingers beneath her chin.

Cinder's face tilted towards his. She tried to smile, but her eyes held nothing but grief. "But what if you're the one who caused the bad things?"

Kai paused, his thoughts skimming through what she could mean. He didn't like the idea of wanting to kiss a serial killer, so he tried to think positive.

"Your past is gone, Cinder. You can leave it behind and start fresh, no matter what you've done," Kai said.

Cinder leaned away from Kai, breaking off all points of physical contact. She seemed to be swallowed back up by her cloak of shadows. She was done being vulnerable. She had brought her walls back up, and her mask of darkness was firmly set back into her features. Her words were cold when she spoke a few moments later.

"If only your words were true."

[sabraeal]

The Sword Between

A brand new Hakizana AU written for @krispy-kream! This starts a little in media res; Izana is posing as a common mercenary under House Arleon, assigned to watch over the Earl’s daughter...who is also his betrothed.

There’s a flash against the snow, quick as a hare through a drift. Haki shifts on her cushion, peering through the lattice of her windowpane. The women’s wing might be as far from any area of import as her father can manage, but it does afford her a clear view of the entrance. A useless feature normally; visitors of any interest are few and far between this far north, but now, now--

There’s plenty of reason to be looking outside.

Cold seeps through the glass, blunted only by the shawl drawn about her shoulders, and Haki wraps her hands tightly around her tea. There’s a sleigh, dashing through the courtyard, spraying snow as it rounds before the doors. 

“Ah,” she hums, taking a sip from her mug. “It seems Lady Satomi has arrived.”

The Maid of Varghala descends from her conveyance with the same sultry elegance than won her mother an earl. Or at least, so it is said; she’d only met the woman once, back when she was just a babe, and her memory of her was little more than dark skin wrapped in blue silk and the awe of a child when they are brought face to face with such beauty.

“Strange.” She leans close, trying to catch a glimpse of dark hair beneath the blinding white fun. “I’d always thought she’d be the kind to make a grand entrance. You know, an hour late clad only in gold leaf.”

Haki settles back against a pillow, pulling the shawl tighter over her shoulders. If the night was cold, then the silence that envelops her room is colder.

“I wonder what plans she has, coming this early,” she remarks, thrilled when her voice bends into a diffident drawl. “Maybe she has designs on Makiri.”

A snort lets her know just what her audience thinks of that particular guess. She scowls at the window, picking out his gold head in the reflection. Lowen excels at being a certain kind of frustrating, and tonight is no exception.

“Well then.” She turns to him, expression composed entirely of a patience and mildness she does not feel. “You do have an opinion after all.”

Lowen is half-shadowed so close to her hearth, but even still, she sees how his mouth curves ever so slightly at a corner. High amusement, from a man such as him. “I always have an opinion, my lady.”

She bites her lip to keep it from jutting into a pout. “Of course. You just do not always deign to share it.”

He huffs out a laugh, his head shaking. “I do not always dare to share it, my lady.”

The deep indigo of his eyes is piercing even in the dim, pinning her in her place like one of the butterflies at the university. Her fingers twist in the wool of her shawl. How easily he can do that, reminding her of the gulf between them. “You know I do not mind if you speak freely.”

She would prefer it, longs for it, but-- that is not something to be said. Not now. Not when she can already see the tension coiled in his legs, the anxious energy that has dogged him all night. Lowen might put himself between her and a hundred blades to keep her safe, but tonight--

Tonight, a simple dance has made him poised to flee.

“How would you know?” The arch of his brows and the curve of his mouth may read simple curiosity, but Haki knows him too well to miss the mocking tilt of his chin, the cold reason in his eyes. “You have never heard it.”

“Fine.” She folds her arms beneath her breast, hoping she looks insolent and seductive, but the way his lips twitch tells her she’s missed the mark and hit sullen and petulant instead. “Then what is your theory about Lady Satomi’s motives? If it is not my brother drawing her so early, who could it be?” She lifts a dubious eyebrow. “You?”

His lips bow as if he has a secret and she is a fool not to know it. “I can firmly say that neither I nor your brother would suit the lady’s tastes.”

Haki frowns. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing, my lady.” His gaze drops, following the smooth motion of the cloth over his blade. “However, from what I have observed of Varghala’s Maid, she is less likely to be drawn to a place by a who rather than a what.”

Her father has taught her better than to show her surprise, but it still takes her a moment to manage, “And what do you think that is?”

“Why, my lady,” he drawls, his smile glinting coldly in the light, “I could not even venture a guess. Perhaps she only wished to be ahead of the storm.”

Haki peers out the window, watching as the flakes swirl furiously outside the pane. If that was her goal, Lady Satomi chose a poor night for travel. “Do you think it will storm the night of the party?”

“If it does, it won’t matter,” he says easily. “All your guests will have arrived in plenty of time to attend. Unless you think Lady Satomi is the only one who would take advantage of your father’s generosity?”

Generosity. She huffs out a laugh. He knows as well as she that no lord hosted a ball for only a single night. Maybe in the south, where everyone had their sprawling manors in the capitol, and it was only a matter of minutes between a guest’s door and their destination. But in the north--

Well, even here in Wilant, there were few neighbors within a stone’s throw that could boast a title. And her father would have nothing if not the choicest of lords for his daughter’s birthday fete.

It was no feat to ponder why. “I wonder if my fiancé will deign to attend.”

Lowen stiffens, hand still on his blade. Haki smothers a smile as she continues blithely, “It’s only a year until we’ll be married, after all. If he chooses to attend the wedding.”

With a stuttering pace, his hands once again start their slow grind of stone against steel. Haki waits.

“Perhaps,” he grits out, every syllable begrudging.

She takes a long sip from her mug, enjoying how bloodless her guard has become. “Surely he must be curious about his bride.”

“Or he might be practical.” Lowen lifts his brows if not his gaze, the hint of a smile hovering at the shadows of his mouth. “If he has no choice in marrying you, there is no point in traveling all the way north to mark your measure.”

Haki draws herself up, affronted. “By all accounts, Izana Wisteria is a profligate dandy who only cares for excess. A man like that would surely come, if only to know whether I meet his standards for a lover.”

“Oh, my lady.” His gaze meets hers, dark in the flame, and oh, Lowen’s grin is as wickedly sharp as his blade. “Every woman looks the same in the dark.”

Haki hardly knows she’s gaping until her jaw aches, mouth gone dry in the silence. She shuts it, delicately, teeth making a soft click as they meet.

He lets out a bark of a laugh, eyes shifting back to his lap. “You are not a lover, my lady, but a wife. All he would need to do is hold his nose and do enough of the deed to get an heir on you.”

It is the heat of the fire that makes her flush, not-- not anything else. Silly Ami always made it far too hot in the evenings.

She stands, and with the practiced elegance of a woman meant to be queen, scampers to the hearth. It’s nothing to push the log back, to push some of the ashes on top of it, but--

“Is something the matter, my lady?” her guard asks her, far too innocent. “Too hot for you, perhaps?”

--Lowen notices. He always does; there is nothing about her that ever escapes his notice. She pokes at the fire, if only to have some sort of occupation, anything to keep from having to meet his too-inquisitive gaze.

“To think,” she mumbles, hunching her shoulders, “you said you do not speak your mind.”

“And to think,” he says, pointedly loud, “you said you would enjoy it.”

She favors him with a glare, mouth pulled thin. Wanting him would be so much easier if he did not make her regret it so often. “The point is moot,” she snips, dropping the poker back in the stand. “He won’t be here. Last I hear he was still on his grand tour.”

Lowen’s jaw tightens. “Is that what you’ve heard?”

“Everyone knows,” she tells him airily, taking the seat across from him. It’s easier to talk to him this way, when he’s not so reminded of the gulf between her place and his. “He’s only been on it, what is it, two years now?”

His mouth twitches. “Something like. But surely a lady of your standing would not judge a man for his wanderlust?”

“Of course not.” She lets her mouth tilt into a knowing smile. “But I will judge him for the women and drink.”

That draws him up sharp, for a moment. “My lady,” he begins, almost haltingly. “Just because a man travels abroad does not mean he is spending it carousing in taverns.”

“Oh, no, definitely not,” she agrees, so easily his gazes turns wary. “A man of the prince’s stature gets soused at manor houses and has the courtesans brought to him.”

Lowen’s mouth thins. “Makiri tells you too much.”

“I rather think he tells me just enough.” She cocks her head, confident. “A girl can never be too careful, nowadays.”

He hums, attention wandering back to that accursed blade of his, just where she doesn’t want it.

“So.” She leans, trying to mirror his casual affectations, as if she has no care in the world for the conversation that unfolds, as if she is not directing it as subtly as man might a river. “You are of the opinion I should marry him?”

The stone stutters over his blade, just a moment, before the stead drone of the grind begins again. “Pardon?”

“The prodigal prince of Clarines,” she clarifies, though she knows by the steady blankness of his face that it is unnecessary. “I should marry him, you think.”

His lips curl at a corner. “I was not aware that my opinion held weight, my lady.”

“It does.”

Her hands furrow in her nightgown, the tight weave of flannel scratching her palms. Silly, stupid girl. That might as well have been a confession itself.

His hands still in their task, his slender fingers delicate and pale in the firelight. He’s never touched her with them, not more than a gentle guide on her back or a press at her elbow, though she’s thought about it. Thought about it more than is seemly for a girl in her position, especially when they are left to their own devices like this each night. Her father would never allow a lord so close to her age to sit with her like this, but Lowen--

Lowen is too far beneath her to consider. Father may find his advise in the war room indispensable, but he is no peer, no knight, just a man that takes money for his services. It is unthinkable for him to cross that divide.

Save that she does. That she wants him to. That even now she wonders what it might be like for him to stand and close this space between them, to kneel at her feet and hold her hands in his, and--

“I think--” his fingers pluck the oiled rag from beside him.-- “you have little choice in the matter, my lady.”

Haki’s mouth bows with displeasure, fingers clenching into fists. He might rise to the bait, just once. He plays at apathy, but she has watched him too closely to miss how he stiffens at the very barest of the prince.

“You’re right,” she decides loftily. “If there is no recourse, I might as well be pragmatic about my betrothed. Resign myself to my fate, so to speak.”

Lowen does not raise his gaze, but his every move becomes wary, hesitant, as if he is searching for a trap. “I suppose.”

Her mouth thins. Not exactly the reaction she had been hoping for, but-- an Arleon is nothing if not resourceful.

“He is rumored to be quite pretty,” she muses, setting her chin on her hand. “I could like that about him.”

“I believe most say he is handsome,” Lowen corrects tightly. “Not pretty.”

Ah, now there is something she could work with. “It is said he has no beard, like a child.”

“They are not so fashionable in the south as they are here,” he explains. “Hardly any man wears one. Not even the council.”

“Not even the council?” Haki gapes. "But they’re my father’s age! Older, even!”

He shrugs, never once looking up from his occupation, but his mouth curls at the corner.

“Ah, but you were a mercenary in the capital, weren’t you, Lowen?” she inquires, all innocence.

He hesitates. It is only for a moment, a blink of an eye, but Haki feels it, as heavy as the silence between them. “For a time.”

“Did you ever see the first prince?” She can play this game, the noble lady in love with the idea of her betrothed, especially if it makes Lowen wince as he does now.

“I was not stationed inside Wistal Castle.” His tone reminds her more of a clerk quibbling over precedents of law than a soldier relaying the particulars of a post. “Mercenaries are not employed by the crown.”

“But they are employed by the lords.” He scowls down at his blade, and ah, she has got him now. “And personal guards are allowed within the palace. So--” she leans on her hands, batting her eyelashes-- “is he handsome? Is he pretty?”

“I couldn’t say,” he deadpans, eyes still fixed to his blade. “I saw only glimpses, and he seemed fine enough to me.”

“Boo!” she jeers, smile parting her lips. “Surely you can say more than that. Unless, of course, he is quite deformed, and you mean only to save my--”

“He would give you no cause for complaint,” Lowen hastens to say. “And even if he was not, it would be the least important thing about him.”

“Spoken like a man,” she laughs. “If I am to have no choice in the matter, I might as well like the look of him, if nothing else.”

“Or you might like his character,” he says sourly. “Or perhaps the way he treats you.”

“I suppose that I could be told of his kindness, or that you were personally impressed by his generosity to his people. But no one may tell at a glance how a man is behind closed doors.” If his words are sour, hers are bitter, seasoned well by her years at her father’s side. “But to tell me he is handsome, that-- that at least can be trusted, even if the rest of him is rotten to the core.”

Lowen does not dare lift his gaze, but he slants her a glance from the corner of his eyes, one that speak volumes, but only in a language she has never read and--

And this mood is far too serious for what she wishes to accomplish. At least for tonight.

“Though if His Highness does appear for a dance on my birthday, that will go a long way in vouchsafing his character, would it not?” She offers him a sly smile. “And failing that, Master Lowen, I will take a dance from you.”

Lowen recoils with a hiss. “Ah, stupid.”

Haki nearly takes offense-- it was a bold proposition, certainly, and one unbecoming from a woman of her station with her sort of complex marital arrangement-- but still, stupid is a harsh assessment--

Until he shifts, blood glittering black in the firelight, and she realizes: he has cut himself.

“Oh!” Her hands flutter uselessly in front of her, papers lost to the wind. She has never been one to balk at the sight of a little blood-- silly to, when so much pours from her each moon-- but for it to be his flusters her.

Like any woman of breeding, Haki can produce a handkerchief from thin air, and so she does.

“Here,” she murmurs soothingly, taking his wrist in her hand. “Let me.”

He stares down at her fingers, wide-eyed. “My lady, I couldn’t possibly--”

“Shush.” A fine lady she may be, but she is a younger sister too, a veteran of mending her brother’s scrapes. “Give it to me.”

He hesitates, but only for a moment. She fixes him with her most sternest glare, the one that gets even Makiri into line, and his arm eases, hand falling open over hers.

“Ah, there. You should be more careful,” she scolds, pressing the cloth firmly against his palm. “You could hurt yourself.”

He lets out a dry laugh. “So I am learning.”

“But about the dance.” His hand is held firm between her own, warm beneath her fingers, and if anything, Haki is her father’s daughter, born to press when she has the advantage, to give no quarter. “You will agree to it?”

“I...” His gaze tangles with hers, the sea tangling with the ice before it skitters away. “I do not think your fiancé would approve of another man dancing with his wife.”

Haki lets out a bleating laugh. “If he deigns to show himself, then he may see to it that his are the only hands that touch me that night. But if he does not--” her mouth cants into a secretive smile-- “then I shall be dancing with a dozen men to please my father instead. Why should one of them not be you?”

“My lady,” he breathes, every word steeped in frustration. “I doubt that this will please him.”

“And how is that?” She laughs, pulling back the cloth to see the wound well with crimson. Ah, it needed another moment. Fortuitous, as she does as well. “My father loves you. My brother would be you, if he could. What could bring either of them greater joy?”

“He will not rejoice in my lack of a title,” Lowen insists with his stubbornly pragmatic tone, fist clenching beneath her touch. “Not when you could spend that set with a man that already possesses one.”

She pulls the cloth tight against his skin, biting back a smile when he grunts. “If it bothers him so much, then he can just give you one.”

Lowen stiffens, jaw slack. “I’m...I’m sure he could,” he admits, begrudging, “but I think that would be...counter to the purpose of the dances, to give you to a man he already owns.”

Haki balks-- she is not a woman to be given anywhere, not without her say-so, but as he turns his head in the firelight she catches pink sprayed across those high cheeks. There is no point in arguing when he is so close to routed.

“Come now,” she soothes, smoothing the handkerchief along his palm, before tying it across the long bones of his hand. “Surely you would not deny a young lady her one birthday wish?”

He snorts. “I would.”

“Mm.” She edges closer, her skirt brushing his boots. “But would you deny me?”

He looks at her then, eyes hooded with contemplation. “It’s a waste of a wish. Maybe I cannot dance.”

She grins at that, finger delicately tracing her handiwork. “I will not believe it. I know you can.”

“Do you now?” He raises a skeptical brow. “And just where does this unfounded confidence come from?”

“I’ve seen your swordplay.” It’s a bold claim, but one that is rewarded by his wide-eyed stare. “A man with such fine footwork would never be out of place in a ballroom.”

His expression eases. “And this would be your professional opinion?”

“It is,” she hums, tilting her chin smugly. “Come now, you have been caught out.”

“Ah, yes, you have caught me.” He cocks his head in a way she might dare to call playful. “I am a passable dancer.”

“Then you must agree to favor me with your passable dancing.” Her mouth twitches with mischief as she leans in, so close she can see the delicate sweep of each of his eyelashes. “Unless there is some other reason you are afraid to be near me?”

His breath puffs hotly against her lips, and she cannot help but fidget, cannot help but lick them to mute the sensation but--

But his gaze drops to watch, eyes tracing her path with pupils blown wide.

“A single set.” Her touch travels to his wrist, rubbing over the delicate nub at its waist. “That is all I am asking.

“Your father.” The words are little more than a breath. His body stills beneath her, save for the frantic pulse beneath her fingertips. “He will not approve of it.”

A weak parry. It would take a sterner father than her own to deny a single dance. “Then let us dance out of sight. We will not be missed.”

“My lady--”

What he means to say is lost; her fingers smooth along the vein, and what words he has elide into something softer than a moan.

“Lowen.” She teases the edge of his cuff, a nail slipping just beneath. “Do you not trust yourself alone with a lady?”

“A lady? Yes.” His breath rattles out of his chest. “With you...?”

His fingers spasm beneath her wrist, just the barest touch before they pull away.

“The atmosphere is different a ball,” he says, stilted, as if he had meant to say something else.

A laugh slips from her chest, tinkling breathlessly in the air between them. “It’s louder for one.”

“Hah.” It leaves him in a burst, harsh. “Not quite what I meant, my lady.”

“Cloying, for another,” she continues, trembling with her success. If only she could keep him this close, if only she could make him laugh like that again. “And hot--”

“What I mean,” he drawls, casting her a playful glare, “is more in--” his breath catches-- “timate.”

Just the word is enough to make her shiver. “I see,” she manages, knees brushing against his own. “I have never...” Her gaze rises to meet his, but never gets beyond the perfect bow of his lips. “I have never found so.”

“Ah.” He’s so close the heat of his sigh sears. “Neither have I.”

“Then it’s--” his fingers brush the flannel of her nightgown, and ah, it is so hard to think when his breath caresses her lips as tenderly as he might himself, if only she could dare these last inches-- “it’s settled then. A ball is no more dangerous a place than this b--” her voice fails her, dropping to a whisper-- “bedroom.”

“Perhaps,” he hums, a sounds she can hear through her bones. “But I have heard with the right partner, any dance may seem--” his touch drags down her arm absently, brushing tantalizingly over her own palm-- “much more.”

“But could that not be said for anything?” she teases, tilting her head just so. “Even a--” her breath catches, and oh, the words leave her mouth before she can gather them back-- “a conversation?”

His hand spasms around her, and again his eyes are on her lips. “Could it?”

Haki hesitates. A flirtation is a fine thing for a lady, a healthy thing some might argue, but-- there are things not to be said, lines not be crossed--

But oh, how can she care for such things when he is so close, when he might want her just as she wants him. “Yes.”

She leans in, eyelids dropped to half-mast, lips parting as his breath fans hotly over them, and--

And she is left cold.

“I should leave you,” he says, words too loud for this room, this hour, this conversation. It is good he has put as much space as he can between them.

That is, without dropping her hand. “Should you?”

“Yes.” It’s a decisive tone he uses, even if the way he looks at her describes all the ways he would like to say. “You should be in...”

Bed, he means to say. A dangerous word to have between them now.

“Perhaps.” Her thumb rubs along the long bones of his hand, and oh, she has never seen a man so poised to flee with eyes that burn to stay. “Are you to watch over me?”

“I...do not think it prudent, my lady.” His lips curl wryly as he stares at their joined hands. “Not at this hour.”

“You have stayed before,” she protests. “I will set the chair for you, and--”

His hand comes to her shoulder as she attempts to rise, guiding her back into her seat. “No. It would not be wise to--” he shakes his head, and with clear eyes, meets her gaze, “the hour is not too late, my lady, but too dangerous.”

Her fingers squeeze his gently. “I’m never in danger from you, sir.”

“Ah, maybe so. But I am in danger from you.” He lifts her hand, as he has so many times before, though never here, not in her private rooms, and the kiss he lays upon it--

She struggles for breath. It has never quite felt like that before either. “Sir--”

“Goodnight, my lady.” His mouth rucks ruefully as he backs away. “Let us converse in the morning. At a safer hour.”

[baretklap]

Tales of Mind Control #4: A Debt Unpaid

♫It was years ago, and it was beautiful. Now I have come to think about it. 'You're mine' you said, and I said it back. In that hotel of many colourful dreams.♫

The music playing from the radio was more than enough to fill Eva with the dreadfully addicting sense of nostalgia and melancholy as she took another sip from her favourite wine glass, savouring the taste of the red liquid she had come to form a love-hate relationship with. A sigh escaped her lips, everything seemed so complicated, especially now. The wind hitting her balcony was pleasant enough, just like the wine she was consuming. Pleasantness. It was something Eva desperately needed as every gulp reminded her of a life that seemed so far away now, the life she had to give up years ago. It totally didn’t help her stress levels that the girl she raised and treated like her own daughter was turning twenty years old. She told Eva that she was going to be celebrating it with her friends from her college, so the older woman did not expect the younger to come home early. She definitely grew up so fast, even faster than Eva anticipated she would.

Even after all those years, the woman who is in her forties now remembered that day like it was just yesterday. The phone call, the horrible news, her cries, her agony. Her best friend had died that accursed day and left her 5 year old daughter behind. Eva, who had been in her twenties back then agreed to take the little Elizabeth in and raise her herself without hesitation since she had pretty much nowhere else to go. Her best friend had no living relatives and the girl’s father had left her life even before she was born. Eva agreed to take her in and thus, she had to pay a price. Giving up her passion, her art career so she could continue the family business in order to gain a stable income which would allow her to raise Liz without any financial problems.

The financial problems may had been taken care of, but it still stung deep that Eva wasn’t be able to become that artist she always aspired to be. It wasn't like she hadn't tried again, though. After she had secured an early retirement, she tried to get back to it but the same spark…just wasn’t there, prompting her to give up on that dream completely. Wasting time with ‘if only’s would be easy but it was even easier to just drink it all away. Another sip followed as the bitter wine raced down to her throat. But as much bitterness Eva had bottled up inside her over the years, she would not change her life for anything else in the world.

She would not change Liz for anything else in the world, for a better wording.

Her thoughts were finally interrupted by the sound of her doorbell. It was very confusing to Eva as she did not expect Liz to come home at all, let alone this early. Still, she got up from her seat, leaving the wine bottle and glass on the table as she left her balcony to greet Liz, or an unexpected guest Eva could not guess the identity of.

In the end, she opened her door to find a very gorgeous, black haired woman who seemed to have…heterochromia. But her eye colour(s) wasn’t the strangest thing about the whole ordeal. No, Eva did not know this woman at all. The questions continued to race in Eva’s brain even faster as the two just stared at each other. Eva with a look of blatant confusion and her visitor with a smile.

“It has been a very long time, Eva.”

The woman said as she took her first step into Eva’s house. Eva also took a step to stand in front of her, in order to intercept the mysterious woman.

“Uhm…have we met before? I don’t think I recognize you so I’m truly sorry if we’ve met before.”

The smirk in the woman’s face remained unchanged, as if she was expecting Eva to not recognize her at all.

“Oh, it’s totally alright. My name is Katie, but I think you’ll remember when I tell you…no…show you how we met.”

Show her? Well, this was definitely getting weirder and Eva definitely wasn’t pleased with her wine session being interrupted with weirdness like this. She didn’t even remember having anyone named Katie in her life too. As she was about to show the woman named Katie the door, her guest spoke once again, pointing to a nearby drawer cabinet.

“But I think you should check the first drawer, sweetheart.”

The way Katie sounded when saying ‘sweetheart’ was very different from how she sounded when uttering every other word since her unexpected arrival. It was…different…but strangely, Eva felt compelled to just go and check that drawer without telling the woman to go away from her house or anything like that. She turned back and took a few steps before bending over to reach the drawer. Eva grabbed the metallic handle and pulled it, revealing a framed picture of her…and Katie. She took the frame and close the drawer, showing it to Katie.

“Yes, that’s me.”

The guest said with a smug smile as Eva stared at the picture, inspecting it to remember the context of it. She definitely seemed young, back when she was in her twenties. But Katie, she did not seem to have aged at all. Her day was getting just weirder and weirder.

“What the hell is happening here? This picture looks like it had been taken at least 15 years ago. I look much younger here…but you look the same.”

Katie chuckled, very much enjoying having the upper hand in the situation as she seemed to bask in Eva’s confusion.

“Well, thank you, I have a very good skin-care routine.”

The smile quickly vanished though as Katie’s face took a much more serious impression instantly. Her hand swiftly moved to reach Eva’s face before one finger tapped her forehead. That was the last thing Eva saw before she felt herself being sucked by the void until she found herself in a much different place, and from what it looked like, a much different time too.

Out of all the paintings in the gallery, one particularly drew Eva’s attention more than anything else. At surface level, it was just a painting depicting the horrors that happened to women who just dared to be expressive in many European countries back in very old days. But looking at the painting more and more proved that it was more than a painting about witch trials, it was a very beautiful and powerful painting about the hardships those women faced. The colours were a mix of more colder ones like blue and purple with the hot colours of flames that turned those poor women into nothing but ash and dust.

“I’m delighted my piece is able to gather some attention, at least.”

Eva is startled by a feminine voice appearing just behind her, but she is polite enough to turn back and offer her both a smile and her hand. The woman who just implied that she is the artist behind the painting Eva very much liked took her hand and shook it gently, also offering Eva her own smile.

“I’m Eva. Love your painting.”

The artist’s smile turned into a polite chuckle.

“I offer you my gratitude Eva, you’re very kind. My name is Katie, it’s very pleasant to meet someone who’s a fan.”

The longer Eva got to look at Katie, the more she realized how otherworldly beautiful she was. And the moment she realized she had been thinking about her divine beauty more than she should’ve been, a bright shade of red covers her cheeks, which Katie finds even more amusing, which makes Eva even more frustrated about the whole thing.

“So, would you care to tell me what caught your attention?”

Well, Eva could start with those eyes that two separate but beautiful colours or her gorgeous looking pale sk-

“About the painting, I mean.”

Katie clarified with a giggle and it does not Eva’s nervousness at all. Of course the artist sensed her thirst, was it possible for anyone to not thirst for someone like her? But in the end, Eva managed to put her mind together and started to give her honest answer to Katie’s question.

“It’s…very powerful and I think you captured the horror feel scarily well and realistic. Forgive the pun, but I find your painting very….bewitching.”

Katie already looked very happy to hear all those compliments, but especially after the very last word of Eva’s quick review, that happiness is joined with a substantial amount of amusement as well.

“Bewitching you say…quite probably the most accurate word to describe my art. After all, what kind of a witch I would be if I didn’t do bewitching work?”

Her tone is hard to read so Eva isn’t sure if she’s just joking or being serious, but regardless, she is pretty certain Katie just called herself a witch. At the best case scenario, the talented artist was joking and at the worst…well, the world of art always included very eccentric personalities, right? Eva gave her an awkward smile as Katie’s expression did not change a bit.

Still, the idea of a possible madness coming from Katie did not hold an important amount of thought inside Eva’s mind much longer as her focus was once again on how…perfect Katie was. As she breathed next to her, told her all about the inspirations she have to do such amazing art as that with her soft but powerful voice of hers that further spiralled Eva down into her own attraction for the woman who seemed to be in her thirties. Her thoughts were once again interrupted by Eva directly addressing her once again.

“Say, Eva, would you mind taking me to your house tonight?”

Eva seemed to be too far gone to realize something may be a little wrong with the procedure, and the answer coming from her was instant and full of desperation, which did not seem to surprise Katie at all, who only smiled even deeply like a cheshire cat at hearing the one word she was certain that would escape Eva’s lips.

“Sure!”

As the word Eva used to let Katie inside her house many years ago echoed in her head, she found herself slowly pulled back into the present, where she is much older again…and Katie still looked like she hasn’t aged a day at all. Plus, the thing she just had done to make her relive a past day…that could have none other explanation that her unwanted guest was right about her identity all along. It was really a mind-blowing thing to find out at all, let alone finding out this way, but Eva didn’t feel like freaking out, at all. She was sure she would do plenty of that once whatever Katie had come to do had ended.

“So, you’re really a witch.”

Eva was able to muster out a whole sentence, even surprising herself with how articulate she was after finding out…that very extraordinary news. Katie, once again, just gave the owner of the house a smug smirk.

“Took you very long enough to realize, Eva, like, years long.”

“It…it’s not like I remembered what happened at the gallery. I didn’t even know there was an equation to put two and two together, let alone actually doing that.”

That drew another chuckle from Katie, who had been nothing but amused and smug since her arrival. Honestly, it also unintentionally amused Eva as much as it annoyed her, being nothing but a toy, a platform to be made fun of by this…witch…as she held answers to the questions Eva did not even think of.

“It’s okay, Eva, I’m only messing with you.”

“I figured out that much. I just don’t know how much and deep you did and still do so. I still don’t remember what happened that night, right after you invited yourself to my home and I was too… bewitched to refuse you. I’m assuming you used your witchcraft to erase my memory about that.”

“Your assumption would be very correct. Would you like me to remind you?”

Well, it certainly would not hurt to remember another memory she was forced to forget.

“Please.”

“With pleasure.”

Katie winked, putting an emphasis to the word 'pleasure'. Then her expression changed to a very serious one scarily quick before she did her thing one more time, Eva once again losing herself before finding it once again in a different time and place…and with a much different feeling.

Pleasure. Mind-boggling pleasure. That feeling is all Eva can feel, all she can think and grasp at the moment. As Katie’s magical fingers explore their way into the younger woman’s vagina, her magical tongue even gives Eva more pleasure. If she could form coherent sentences instead of loud and violent moans during Katie’s working of her ‘magic’, she would hands down declare this the best sex she had ever had. Hell, Eva wasn’t even able to form any thought not related to the sexual intercourse she found herself in right now. She was a very, very lucky woman. A woman who found the treasure of pleasure and was about to open it fully as she neared quite probably the most powerful orgasm of her life…

…only to see that box of treasure moving further away for him as Eva tried to handle it. Katie had stopped her disgustingly beautiful services and was instead looking at Eva with a grin on her face.

“W-what?”

Eva cried with frustration as Katie’s grin only seemed to grow deeper.

“There’s nothing complicated here, Eva. I stopped before you could cum.”

“Why?”

The second frustrated question that followed the first one was very swift, as swift as Eva’s right arm as it made its way to her pussy to finish the job Katie started before her wrist got caught by Katie’s right hand, preventing it from reaching the desired destination. Gods, Katie’s touch even on her wrist was intoxicating.

“Nuh-uh, Eva. I don’t want you to touch yourself.”

“But I need to cum!”

“I know.”

“Then let me!”

At this point, Eva didn’t behave any better than a spoiled brat who was refused a thing she wanted, but the younger woman was indeed very lost in her arousal that she didn’t care at all. Katie playfully shook her head, indicating that she’s fully behind her decision to not to let Eva cum.

“And why exactly would I do that?”

Katie asked, with a tone that managed to be even more seductive than it had been from the point they met in the gallery.

“Because I’m desperate! I want to cum, I need to explode!”

“I can totally see that Eva, you clearly don’t need to tell me that.”

After that, Katie decided to just run one finger on Eva’s thighs, not touching her most private part in order to further tease her prey like the predator she was.

“Please? What do you want me to do? I’ll do it! I swear...”

Katie’s heterochromiac eyes sparkled at hearing that, like she was waiting to hear that specific set of words from the woman who was going truly mad from being cruelly edged like that.

“I told you I’m a witch, Eva. The ancient laws of magic state that what I shall give, I shall take at least a close or an equal amount. So, in order to give you that orgasm you want so bad, I have to take what you consider most precious in life.”

Even with a single crumb of rational thought, Eva would’ve easily refused that. Too bad Katie was just too good, licking and fingering that last crumb away from Eva's poor little brain. Eva used all her energy to shake her head and non-verbally telling, no, shouting her approval, which only formed yet another of those smiles on Katie’s beautiful face.

“Very well.”

Katie’s fingers found Eva’s aching pussy once again, and with just one move, Eva felt herself explode as she heard herself screaming louder than she ever did…seconds before her world slowly paved its way to total darkness, her consciousness truly proving to be not a strong foe against such a mighty orgasm.

The darkness finds the light again as Eva finds herself in the present once again. The effects that seeing that memory again had on Eva was clearly visible as her nipples were poking through her top. That was…an experience, the mildest way Eva could put it in words. Then, more thoughts started to form inside Eva’s mind once again about that day. Now that she had significantly more recollection of that faithful day, more details started to come to her mind and Eva remembered. She remembered more, more details, much more uglier details. Because she remembered that the day after she went to that art gallery, her best friend and the real mother of Liz died in a car accident. The grief she felt years ago, the grief Eva thought she was over with, suddenly re-emerged. Much stronger this time, with the new information that have just seen the surface. The best friend was the price…for just an orgasm. Eva lost her best friend…because she just wanted a stupid orgasm. But was she even herself that night? Her partner was a literal witch that could do numerous amount of spells that could’ve made want this. The pale Eva looked even paler and her head started to ache. She felt her heart racing and she was pretty certain she was going to just drop and pass out. But she didn’t. Instead, she let out an angry hiss to the witch Eva knew could do several things to shut her up and put her in an even worse position. But she didn’t care at all.

“You manipulated me with your magic. You made me do things that I wouldn’t normally do. You bewitched me so deep that you made me accept your offer.”

Eva took one step towards Katie before taking another. Her voice was getting even more angrier, she feared nothing, she already lost the thing she held most precious according to her, so what worse could happen?

“You stole my best friend from me! You stole my life from me! My dreams from me, you bi-”

“No.”

The answer was clear, and it was said with enough power that Eva instantly shut up. Katie genuinely looked…sad from the moment Eva started her rant.

“I have no hand in your best friend’s death, Eva. Magic…doesn’t work that way. The ancient laws prohibit the magic users to get that price as another person’s death.”

A single tear fell from Eva’s eye and she spoke again, in a very defeated tone that contrasted heavily to her previous angry tone.

“Then why? Why are you here?”

Katie took a deep breath as she locked her eyes on Eva’s.

“Years ago, you took a debt from me in exchange of your orgasm, Eva. I’m here to recollect my debt.”

To say that Eva didn’t understand….wouldn’t be an understatement. She had already lost the thing she thought that was most precious to her years ago. So what could Katie want from her? Her best friend was gone, her desired career was gone, the only thing she had now was….oh no. Oh fucking no. It couldn’t be who Eva thought it could be, could it?

Liz.

Eva started to sweat again as she could make no more logical explanation than the girl she raised after her mother’s death.

“No, no, please, don’t take her.”

Katie only responded with a smile, it seemed Katie knew who Eva thought she meant and the witch made no effort in correcting her this time, certainly not helping Eva’s worries.

“Why, why did you came all those years ago to recollect your ‘debt’? Why didn’t you do it sooner?”

Katie’s expression remained unchanged as she spoke.

“Young Elizabeth turns 20 today, doesn’t she? She’s not a teenager anymore, she’s fully a woman now. And I like women, Eva. Don’t you remember? You were also in your twenties when we met at the art gallery.”

Katie took a step towards the now physically older woman, prompting Eva to took one back in order to keep the distance between them, and maybe even increase it. This did not seem to bother Katie at all, not one bit. The little chase even continued until Eva eventually hit a wall and was unable to go take another step backwards. It didn’t took a genius to know that she was trapped. The option of flight was gone for Eva, and she was certain freezing would not help anything, so she resolved the final F option that she knew: Fight.

“I’m not going to let you take her.”

Eva said, confident as she felt herself to be: Not much. But she had not many other choices, did she? Katie playfully shook her head sideways, now so close to her that Eva could hear her breathing.

“Oh, I didn’t came here to ask for your permission anyway. If you have any intentions of making things harder for me, then I have no choice to remind you just who woman was that made you beg all those years ago.”

Their faces were a mere inch away from each other as Katie did nothing but to uncomfortably stare at Eva. The owner of the home was of course pretty disturbed and scared by all of this…until she started becoming not to. Because her focus gradually shifted to Katie’s breathing, and specifically, her breath. It smelled wonderful. Eva just remained at her position and let the extremely pleasant smell of Katie’s breath fill her sense of smell with pure goodness.

“Just keep breathing Eva, like a good little girl, keep letting my scent go inside you.”

Her voice…it sounded different again. So dominant, so commanding. Eva knew Katie was once again trying to do her witchcraft and bend her will totally to her whims again, but she didn’t know how to stop her. She was helpless. She hated that. She loved that. She obeyed that. Eva breathed and each breath she took made her resistance even weaker.

“You can’t resist, Eva. You know that.”

She indeed knew that, and how could she continue to resist anymore when Katie commanded it like that?

“You’re weak. You’re helpless.”

“Weak….helpless.”

“You will obey.”

“Obey.”

Eva was giving in slightly more with each second, getting even closer to total submission to Katie. She had no other choice, no way of fighting back. She wasn’t a witch, she was just a weak little woman.

“You will submit.”

“Submit.”

“You will surrender.”

“Surrender.”

“You will serve.”

“Serve.”

“You belong to me, and I own you.”

“Yes, I belong to you, and you own me.”

Katie looked pretty confident after getting Eva to repeat all of those mantras without a single moment of hesitation. She was ready to be dealt with the final blow.

“You will help me enslave Elizabeth.”

“I will help you enslave El….Eliz…”

It seemed Katie could not drill that deep into her mental defenses enough to make her willingly give up the most precious thing she had in her life. Years ago, the concept of ‘most precious thing’ was very vague to Eva so it was easier to make her accept to give that up. But now, she had a clear person in mind that she would never ever betray. Katie sighed as she felt Eva slipping away from her control just out of love and loyalty to her Liz. She had no other choice but to use another method. Her eyes suddenly started to glow with a very entrancing, lovely shade of violet that was reflected in Eva’s own eyes as the light made the last bastion of resistance in her brain go away almost instantly.

“You will help me enslave Elizabeth.”

This time, there was no resistance. Her will had been completely capitulated, all her thoughts had been compromised and her mind was left nothing more than a blank sheet of paper waiting to be filled with commands. Eva heard and Eva obeyed. It was as simple as that.

“I will help you enslave Elizabeth.”

“Elizabeth will be my slave, just like you.”

“Elizabeth will be your slave, just like me.”

“While you’re at it, call me Mistress too.”

“Of course, Mistress.”

“Good.”

Katie smiled as her eyes found the upstairs.

“Now, slave, why don’t you take me to your bedroom again like you did all those years ago? I think we have a lot of catching up to do.”

[amaranthinecanicular]

[this is not what will happen in MAG160, because if it was I would cry]

Leaving the Lonely is at once something Martin will never forget and something he can barely recall, even as it happens. This place is utterly silent. Utterly still. Moisture clings to the inside of Martin’s nostrils but there is no scent, which is unsettling for a reason he can’t identify. These things were all true before, but he didn’t know it then, or he didn’t care.

“It won’t be an easy trip,” Jon warns him, glancing back over his shoulder. “Don’t let go.”

They tried to walk side by side at first, but the mist dragged at Martin, damp and heavy and cold. Now Jon leads him by the hand. With every step the mist seems to thicken, churning up as an opaque wall between them. But Jon’s hand is warm. Martin focuses on that.

“I won’t,” he tells Jon. “I’m with you.”

Eventually they leave the sea behind. It isn’t a gradual thing, and it isn’t sudden. At some point Martin realizes that the ocean just—isn’t there anymore. The scuff beneath his feet isn’t sand. When he dips his free hand into the mist he feels the whisper of tallgrass between his fingers. A field, he’d guess, though the mist is too thick to tell. It could be that they’ve drifted into another part of the Lonely. Or it could be because Peter is dead. 

Martin isn’t going to miss him. At most he feels a strange sense of pity, less for Peter’s lonely existence than his unlonely death. Their last conversation—if it could be called that—was also the first after Martin was cast into the Lonely. Awareness came to him on a beach, sitting in the surf with his forearms balanced on his knees. He wondered how long he’d been there and realized that he didn’t care. 

Martin liked the Lonely. Peter wasn’t lying about that. There was fear, but it was a soft, muted thing, reaching him as though from a distant shore. The sand through his fingers was soft and insubstantial as ash. If he held very still and closed his eyes and listened to the quiet, the lack of things, he could almost relish in the lonesome echo. He was alone, but he had always been alone, and he always would be. Never before had that knowledge been so profound and peaceful and terrifying.

Suddenly Peter was there. And he wasn’t, and he never had been, and he said, “I never told you about my son, did I?”

Martin did not bother to look up. Peter did not bother to look down. He stood with his hands in his pockets, just far enough away to dissuade any illusion of familiarity. They watched the water, or what they could see of it, and Martin imagined that Peter could see much more of it than him. He imagines that made Peter feel all the more alone for it.

“Evan was kind, like you. Clever, like you.” Peter’s tone was conversational. “And he was a stubborn brat. Resented me like the devil. He hated the Lonely, even as he was inextricably bound to it. Who does that remind you of?”

Martin didn’t answer. 

“I tried to talk some sense into him. Father’s duty and all. Youthful rebellion is all well and good but the Lonely is a part of you, I said. Reject it and there will be consequences. And what does he do? Goes and tries to marry that girl, what was her name—”

Naomi, Martin thought. He could feel the shape of the name on his lips even as his throat refused to give voice to it. 

“I tried to drag her here afterward. That was unfair of me, I admit. Wasn’t her fault my son went to such great lengths just to spite me.”

He didn’t do it to spite you, Martin didn’t say.

“I’m telling you this for two reasons,” Peter continued, “first of all, well, because I can. We’re in a rare situation, you and I. You know I hate talking to people, but you’re not like other people anymore, are you?”

He wasn’t. 

“Let’s look at it another way. Your Archivist is coming for you. How do you feel about that?”

He didn’t.

“I could lead him to you, if you’d like.”

Martin considered it. He should have said yes. He should have wanted to. His heart flopped weakly in his chest, enduring the last of its death throes, and Martin said nothing.

“Exactly,” Peter said. “And since you don’t care anymore, then talking to you is basically like talking to no one. Rather lonely, if you think about it.”

Yes. Martin supposed it was.

“The second reason,” and here Peter put a hand on Martin’s shoulder, suddenly very close and very hollow, “is because you remind me of my son.”

The hand dissolved into mist, and Martin was alone. But then, he always was.

Except, no, he wasn’t. Isn’t. Jon came for him. Jon found him, and took his hand, and is leading him home. The mist is so dense that Jon’s familiar angles are blurred into a stranger’s silhouette, but his hand is warm, anchoring. Jon is here. Jon is with him. Martin stares at the wavering shape of his back, and is suddenly very afraid that at any moment it won’t be Jon’s hand he’s holding. 

“Jon, can we—can we talk?” He’s surprised by his own voice, how hoarse it sounds. Each word is swallowed by the mist, by the silence.

“Talk? Yes, of course. About what?”

“Anything.”

Jon’s shadow nods thoughtfully. After a moment he says, “I’ve been thinking of implementing a new filing system for the Archives.”

Laughter bursts out of Martin with such force that for just a second the mist dispels. He can see Jon, his self-conscious shoulders, his pink ears. “Ah. Was that. Was that not what you meant?”

“That was perfect,” Martin assures him. “That was perfect, thank you.”

They talk. Jon likes cats, which Martin knew. He thought about getting a cat for the Archives, but decided the environment wouldn’t be safe. Personally Martin is more of a dog person. Martin also likes spiders, Jon points out primly, so you’ll have to excuse him if he doesn’t trust Martin’s opinion on household pets. Jon attended Oxford, but what he was both prouder and more embarrassed of was the band he was in. Martin would have liked to go to an art school, if he’d had the chance. He likes poetry. He used to like poetry.

“I’d like to read it sometime,” Jon says, soft. 

Martin has to take a few heavy breaths before he can work up the strength to laugh, just gently. “But you hated my poetry.”

“I don’t. I—I may have critiqued it, a bit harshly, I admit, but I don’t hate it. I’d love to read it, Martin.”

Martin knows he means it. He can hear the tenderness there, stiff and earnest, even if he sounds very far away. The mist gets impossibly heavier. Jon detours briefly to talk about ancient cuneiforms—a painfully dull subject but for the passion with which he speaks—but Martin is having trouble focusing. 

“Stay with me, Martin,”Jon’s voice cuts sharply through the mist. “Not much further.”

“I’m with you.” It’s a weak promise. Hard to breathe for all the mist clogging his lungs. Hard to think. Hard to move. Are they even moving? There are no landmarks, no way of knowing if they’re gaining any ground. Just the soft scuff of tallgrass and Jon’s hand. Jon’s hand—focus on that. The skin is burned smooth. Martin helped him bandage it when it was fresh. They sat together in the archives, quiet and very close, each touch careful and deliberate. It’s a dear memory. Martin can’t find the emotion beneath it.

“Don’t let go,” Jon says again. It’s urgent, now, but distant. “Stay with me—”

The mist settles deep inside, chills Martin beneath the skin, beneath the bones. It crowds out all other thoughts and feelings and fills him up with static. His hand goes slack in Jon’s. His pace slows to sluggish. He has no desire to escape, suddenly. He has no desire at all but to be alone. Better to stay here, on his own. Parting from Jon will hurt but it will be a good hurt, and then it will be nothing at all. The mist is sweet and cold and cloying, calling to him.

Jon stops walking. Martin wonders if he feels the call too, if he will let go of his hand. 

“Martin,” Jon says. Then he turns and presses a hard, awkward kiss to Martin’s forehead.

“I’m so glad we found each other,” he says. “I’m so glad you’re alright.”

Martin sees, and his lungs expand in a shuddery rush. He squeezes Jon’s hand as tight as he can.

“There you are,” Jon says, rough with emotion. “There we are.”

They plunge forward, and all at once it’s over. The static recedes to nothing more than residual numbness on the left side of Martin’s body. The tunnels are as damp and cold and unwelcoming as they ever were, but the mist is gone. They’re back.

“We did it,” Martin breathes. He almost doesn’t believe himself. Jon’s hand threatens to slip from his and Martin turns in time to see his eyelids fluttering. He catches him before he can fall, pulls him close.

“You did it, Jon! You got us back!”

“Oh, I… I suppose I did.” He’s breathless and wondering, as though he doesn’t quite believe himself either. Here in the real world he looks awful, truly awful, sickly and drained and barely alive. He sacrificed something vital to cross into the Lonely and back, Martin knows, though he isn’t sure yet what that was. An ache starts deep in the soft behind his breastbone. He can’t think of anything else to say, so he follows the throbbing impulse in his heart and presses his forehead to Jon’s. 

A soft, surprised noise escapes Jon’s throat. His eyes flutter shut. They stay that way for a long time.

:

They didn’t come out where they left, and when they arrive at the Panopticon, Elias is waiting. His body is still sat hunched and wasted on its throne, and there he is, standing beside it, the fingers of one hand perched delicately on a desiccated shoulder. Martin is struck by the image of a trusted advisor hissing into the ear of an old mad king.

“Well done, Jon,” Elias enthuses, and Martin’s skin crawls. “I never doubted you. All went well, I take it? No new scars?” For some reason he looks very sly as he says it, like he has a secret he doesn’t plan to divulge. Which is probably the case, knowing Elias.

“None to speak of on my part,” says Jon. His voice is grim and his gaze is unwavering. “The same can’t be said for Peter Lukas.”

Elias’ expression flickers. For a moment something almost like remorse passes over his face. “Ah. Yes. It really is too bad about Peter.” The remorse vanishes. “Speaking of. The way you played him was inspired, Martin. I really am so pleased to have you back.”

“That had nothing to do with you,” Martin snaps. “And I’m not a servant of the Eye, if that’s what you mean.” 

Elias chuckles. His gaze is ravenous, and it hasn’t left Jon once. “Not fully, no. And perhaps not ever. You may have escaped the Lonely, but I suspect you’ll always be more Forsaken than Beholding.” Again that shrewd smirk. “After all, you may not have gone into the Lonely by choice, but once you were there you gave in so quickly, didn’t you?”

It’s a sharp little barb, but Martin ignores it. He’s endured worse, and at Elias’ own hands. Jon says, “What now, Jonah? Are you going to gouge my eyes out and replace them with yours, like you did the real Elias?” His voice drops to a growl. “You’re welcome to try.”

Elias only rolls his eyes. “The real Elias. This body has been mine much longer than it was ever his. And I have done much more with it than he ever would have. It could be argued that I am the real Elias--”

“You’re not,” Martin says.

Elias looks at him.

Even after Jon shoves between them, Martin can feel the eyes, and eyes and eyes, peeling him to muscle and marrow just to watch him writhe. Jon snarls, “Look at him again and I’ll rip your eyes from your skull.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Elias says easily. “So long as you give them a nice new home afterward.”

Jon lunges forward one step and Martin yanks on his hand. There are few heartbeats of violent stillness. Martin can feel the blood spinning in Jon’s hand.

The tension bleeds from Jon’s body slowly, and then he is himself again. Elias watches it all.

“Now what, Jonah?” Jon says again. His voice has lost the guttural reverb.

Elias looks delighted. “Now nothing. We’ve both gotten what we wanted. Feel free to return to work.”

“Peter Lukas said you wanted me. For what?”

If Elias is compelled, he doesn’t show it. “Only what I’ve always wanted. For you to grow into the best Archivist you can be. You’ve made excellent strides today, but you’re not quite there yet.” He steps aside, presenting the exit like a dark, yawning mouth. “Go on. Take Martin and see to Ms. Hussein and Ms. Tonner. A happy ending for all.”

Martin can feel the hostility clawing up Jon’s spine as if it were clawing up his own, so he tugs him to the stone doorway. “Come on,” he whispers. “Daisy and Basira matter more than him.”

Jon resists at first, but with each step his gait becomes more sure. He glares at Elias as he steps through the door but still he steps through it. 

“You’re so close now, Jon,” Elias says, and winks at Martin as he passes. “So very close.”

:

“Thank you,” Jon says, once they’ve left the Panopticon behind. Without Elias as an immediate threat he’s wilting again. “For stopping me back there.”

They’re walking side by side now. The tunnels are narrow but they manage, with Jon knowing the way and Martin watching out for monsters or stray doors. He relishes the warmth of Jon’s arm pressed along his own; it’s almost as cold down here as it was in the Lonely. 

“Yeah, well, don’t thank me too much. I almost did it myself.” 

Jon snorts. “If anyone deserved to, it would be you.”

“I don’t know about that. You, Basira, Melanie—Melanie called dibs, actually. If I did it she might come back to the Archives just to beat me up for taking the kill from her.”

The snort becomes soft laughter. “Fine, you’d have deserved it as much as the rest of us. I’d have cheered you on, though.”

It’s a dark thing to laugh about, but it’s good to laugh. Jon smiles at him. Then, very quick, he lifts their clasped hands and presses a kiss to Martin’s knuckles. Martin’s heart floods, too heavy for his ribcage. He tries to clutch at his chest with his free hand but the tingling numbness is not yet out of his system and his arm won’t obey him. 

The tenderness in Jon’s expression shifts to concern. “Are you alright?”

“A little exhausted,” Martin admits. “But I’m fine. I’m with you.”

They’ve reached the final staircase. The first step brings with it a sharp sense of vertigo, and Martin shudders as cold erupts inside him. The colorless backdrop behind his eyes reminds him of mist, or static. He hears Peter’s voice like a vacuum, like an absence or like something that was never there at all: my son went to such great lengths just to spite me.

“Martin? What’s wrong?”

He didn’t do it to spite you, Martin didn’t say then, but he should have. He didn’t do it to spite you. He fell in love.

“Martin?”

The trapdoor is before them. Behind Martin is a staircase that plunges so deep he can’t see the bottom, and he doesn’t remember climbing it. In front of him, a few steps above, Jon’s free hand is on the door. There’s weak light coming in through the slats of wood, falling over Jon’s face and shoulders in soft parallel lines. The silver streaks in his hair that Martin always found so charming are threaded with gold. 

A sudden fear enters Jon’s face. Don’t let go, Martin thinks he says. Stay with me.

“I’m here,” Martin says. The ache in his chest constricts to an acute point. Jon’s hand is warm. “I’m with you.”