#i had SUCH low expectations for this emergency because it truly felt like the same promo and set up we got for season 5

[lovecolibri]

I think the reason it works, and the reason 9-1-1 always used to be good at making the kinda silly things work (and why is struggled when someone who didn't understand or respect this was in charge) is that they take Jem seriously.

They show us in the opening that he is very smart and planes are a hyperfocus of his, and the pilot is gentle and kind to him and respects his knowledge. It's a short scene but tells the audience a lot and sets the tone- that the pilot respects this kid's knowledge and we should to.

The actor IS very charming, and the writing leans into that by not having him be too goofy and over the top, just secure in what he knows about planes. He points to exactly what Athena needs without distracting her from what she's doing and consequently Athena is able to take him seriously and offer back to him the respect he showed her in how he helped.

It SHOULD be ridiculous, and the way this show makes it work is acknowledging that yeah it's a little silly (ATC asking "is that a kid?!) but also acknowledging that the kid is smart and treating him and the storyline with a level of respect and seriousness without going TOO far into taking itself too seriously or going the other way and being too silly with it. It's a fine line to walk and when 911 hits it, it works like *magic*.

It's the same balance they managed to strike with the boner pills and prison shiv rescues: acknowledging that the solution is a little silly by letting characters crack stressed jokes about it, but respecting the characters, and the process, and the solution anyway.

See a child landing the plane is something I should think is so nonsensical and ridiculous, but instead I find myself helplessly charmed. A nine year old is gonna land the plane. Hell yeah he is

honestly i think part of it is the fact that the child actor playing jem is very charming and endearing himself which makes it work for me. literally id die for him

[desperatelyseekingcannibals]

The Sea Boy (Hannigram AU)

Explicit // M/M // Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter // Tags: Alternate Universe, Merfolk AU, historical AU, Count Hannibal Lecter, Merman Will Graham, first kiss, time skip, reunions, injury, injury recovery, getting to know each other, falling in love, fluff and smut, happy ending.

The sailor spoke in a lower tone, “It is a lucky thing to see merfolk. But remember, how you treat them decides whether that be bad luck, or good luck for ye.”

Latest installment on my @hannibalbingo card: Harpy Knife Also for: MerMay 2024

Chapter One (2.8k words):

On a fishing trip with his father, young Hannibal meets the sea boy for the first time.

___________________________________________________________

Hannibal had been so young when his father first taught him how to fish that it felt like he always knew. Together with some of the staff and the gamekeeper, they fished regularly on the Lecter estate, and always cooked their catch. 

Whilst he remembered the excursions fondly, they fished so often that the memories became a blur. Years later only one truly would stand out in his mind, because it was one of the times they left the estate and went to the coast for a proper outing. And on this particularly memorable occasion, Hannibal had seen the sea boy. 

It had been a two day trip, staying overnight in an inn near the shore, and on the first day out on a small fishing vessel, Hannibal had been mesmerised by the sight of a gloriously coloured tailfin. He had spent long hours pouring over the many volumes in his father’s library on the subject of fish and other aquatic species, and this was nothing he had seen. The colour was more like that of human flesh, up to the tips which were a faint greenish-blue. And perhaps he might have thought nothing of it and studied more once home, thinking it some exotic creature, but then he discovered it was more exotic than he had expected when a mop of dark hair surfaced.

At first he had thought it some flotsam, it was dark and threaded through with seaweed. But then a face emerged, a young boy about his age, with the same greenish-blue tinge at the end of his pointed ears and highlighting his cheeks. 

Hannibal stood agape on the bow of the ship, watching as the boy watched back. They studied each other and he raised his hand in a tentative wave. The sea boy blinked at him and then his mouth split into a smile that revealed sharp, pointy teeth. 

He was too mesmerised to call out to his father, and when he and the other men brought forth the small barrels of bait, the sight and sound of them must have scared the sea boy. His smile was gone, eyes wide, he continued to look at Hannibal for just a moment, then turned back into the sea, tailfin kicking up the water after him as he dove. 

“Papa!” the spell between them broken, Hannibal found his voice. “Papa! I saw a boy in the sea. A boy with a fishtail!” 

All the men laughed heartily and Hannibal’s father ruffled his hair. “You have a vivid imagination, Hannibal.” He chuckled. 

Hannibal frowned and one of the sailors asked, “Are you sure he hasn’t been drinking the salt water.”

Another bout of laughter went up, this time a little more cruel, until there were three hard thuds on the deck and the sailors went quiet and back to their business. 

Hannibal looked over to where the sound had come from and one of the sailors - an old man, much older than any of the others - sat on a low bench. He had a scar across his face, a pipe in his mouth and had knocked on the deck with a large stick that he used for walking. 

“You ignore these fools,” The old sailor told Hannibal. “These waters are filled with all manner of things that sailors should fear. Them things of this world, and of others.” He raised his voice so the other sailors had to hear him. “They’d all do well to be more mindful of the sea.”

There were a few grumbles under their breath but no one spoke directly to the old man, who then grabbed Hannibal by the back of his collar and pulled him closer, close enough that his nose was filled with the scent of the damp tobacco. The sailor spoke in a lower tone, “It is a lucky thing to see merfolk. But remember, how you treat them decides whether that be bad luck, or good luck for ye.”

Hannibal swallowed and nodded, almost losing his balance when the sailor let go of him and waved him away. 

That encounter might have been memorable in itself, but it was the evening that Hannibal remembered with most clarity. 

It was a small fishing town they were staying in, and nowhere was far from the water. As the sailors drank and made merry in the inn, his father sat in his room going over charts with the captain, discussing the plans for the next day. No one seemed to notice that Hannibal was not in his room, and perhaps presumed him asleep. But instead, curious, he snuck out the inn and made his way down to the harbour. He sat on the solid stone part of the pier and looked out to the water, the waves lapping a few feet beneath him - noisy in their tidal movement. 

He noticed the change in sound, the slap of the waves against the stone of the wall lost rhythm. He frowned and looked down, finding the sea boy beneath him, slapping his hand against the stone to attract attention. 

Hannibal took in a sharp, excited breath and immediately scrambled to lie on the floor, hanging a little over the edge to smile down at the boy. 

Continue reading on AO3!

[pterodactylschreech]

The Trial of Seven

Just one way this all could've been solved if everyone wasn't a complete idiot. Pining, blood, and chaos in store, and the first 3 of 7 (maybe but it's feeling like it may go longer) chapters up on AO3

“It is too late, Rhaenyra.”

Alicent stood shakily with her words and began to move away.

“Alicent!” Rhaenyra called after her, feeling the last vestiges of her hope slipping away on the heels of her former friend. A roaring rose in her ears, a tidal wave demanding she do something, anything, to keep Alicent at her side. To keep the peace that her forefathers had fought so hard to build. Without clear thought, she turned her back to the flames and said the only words that might keep the Dowager Queen from retreating and allowing this war to take shape.

“What if I surrendered?”

____________________________________________

Alicent froze. She’d only just stepped out of the circle of light that the Princess occupied and yet it felt as if she’d just slipped into the Narrow Sea because surely that pigheaded and arrogant woman could not have just uttered those words. And so loud in a city that was hunting her. She cast her eyes quickly around the space, and finding it blessedly empty of wandering septas, hastily made her way back to Rhaenyra’s side.

The Targaryen had dropped her covered head into her hands and was currently rolling it back and forth as if regretting every moment that had led her to this sept and that outburst. Alicent found the sentiment quite mutual as she grabbed the woman’s bicep and yanked her hard to pull her from her hiding place. Her frantic eyes scanned the shadowed sept again to ensure no passing ears had caught Rhaenyra’s outburst and either come to investigate or ran to tell.

“Are you quite mad? Or do you still truly believe yourself untouchable?” Alicent harshly whispered right up against the Princess’ ear.

Darkened violet irises snapped up to meet hers and held Alicent with a fierceness that had once captivated her. There was a determination and defiant spark that screamed, “Yes, I am untouchable, even now.” Where once it inspired a kind of awe, an appreciation and longing for her confidence and independence, now it served to rekindle the simmering resentment for the perfect Targaryen princess who never once faced punishment or reprimand for her indiscretions or mistakes.

Rhaenyra’s voice emerged in a low, near growl. “What would happen if I surrendered?”

Alicent scoffed and looked to the statue rising above them. She shook her head in disbelief.

“Are you surrendering? Right here, to me, in the Grand Sept?”

She was met with silence and those same determined eyes. Of course she would not make this easy.

“You already know, Rhaenyra. Aegon will kill you, put your head on a spike for all of King’s Landing to see. Then he will find your sons and do the same to them.”

It was not a pleasant image. Alicent wished she could remove it from her mind’s eye, but it was a familiar sight these past few days. Since Jaehaerys. There was no stopping this from that moment.

Rhaenyra’s huff and displeasure and turned head pulled an exasperated and forced laugh from Alicent. “What do you expect? You killed his son.”

“Daemon sanctioned that, not I!” Rhaenyra hissed back vehemently before shaking her head and dropping it back to her interlocked fingers. The septa’s habit she wore came close to the flames of the lit candles, and Alicent nearly reached out to push the nearest away. But the Princess’ head shot up as quickly as it fell, and Alicent pulled her outstretching hand back quickly. “I am truly sorry for Jaehaerys. I mourn him for both Helaena and for you. He did not deserve the savagery enacted upon him.”

Alicent didn’t know what to say to that, to a repentant and apologetic Rhaenyra. She never expected the woman to stoop so low as to order the murder of a child, but to hear she mourned for the boy? Unthinkable.

“I never wanted any of this.” The Targaryen’s voice dropped lower as she continued. “I don’t know how to stop it. My council, my own son, is calling for a war between dragons. They wish me to kill my own blood.” And she sounded so lost and despondent, bearing the weight of all that has been thrust upon her by her father’s decision to reaffirm her as his heir over his sons.

When Rhaenyra looked into Alicent’s eyes once more, it was the young girl she had dressed in the finest Targaryen blacks for her Queen mother’s funeral staring back at her. Just that scared and grief stricken child who had lost her beloved mother to her father’s selfishness and felt the weight of her girlhood more heavily than any would ever understand.

“All I want is peace, Alicent.”

Alicent’s mouth twisted at the words. They were truth but not in its entirety.

“That is not all you want. Aegon sits the throne you believe to be yours. And,” she paused, stuttering over the words, “your son is dead as well.”

Alicent watched the grief settle deeper in Rhaenyra’s clouding eyes. It was a pain so acute it morphed the otherworldly Taragaryen beauty into a mask of utter desolation. The tears that welled did not fall, but the tracks of the multitude that had come before seemed to have carved themselves into her flesh and left her with this new face.

When the Princess spoke again, her voice carried the weight of her losses, of her mother and her father and her son and all those others who she kept in her heart. “Luke did not deserve the fate that befell him either. You’re right.” Her eyes shone with a searing anger when she caught Alicent’s gaze. “I want my throne. And I want my vengeance. I want my son’s murderer, your kinslaying son. I want his blood and his head and his hoary old bitch of a dragon.”

Alicent sucked in a sharp breath and squeezed her eyes shut. There was the truth, the whole of it.

A strong hand shot out, latching onto hers. The grip was firm but absent the knife this time. With her eyes closed, Alicent could almost pretend they were only children, simply girls speaking a language of their own and consoling one another in the light of the Seven. She felt a longing for that time pull so sharply at her heart that tears welled behind her closed lids.

But they were children no longer, and the Princess’ hand brought the promise of destruction rather than comfort.

“Would you ever forgive me? If I killed him.”

Her whisper was so close it sent warm breath across Alicent’s cheek and a shudder down her spine.

There was hesitation in the words. Rhaenyra genuinely sought to know if Alicent could ever accept her again if she took Aemond’s life, if she murdered her son.

Those violet eyes were staring so intently when Alicent could bring herself to look again, and before her sat her nervous Targaryen princess once more. That brash and impudent girl who would pull her all around the castle, getting them both into so much trouble, and then ask for only her forgiveness later under the safety of the weirwood tree. The tears fell down Alicent’s cheeks, and she opened her mouth. Nothing emerged. There was no answer to give that young girl she had once loved who had grown into this woman she hardly knew. She cried harder when the open face before her shuttered closed again with the unspoken answer.

Rhaenyra dropped the hand gripped in hers and wiped her own tears with her sleeve before continuing on. “There must be some way to avoid the worst of what is to come if we continue in this way. If I unleash the full force of our dragons, Westeros will be burned to ashes. Regardless of which side wins, we all lose. And there is more at stake than just the crown.”

Alicent furrowed her brow at the last comment and opened her mouth to repeat, once again, that there was no other path forward. She paused in her recitation when Rhaenyra pulled a folded sheet of parchment from her left sleeve. Unfolded it showed the creased and worn face of the once great Nymeria, a page torn from a book of histories that the Princess seemed to take no interest in. It was familiar after the years spent keeping it safe in remembrance of a friendship thought to be eternal during its youth.

“Your father gave me this when he came to Dragonstone and bade me bend the knee to Aegon,” Rhaenyra said while looking down at the page. “He had hoped that the love we once shared would be enough to stay my hand.”

The Princess reached out once more and squeezed Alicent’s hand in hers with beseeching eyes.

“In truth, that love is enough, but you must help me, Alicent. I am the blood of the dragon; I know more of fire than I do diplomacy. I know only how to burn.” She dipped her head and held fast when Alicent dropped her gaze and tried to pull away. “You have always been the wiser of us. If we are to survive this, it will be you who charts our course.”

Alicent felt her chin being lifted by a gentle hand and found herself eye to eye with the most desperate dragon she had ever seen.

“Guide me now, as you tried to do so often in our youth. Be my Hand, Alicent Hightower.”

It took her breath away. She was so earnest in her desperation; this was a great Targaryen, Rhaenyra the Cruel, begging. On her knees in the sept, begging Alicent for help establishing an impossible peace. It stole her breath and held her captivated, giving her pause to think.

In that moment, Alicent considered the plea. Her dearest friend was asking her to betray her children to save them, to save them all. But how could they, two women, two disputed queens with limited power, stop a seemingly inevitable war brewing with the force of dragons?

Turning that question over in her mind, she glanced down to the paper still clutched in the other’s hand. Nymeria stared back at her, daring the Dowager Queen to bear the same warrior spirit of the Dornish Queen. Alicent’s brow furrowed in deep thought, and she took the paper gently from Rhaenyra; she felt those violet eyes tracking her every move. A shoulder bumped against hers and warm breath mingled with her own as the would be queen leaned ever closer.

“What is it?” There was a growing excitement barely contained in those words. “I know that face. You’ve thought of something.”

Alicent gave a small shake of her head. “I haven’t thought of a viable solution. Only…”

“Only what?”

The hand still clutched in Rhaenyra’s was pulled closer to the Targaryen’s chest, pulling Alicent from her reverie.

“This page, you ripped it from a history book.”

Rhaenyra’s face showed no sign of understanding the seemingly random tangent; she simply blinked and scrunched her brow inward. Alicent set the paper down gently and lifted her free hand to smooth the offending wrinkle.

“You always disdained the study of history, but they may hold the key to solving our problems.”

The Princess’ face softened at Alicent’s touch and her eyes brightened once more.

“There have been other challenges made to the legitimate heir to the throne,” she said, catching on now to where Alicent’s mind was going.

“And different ways of handling those challenges that did not plunge the entire realm into all out war.”

“My grandsire, Jaehaerys called for the Great Council at Harrenhal where my father was chosen as his heir. Daemon is there now; perhaps we can send ravens and call upon the lords to convene and choose once more.”

“No,” Alicent responded and looked up to the statue once more. “No, the chance they choose Aegon is too high.” The guilt was rising quickly, bringing bile up her throat with it as she laid out her fears about her own son. “He is not a good man, Rhaenyra, nor a good king. I know that is my fault, and I know that he cannot remain king if we can avoid it.”

Rhaenyra looked up also, silently acknowledging the truth of Aegon’s numerous faults.

They could not let the men of the realm decide who should rule them. They had overlooked Rhaenys previously, the Targaryen most well suited to rule, then and likely even now; they’d chosen the man and set the precedent that a woman would never sit the Iron Throne. They would not call a second Great Council, even if it was the most peaceful option, and Alicent knew it, if only because Rhaenyra would never allow herself to become the second “Queen Who Never Was.”

The Taragaryen let out a huff of annoyance. “Maegor waited for Aenys to die after challenging him in all but arms. He destroyed Aegon the Uncrowned when he rose up. I will not wait, and I don’t see any difference between what Maegor did to his nephew and what I am being asked to do to your son.”

Her famously short patience was wearing thin at the shrinking options, and Alicent could see the dragon’s fire returning to sharp eyes. She felt helpless, a feeling she had never handled well. But at the mention of Maegor the Cruel, Alicent saw another avenue of escape, one that would satisfy the lust for blood but cut the casualties to the absolute minimum. It was an option the Princess was likely to overlook due to her lack of adherence to the faith.

“There was another challenge to his reign. At the very start.”

Tempered momentarily, Rhaenyra focused her attention fully on Alicent.

“Upon his ascension, his mother, Queen Visenya Targaryen, issued a challenge to anyone who wished to question his right to the throne. From the Hill of Rhaenys and the Sept of Remembrance came the Warrior’s Sons.”

Here she was interrupted. “The army of the Seven that overthrew his brother Aenys. Maegor fought with the Faith Militant his entire reign; I hardly see how this one encounter offers a solution.”

The Dowager Queen found herself smiling, however small and uncommon these days, at her confused companion. Rhaenyra softened again and leaned into Alicent once more, resting their shoulders together. It didn’t seem to be a conscious movement. The Targaryen’s eyes roved over every inch of the queen’s expression, drinking deeply from the moment, as though the fleeting smile would carry her further than her dragon’s wings ever could.

“What do you smile at? We talk of cruel kings and murder, but you smile,” Rhaenyra remarked with her own mouth rising to match Alicent’s.

“Nothing, I simply took for granted how much attention you paid to our lessons it would seem.”

Now, a full grin broke across the woman’s beautiful face and lit her violet eyes with an old mischief and lightness that Alicent had not seen in nearly twenty years. It squeezed her heart painfully seeing that brightness directed at her again, and a secret joy hummed in her veins at knowing she had put that smile back on Rhaenyra’s mouth. Her mind ran through the list of atrocious things that could come forth from that now smirking mouth. Nothing good or proper ever followed that specific look.

“Oh, you know exactly how much attention I gave those dusty old septas and their droning lessons. We’d still be sitting in one of them, dying slowly with our brains melting out our ears, if I hadn’t snuck us out every time.”

Alicent rolled her eyes easily at the summation of their teachers.

“The only histories I ever learned were the ones you read to me in the Godswood,” Rhaenyra continued. “I think perhaps it was the soothing, dulcet tones of your voice that lulled me into a sense of security and kept my mind engaged.” Here, she paused and glanced down to Alicent’s parted lips. Her voice came next at barely a whisper and held a contemplative seriousness she’d never shown Alicent before. “Or maybe I just thought the words were actually worth committing to memory when they came from your mouth.”

It was honest in a way that only Rhaenrya seemed to be when speaking to Alicent. It was both nearly flirting in the light way of their youth and nearly confessional in the deeper and heavier way of their adulthood.

Alicent felt her cheeks flame under the attention and sent up a prayer of forgiveness for her roaming thoughts that began crowding her mind. Thoughts of red leaves falling on the pages of a book open in her lap and in braided silver hair spread across her legs; of brushing the red away and leaning down to press her lips to a warm, pink cheek. Thoughts of flames dancing in darkening violet eyes pinning her in place; of sure, dragon-taming hands cradling her face as gently as they have held every person she’s ever loved; of breaching the chasm of years and the inches of space to finally claim Rhaenyra’s lips and know if the dragon tasted of brimstone and ash or the sweetest honeyed wine.

She shook her head harshly to clear the images and pull herself away from the intoxicating breath still filling her nose only to find her companion still watching her, transfixed.

Alicent cleared her throat and glanced around for eavesdroppers before beginning again. “Yes, well. Do you remember what happened during Maegor’s first encounter with the Sons?”

Rhaenyra thought deeply for a moment. “He struck them down but suffered severe injuries of his own that took him nearly a month to recover from. Once he had, he took Balerion and burned their sept.” She smirked again, arrogant and self-assured. “I don’t believe you would take kindly to me bringing Syrax here to the sept of the Greens.”

“No, I would not. But it is his way of striking down the Sons before he mounted his dragon that may provide a solution.”

“You wish me to kill members of the faith?”

Alicent stared at Rhaenyra in disbelief. Surely the stupidity of the Targaryen children must come from their father as that is the only way that both this woman and her half-brothers could be so continuously ignorant.

“No, Rhaenyra,” she said, exasperation saturating every syllable of the name.

“Well, then what?” the Princess asked, clearly embarrassed now.

“The Trial of Seven.”

She fought the simmering guilt at laying her own son’s usurpation at the feet of this woman and throwing every warning her father had given her out the window. It seemed certain in her mind that the Blacks would reign victorious, and it would be her sons’ heads put to the block with this solution; perhaps, Rhaenyra would prove to be merciful in gratitude for this assistance. She could only pray.

“The Trial of Seven? You want to pit seven Blacks against seven Greens for the Iron Throne?”

“It worked then. Maegor and his loyal swords bested the seven strongest Warrior’s Sons, and proved he was worthy of the crown.” The Dowager queen could see the gears turning in the other woman’s mind as she dredged up faults and forged on to cut them off. “It is the cleanest solution, should you wish to take it. You send Aegon the challenge and gather your seven to fight. Aemond will be among our seven, and I expect Daemon will be among yours. The two kinslayers will face one another, and one of us will have our vengeance.” Alicent swallowed past the lump in her throat at the thought of her second son in combat with the battle-hardened and ruthless Rogue Prince.

“In your challenge, you set the terms: whichever side loses is to bend the knee to the victor, pledge their swords and lives to the crown, and promise never to rise up against their kin again. And whoever wins must promise to pardon all those they can, all who submit and see pledge themselves. There will be minimal bloodshed, but a claim to the throne that is sealed by the blood of those who fight.”

Rhaenyra seemed to teeter on the verge of agreeing with a litany of ravens already flying across the realm to deliver the news to lords, but she pressed her lips into a thin line. There was one fault in this plan that Alicent could not find a way around, one that she would rather not acknowledge.

“The reason the Trial worked for Maegor was because he himself was one of seven who stood against the Sons. If this is to work for me, I must take up a sword and participate as one of my seven.”

And there was voiced the fear Alicent would not name. The Black Queen would take up arms and face men who had trained their entire lives to kill and waited impatiently for the opportunity. She felt sure that Rhaenyra would spare at least Aegon for her help if not Aemond as well if she begged hard enough. But if she took part, Alicent knew her sons would not show the same restraint.

“You cannot,” she said, grabbing hold of the hand on hers with both. “You are untrained, and Aegon would go for you first. He may not be the most skilled swordsman, but he will kill you if given that kind of chance.”

Alicent could only watch helplessly as the tempestuous dragon of a woman began planning her part in the coming battle in earnest; the fire returned to her eyes in full force. It struck more fear into her heart than she thought still possible after these years apart; desire was one thing, but this paralyzing fear at seeing her companion so determined to throw herself in the dragons’ pit should not be here after all this time.

“I’ll wear Visenya’s armor. And I can set the date in the terms to a month from now. I can learn enough in that time to block a few strikes. With Daemon as one of my men, I shan’t need to do much more than survive.”

It was horrifying for her sons’ sakes that Daemon could in all likelihood cut down half the Green seven without taking a scratch.

Alicent felt her world spinning and tilting despite having taken decisive control for possibly the first time in her life. This was her plan, and she had just seemingly orchestrated her own children’s doom at the hands of the woman she once loved. That very same woman’s own death may yet still stem from this half-cocked idea yanked from the past. She was risking everything she had ever loved with this plan, and though they were all hurtling towards their own ends before, it was different knowing that she had single-handedly given this scheme to Rhaenyra. If they died now, it was on her head alone.

“Then you’ll try it?”

Rhaenyra turned to her fully, twisting to one knee and bringing the other up to bracket against Alicent’s back. She wore another bright grin as she promised to tear Alicent’s world apart.

“I will ensure it. This is the only way, Alicent. It will save so many people, smallfolk and high born alike.” She took in the downturned mouth and obvious fear that Alicent wore now. “I know that you fear for your sons. Jacaerys will fight at my side, and I will feel every once of that same fear for him.” When this did nothing to brighten her sorrow, the Targaryen promised something that Alicent could not expect her to hold to in the heat of battle. “I will grant Aegon his life if he chooses to surrender, either before, during, or after the battle.”

No Aemond. No peace for her once sweet boy turned murderous kinslayer. She would beg for his life when the time came, but how could she now, when Rhaenyra still freshly grieved Luke’s death.

She could do no more than nod as the reality of their future settled heavily on her shoulders. Where before it had been an inevitably to simply accept and feel nothing for, now it held the surety of a near end that would leave her devastated no matter the outcome.

Rhaenyra dipped her head and lifted Alicent’s chin once more to catch her downturned eyes. “I shall inform my council of my course of action and prepare a formal challenge for Aegon. I’ll also write to you as well. Under the name Nymeria, for the queen who may have saved us all. And, Alicent,” she pulled their clasped hands to her searing lips to leave a burning and invisible imprint on her scarred fingertips, “I forgive you, as I hope you will one day forgive me.”

Before Alicent could clear the fresh tears from her eyes and respond, the Targaryen Queen had disappeared back into the shadows of the sept, back towards Dragonstone to set in motion the destruction of everything that Alicent held dear.

[chemicalpink]

ଘ(´•×•)⊃━☆ a (not so brief) life update

In case you've been wondering where I've been cause by now we all know I tend to just disappear.

A few days ago I felt like oversharing a bit for anyone interested, I feel like getting to this point of sharing is due and will allow me to stop this irrational fear of the internet that I have somehow developed as it tallies to my accountability on this blog.

So hang tight! Cause this is about to be a wild ride...

I'm not regressing to the very beginning cause this isn't about to be a therapy session but I will go back to the near beginnings of this account during the pandemic.

A little before lockdown as I was asked to collaborate as a customs specialist for a pop-up store (which then I found out to be BTS') so I got into them after my job was done. A bit after going down the rabbit hole I started this blog, without very much planning into it, just merely creating a safe space for the people with whom could potentially like the same things I did.

A few months into it, as a last year International Relations student on my way to law school, and with a bit of sleep deprived courage, I applied for an internship at BH online, not expecting much since I barely knew Korean and was most definitely stuck at home in a whole different continent. But things surprisingly worked out, I didn't get paid at all but it was a great learning experience. BH became HB and I got to experience that from the inside, my day went like this: school from 7am to 5 pm and work from 9pm to 3am (sometimes more)

I obviously never got to work directly with any idols, my work was merely global and very much law related. Customs, contracts, negotiations with international enterprises. When the lockdown was done with, I was asked to move and become a permanent worker of theirs, so I did. However, it involved a lot of moving around so I wasn't exactly based anywhere and living costs are quite a thing. During this time I was also profiling myself as a diplomat, so it was in all of our best interests that I became outsourced.

Which brings us to a timeline closer to the present, the person that was in charge of contacting me for the gigs that I used to do for them suddenly quit and while I'm sure they were doing whatever was best for them, left me fending for myself during may-june. I came back home with my parents during june-july and networked for a bit– at least enough to regroup my possibilities so during august-september I was allowed to staff and collaborate (on a lower level) on some big concerts/tours.

During this time however (july-september) I was mostly reliant on my parents and coincidentally, their work slowed down by a lot. The rather small amount of money I got from working here and there was spent on my medical treatment (during july my doctor let me know that I needed to get diagnosed properly for lupus and by august my treatment costs were up by a lot) I tried picking up freelance tutoring (a pain, truly) and other small hustles that didn't require me to tire myself out too much since most of my days I spent aching all over, while also caring for my mother who had to have an emergency glaucoma surgery.

Oh and I cried and felt miserable during my birthday so.

I believe that's where we are at. I can't exactly get a job since I need to apply to an unpaid internship in order to graduate law school but I can't apply for an internship because one of my teachers just suddenly decided to fail me in their class (which means I need to pass it first) so I try to get by with small, low commitment hustles and now I'm picking up more seriously my ko-fi content. Which is why, I haven't been on here.

Those damned retrogrades hit me good ngl.

I do want to say though, I am not in a state of emergency, however, I am not living comfortably, but I'm trying my best to pick myself up and be nice to myself with the decisions I make and actions I take by the minute. While also trying to save up to go visit my 17 year old sister that has just moved away to study medicine.

I am grateful for what I have and I cherish you all that have remained close to me (even in this infinite nothingness that is the internet) and I hope you've been treating yourselves kindly during this time. If you'll have me, let's navigate the rest of the year together.

If this gains a lot of traction, I'm privating it lmao. I have no issue now talking about it since I'm no longer working there but I made those NDAs myself so I know what I'm up to.

[f1united]

Ensemble - Chapter Two: The Girl and The Gift

Charles Leclerc x Reader

Summary: Your Arthur Leclercs best friend. So why, after a random night in London, are you falling for his brother?

Chapter One: The Start

Warnings: Mentions of alcohol and sex.

Word Count: 5.8k

Note: This chapter begins in London and is marked where it switches to Mykonos. There are then some flashbacks mixed in so just watch out for those. Let me know your thoughts, enjoy!

*****

Chapter Two: The Girl and The Gift

Not long after Pierre had joined your table, Charles emerged from the toilets. Pierre had waved his hands to inform him of his updated location as he sat in the empty seat, unknowingly signing himself up for a night full of girly gossip and drama. The evening was spent reminiscing on childhood memories and sharing stories. It wasn't until Nat checked her phone that you realised how late it was getting.

"We better get going," She announced as she checked her phone. "The last train is in half an hour." You lived just outside of London which meant that most nights out were cut short by trains unless you had booked a hotel. You hummed in agreement as you finished your drink watching as Pierre began to whisper in Lucy's ear. They'd been flirting all night so her next sentence didn't come as much of a surprise.

"I'm going to chill with Pierre for a bit, I'll find my own way home tomorrow" The rest of the girls saw it coming too.

"Are you sure?" Katie asked. "I don't want you ending up in London on your own with no way home." She had a point. London could be quite daunting when it was late and dark, especially if you weren't a local.

"Well why don't you stay too?" Charles nodded his head towards you as he spoke. "That way you could leave together." Not one part of you questioned Charles' intentions as he spoke. He remained the responsible 'Arthur's older brother' that was being sensible and mature, making sure that everyone got home safely.

"If that's alright with you?" Your question was answered with a nod of his head. You all began to grab your things and headed outside, saying your goodbyes, telling them to text you when they were home safe as they encouraged you to do the same. By the time they'd headed for the station, Pierre and Lucy were already nowhere to be seen.

"I'm not sure about you but I'm in no rush to go back to the apartment just yet!" You spoke to Charles as you looked at the night sky above you.

"Where do you want to go in the meantime?"

“Have you ever explored London before?" You answered his question with one of your own. He shook his head. "So you haven't seen all beautiful sites it has to offer." The sarcasm was evident in your voice as you pointed down the alley way you were walking past full of black bins and plastic bags full of rubbish.

"I've only ever been here to celebrate races and I can't say I've seen much other than the inside of some bars and restaurants.”

"Well you're in for a long night Leclerc." Two hours ago Charles wanted nothing more than for him and Pierre to go back to the apartment. The lack of alcohol he'd consumed throughout the night was only adding to the tiredness he'd accumulated over the race weekend. However as you dragged him through the streets of London he realised there was no place he'd rather be.

You'd ridden Boris bikes alongside the River Thames, shown him your favourite restaurant in Covent Garden and taken him through Piccadilly Circus all the way to Oxford Street where closed shops lined the dark streets, pointing out your favourite ones as you cycled past. He never did things like this. As a F1 driver it was difficult for him to go almost anywhere without going unnoticed but tonight not one person had recognised him because for the night he was just a normal person with another normal person having a good time. 

After abandoning the Boris bikes at the nearest drop off point you both headed towards the apartment. It belonged to Charles' mother and was often used by you and Arthur whenever he'd come to visit and couldn't stay with you.

"You seem happier than when I last saw you." His comment made you smile. It was all he could think about as you wondered through the dark streets. The last time you'd seen him you'd just broken up with your ex. Your relationship had been on and off for years but you'd finally called it quits for good. It didn't take a genius to see the relationship was making you unhappy, the anxiety, tears and sleepless nights were picked up on by everyone albeit your efforts to hide it. Arthur was the only person who truly knew what was going on and it hurt him to see his best friend in so much pain when she thought she was in love.

"Thank you, I'm in a much better place now. I've had time to focus on myself." You'd completely lost yourself throughout the time you were together, focusing so much on what he'd wanted and expected rather than what made you happy. The situation had increased your maturity and for that reason you were grateful your first heartbreak had come at such a young age. You'd correctly assumed that Arthur had made Charles aware of your sensitiveness to the situation to some extent as he made no further comments. 

He had approached Arthur with concern after your last meeting. Despite a fun grand prix weekend you'd been blinking back tears and spent most of the time with a blank expression on your face. He hated it. He could see you trying to compose yourself, when he came to thank you for coming you'd done your best to smile, your voice was laced with excitement, but your eyes were empty, drained of emotion. He was grateful to see it had made its way back.

"Did you know I've never been to Harrods?" His random fact was a relief as he quickly changed the subject, allowing your mind to be brought back to the present rather than the dark times from the past.

"Even I've been to Harrods Charles. We should go tomorrow, you'd have a field day in the clothes section." As a part time student most of your spare money went into savings, a fund you'd created for your planned travels when you were done with your studies. It wasn't very often that you brought yourself nice things so despite your multiple trips to Harrods, you'd never actually purchased anything. You could see him deliberating your suggestion in his head. 

"You can wear sunglasses and a hat with your mask, just don't wear a bright red Ferrari top and I'm sure we'll be able to keep ourselves to ourselves."

"Don't you have work tomorrow?" His question brought you back to reality slightly.

"I'll call in sick?" you offered. It suddenly occurred to you that this was the longest time you and Charles had ever been alone together and the idea of leaving wasn't something that you wanted to think about just yet. 

Charles opened the apartment door with caution, neither of you wanted to interrupt your friend’s spontaneous night, nor hear any of the antics they were getting up to. You frowned at each other as you stepped into the entrance corridor. There were no faint voices, no mumbling or laughs, just the hum of the city that echoed through the slightly open window.

“Maybe they didn’t come back here,” your judgement became increasingly more likely as you followed Charles towards the kitchen and stood around the island.

“I’ll send him a text.” He pulled his phone from his pocket and tapped away before placing it on the marble countertop. It lit up with Pierre's reply not long after he'd set it down. “They went to some hotel, apparently he’s dropping her home in a second.”

“He’s not the type to bring girls back to his home turf then,” you took the bag off your shoulder and placed in on the counter, grabbing a hair tie from inside and gathering your locks into a low ponytail. “Smart move.” Charles shrugged his shoulders at your observation.

He’d never really thought about it before, but he was the same. The few casual hook ups that he’d had over the years had never been in places he spent a lot of time like his house in Monaco, or his favourite holiday home in Mykonos, and never this apartment. Sure, he’d slept with people in those cities, but never in his space. You were right though; it was easier to forget about the crime if you never returned to the scene.

"Do you have anything I can change into?" 

“There’s a top on the end of my bed.” You thanked him as you made your way towards his room. “I’ll grab some of my things so I can crash on the sofa once you’ve changed.” You stopped in your tracks, turning to face him as you stood in the doorway.

“I’m not kicking an f1 driver out of their own bed Charles, especially not post race weekend.” You crossed your arms as you lent against the door frame. “I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

“I’m not letting you sleep on the sofa.” He argued.

“It’s one night Charles, I really don’t mind.”

“I’m not letting you sleep on the sofa.” He repeated.

“Well then it looks like we’re sharing the bed.” Your words not only surprised you, but also Charles. Neither of you were sure where this increased confidence had come from, but you didn’t want it to become awkward, so you tried to justify your statement. “Me and Arthur used to share a bed all the time!”

The look on his face as your eyes met with his across the room was one you’d so desperately been seeking without realising it. His head cocked, eyebrows raised and small smirk tugging its way onto his lips provided reassurance, giving you the confidence to confirm that this relationship was very different to your one with Arthur. You already knew it, you had felt it every time you’d looked at him since you were about 16, but this was the first time you could say with certainty that it was reciprocated.

Charles was dying to climb into bed with you. To wrap his arms around you and stay like it all night. He didn’t care about the fact that your hair would be in his face or that his arm would most likely be dead within the first half an hour. He just wanted you there with him, so he could learn things about you that he didn’t already know and fall asleep with the scent of your faded perfume beneath his nose. He suggested that he’d sleep on the sofa because he knew that wasn’t what you were implying. 

“I’ll stay on my side,” you offered. “Promise.”

That’s what he was afraid of. Charles was a respectful man, he wouldn’t cross boundaries without permission, but he wasn’t sure how much longer he could go without your touch. The thought of your body lying so tantalisingly close to his while dressed in nothing but your underwear and one of his shirts was driving him crazy.

“I’m a very good sleeper, you won’t even know I’m there.”

You couldn’t stop listing reasons for Charles to join you. He wished you would stop; his head was already full of so many.

“Well go and get comfy and I’ll join you in a minute,” In that moment he made the decision to give in knowing that if this was the only chance he got to lay in bed with you he'd take the opportunity, whether your bodies were intertwined or not. “Do you need a drink or anything?”

“A water would be great!” You smiled as you turned around and headed to the bedroom. Charles spent the next few minutes alone in the kitchen trying to convince himself that this was a bad idea. That it was wrong. You were his brother’s best friend and he shouldn't be this nervous or excited to lay next to you, but no matter how hard he tried to dislike the situation he couldn’t because it just felt right.

By the time he joined you in bed you’d already made yourself incredibly comfortable. He chuckled at the site of you tangled in the duvet before climbing in next to you. You laid facing each other and remained that way as you chatted about memories from the past. Childhood holidays and his earliest racing days to you latest life plans and hopes for the future. That's how you drifted to sleep, listening to his voice was more comforting than you'd like to admit. When you awoke in the morning you were unsure what terrified you more, the feeling of one of you completely reducing the few centimetres of space left between you or never knowing what Charles’ touch felt like.

*****

Maybe that’s why you were so unimpressed when Charles and Pierre joined the several of you seated around the long table on the patio with two unknown girls. The number of cocktails you’d consumed weren’t providing you with a great amount of rationality but then again it was difficult to justify being annoyed when you had no reason to be in the soberest of situations. The only person to blame was yourself, you’d had the chance to experience a night with Charles and a combination of your stubbornness, maturity and (let’s face it) fear of what could happen had meant that you’d missed out.

It was only as she threw her head back at one of his comments that it hit you, you were jealous. It was a feeling you hadn’t felt in years. Ever since your last relationship you had lacked almost every kind of emotion. You’d dated people since but that connection was never really there which is why you were full of confusion at the situation presenting itself to you. The feelings felt foreign to your body and you weren’t sure how to deal with them, so you did the one think that you were too young to do back then. Get drunk and try to forget about them for a night.

"Are you listening? Drink up, we're leaving in a second!" Arthurs voice provided a distraction from your thoughts whilst encouraging them. You tilted your head back as you finished the remainder of your champagne, your arm was already reaching out for the nearest bottle to see if you could sneak in a quick refill. You didn’t even like champagne but after having run out of cocktails about an hour ago you didn’t really have much choice. In any other situation you would’ve declined and waited until you were at the club but you weren’t really in the mood to sober up right now. You got up to follow everyone to the taxis, deciding that the bottle had too much in to be left at the table to waste, but not enough in that you couldn't finish it before you reached you destination. Putting the bottle to your lips this time, you took another gulp.

He noticed. He noticed the vast amount of alcohol you had consumed thus far. The unbothered façade you'd displayed during dinner was picked up by him the second he’d glanced in your direction. Your eyes often met his across rooms, at events, in the paddock, even at family dinners and it was always followed by a shared smile, but tonight you hadn't even looked at him and he couldn't stand it. Although he couldn’t be certain, he had a good idea what the cause was. Guilt was slowly consuming his thoughts. He shouldn’t have felt guilty, there was no real reason to, yet he did.

He knew if he had come alone you would've had a couple of drinks with dinner, just enough to prepare yourself for the club afterwards, allowing the sweaty people and sticky floor to become slightly bearable. He also knew that you weren't a huge drinker and that the lack of food you had consumed at dinner would only worsen the matter which was evident as he watched you fall into a taxi with Arthur and Carla as he climbed into a separate one with Pierre and, what they appeared to be to everyone else, their ‘dates’.

The club was busy, everyone excited to be back on the dance floor after its absence over the past year or two. Although it would've been nice to spend some more time with him, you were thankful that the crowds had engulfed you so you'd lose sight of Charles and her. You'd found your way to the middle of the dance floor and you remained there for hours losing track of time and somehow your friends too.

Unbeknown to you, Charles had lost his 'date' at the first chance he had. He'd met her on a boat during the day with Pierre and when his best friend had invited her best friend for dinner he felt bad for not doing the same. He was sitting at the bar with Pierre who'd picked up on the amount of attention he was paying you as you danced along with random strangers. The Frenchman questioned what he was doing when he noticed Charles tighten his jaw. Charles nodded his head in your direction and the pair watched as a man approached you.

The guy in front of you was only offering to buy you a drink but you knew you were way over your limit. You'd politely declined, naively assuming that he'd disappear back into the sea of faces but that wasn't the case. Your refusal  clearly not accepted as he insisted. grabbing onto your arm in an attempt to pull you in the direction of the bar. Yanking your arm out of his grip you instantly managed to sober up as you came to the realisation you were going to have to fight this battle alone.

Charles knew you were a big girl, that you could handle yourself in almost any situation thrown your way, but as the guy reached out to touch you he could've sworn he moved quicker than his Ferrari. His presence shocked you as you flinched slightly at the unfamiliar grip on your waist.

"It's just me ma belle." Charles whispered calmly into your ear, placing a feather light kiss onto your cheek. Relief instantly washed over your body. You wished you could focus on the conversation that Charles was now having with the strange man in front of you but you couldn't. The only thing you could focus on was the feeling of your skin heating beneath Charles' fingertips and the tingling sensation that lingered where he'd planted the kiss. He'd never touched you before, the brief hugs being the most contact you'd ever shared, and now he was standing in a club with his hand around your waist as he fended off a random guy who'd taken an interest in you. "I think we should head home." When Charles spoke it felt as though each word was coated in sex as it left his lips. He hadn't meant it in a sexy way, you knew that. He wanted to take you home so you were safe. However his intense grip on your waist and his stubble lightly grazing your cheek when he leaned in to speak to you was putting thoughts into your mind that you knew shouldn't be there.

You looked up at him, your eyes locking for the first time that night. Your eyes always showed a lot of emotion. Your body language was often hard to read but you always made eye contact when you spoke. He frequently used it to determine what mood you were in but this time he was met with one he'd never seen before. Despite them having a drunken glaze, your dilated pupils held a look of lust. He could've sworn you were mentally undressing him. You weren't. Instead you were thinking of how much you wanted him to undress you.

"I think that's a good idea." He could hear the smirk in your voice over the sound of the music as you let your lips gently brush his ear lobe while you spoke. He shut his eyes tightly and took a deep breath in an attempt to pull himself together. You were disappointed when his hand left your side but satisfied when it quickly intertwined itself with yours. His skin was softer than you were expecting, the rough patches slowly disappearing over the summer break. Your hands remained that way as you walked through the streets of Mykonos. Neither of you spoke, you just remained in a comfortable silence. As the villa came into view Charles was basically marching down the street, his strides increasing as your little legs tried to keep up. He dropped your hand when he reached the door, searching his pockets for the key to unlock it.

The villa was colder than you were expecting, a shiver ran down your spine as the air con hit you. You headed towards the kitchen and grabbed your sweater off one of the bar stools, sliding it on over your outfit.

“So you’d let Carla drive your car huh?” his face instantly broke out in a smile as you relieved some of the tension between you both. “You know that’s not true.” Charles followed you to the kitchen and watched as you perched yourself on the edge of the counter. He poured a glass of water and took a sip before handing it to you which you gratefully accepted.

“You’d let your date drive it instead?” He rolled his eyes as he chuckled at your sarcasm, hoping that you’d forgotten about the girl he’d sat next to during dinner as quickly as he had. “How many girls get a turn before me?” Although he didn't let it show, your question had offended him slightly. Despite his popularity with women he was never one to disrespect them, especially not you. He took a step closer to you, standing directly in front of your legs that were pressed firmly together.

“You’re the only one I want to see in that seat mon Cherie,” That was one nickname that he’d never called you, yet it rolled off his tongue so effortlessly. He leaned against your legs and you slowly parted them so he could stand in between, closing the distance between you both. “I’d let you drive it again in a heartbeat.” Your eyes were fluttering between his eyes and lips, your stare only breaking when he leaned in to speak in your ear just like he’d done in the club. He placed a kiss on your cheekbone and slowly worked his way up to your ear.

“You looked very sexy behind the wheel of my car.” You locked your hands with his while he continued to speak, closing your eyes in a desperate attempt to try and calm your heart rate down. You wanted to say something back, engage more in the conversation, but for the first time in a long time you were at a loss for words. You loved driving, you'd often join the boys go karting growing up and learned to drive as soon as you could, so when Charles asked if you wanted to drive his Ferrari back to your home after your Harrods shopping trip you were more than excited. It was a nice change from the train ride you were expecting.

He'd watched your eyes light up when you realised he was being serious. It was the closest you'd ever been to driving something even remotely similar to an f1 car despite it being different in so many ways. Your smile was infectious as you put your foot down on the motorway, leaving London behind. You'd never even driven an automatic car so this was a completely new experience. He'd taught you how to use the paddles to manually change gears if you wanted to and how to shift through its different modes as you drove around. The only disappointing part of the journey was reaching your destination, your trip home considerably quicker than you would've wanted. After spending the whole time focused on going fast and not crashing, you'd selfishly not noticed how Charles was feeling throughout the drive.

He'd been trying to keep his eyes trained on the road in front of him but couldn't help steal a glance in your direction every now and then. He was always surrounded by fast cars, something he realised after seeing you sat in his driving seat he'd begun to take for granted. He felt overwhelmed with pride, he was the one who was making you this happy. He felt privileged seeing you this free as your hair flew around in the wind while you rested a hand out the side of the car, trying to resist the force of the air pushing it back. It was his turn to be selfish as he realised that he always wanted to keep that moment for himself. He didn't want anyone else to make you feel like this, give you this experience. He wanted to be the one to make you smile.

“Don’t go quiet now mon Cherie.” That nickname. Again. “I think we still need to discuss what happened in the shower.” You instantly snapped back into reality at the mention of the shower. His hand fell from yours and toyed with the bracelet on your wrist. The one that you nervously played with in situations like these. The one that he’d gifted you last year. The one with his name etched into it.

The morning that you'd woke up in Charles' bed you were alone. An empty bed was something you'd become accustomed to over the past couple of years but in this instance it made you awaken quicker. The note left on his pillow stopped you from worrying, he was out on a run.

You respected his commitment to his career and took the opportunity to go for a shower. The warm water felt refreshing against your skin, goose bumps slowly appearing across your skin at the sudden change in temperature. Rubbing Charles shower gel into your skin you closed eyes and lent your head against the tiled shower wall. It wasn't clear at what point you'd become so aroused, but  the steam from the shower and the smell of Charles covering you definitely had something to do with it. You allowed your hands to roam your body, his name unexpectedly falling from your mouth as you brushed past your breasts. The careless use of his name had caused your eyes to widen and your hand to clamp over your mouth. It had left you lips so naturally but felt inappropriate to say aloud.

It wasn't until a few days later that you realised he'd heard. He almost hadn’t. If he’d unlocked the apartment a mere three seconds later your words wouldn’t have reached his ears. His run had been sweaty and he was still out of breath but his panting soon stopped. His eyes widened as he heard his name leave your lips and he froze. He didn’t want to announce his presence, he knew he wasn’t supposed to hear it and didn’t want you to feel embarrassed that he had. He didn’t know what to do. He felt as though he was invading your privacy but knew that if he shut the door you’d hear it close and know he was there. So instead he stuck his foot between the door and the doorframe to keep it slightly open as he waited for the sound of the shower to finish running. He tried to focus on something else, anything else, but he failed. All he could think about was you, in his shower, without him and how badly he wanted to join you, just so he could make his name fall from your mouth the way it just did over and over again.

You thought you'd gotten away with it. He'd entered the apartment just as you were stepping out the bathroom and he'd acted as cool as ever. The weekend was slowly becoming a distant memory that you were trying hard not to dwell on, hating that you were missing his presence so much already. It wasn't until you were at work the following week that it became apparent your secret crush was no longer a secret. You were in the office early, earlier than everyone else. That wasn’t unusual, you liked to be in early as it often meant you could leave earlier too. What was unusual was the box placed neatly on your desk.

Although the small parcel was addressed to you, you opened it with hesitation. A small gasp left your lips as your unwrapping revealed a red box, the golden engraving of the word ‘Cartier’ on top. Confused, you gently opened to box revealing a bracelet.

You placed it on your desk as you searched for a note. Despite it being awfully obvious who it was from, you wanted some kind of confirmation or, better yet, a reason as to why someone had put this into your possession. You'd spotted it in Harrods with Charles. You hadn't mentioned it, just spent a few minutes mindlessly staring at its beauty. There was no point even considering buying it for yourself, the price tag was close to your yearly salary. Eventually you found the note. 

'I've heard you like to moan it'

You picked up the bracelet once more, analysing it as you did so. It was so discreet, discreet enough that if the note wasn’t a big enough hint you might never have realised. His name. Etched into the inside of the band in the same font as the word ‘Cartier'. Any other name and he wouldn’t have been able to get away with it. No one had picked up on its personalisation in the past year. It had remained your little secret.

You gulped loudly, unsure of what to say next. The dull lighting hid your cheeks as they flushed red with embarrassment, just like they'd done when you'd read his note. Luckily it was situations like these you considered your stubbornness a strength. "All I could thing about was how much I wanted you to touch me Charles." With your lips dangerously close to Charles' ear you'd somehow managed to complete your sentence with confidence. The conviction in your voice had satisfied Charles although it was obvious that he hadn't expected it as he pulled his head back slightly to look you in the eyes. It was the first time you'd seen them so dark out of his crash helmet. They didn't have the same teasing smile paired with them as they did only a few moments ago. For a brief moment your heart dropped. What if he was just teasing you and you'd taken it too far? 

"Say something." Your voice was barely audible despite the eerie silence that had settled in the kitchen as Charles picked up on your nervousness. His expression softened but he remained silent, placing his forehead against yours and gently brushing your noses. You both very quickly realised there was no longer the need for words. The last thing either of you wanted to do right now was have a conversation about what was going on because quite honestly neither of you were sure. All you knew was that as soon as the space between your lips closed, there was no going back. You were craving each other's touch and it was as though the kiss you were yet to share would be the seal of approval you both needed to explore each other in a way you hadn't before.

You'd had enough of the teasing, enough of the wondering and what ifs, enough of wasting time without knowing how his lips felt against yours. You moved your head up slightly brushing your lips with his before releasing one of your hands from his grasp and placing it on the back of his head, pulling it down slightly. As soon as your lips pressed against his you became overwhelmed with emotions. You relaxed into it, it felt so right. His hands began to explore your body, one placed on your thigh and the other tracing lines up and down your back, sitting on the counter top had worked in your favour as you wrapped your legs around his waist. It wasn't long before his tongue found yours as you let your hands snake beneath his shirt feeling his back and arms tense beneath you as he lifted you up from the side and placed you on the dining table which was at a slighter lower level. 

His mouth left yours and you let out a small groan of frustration, he smiled at the sound as you realised he was only doing it to strip you of the sweater you'd not long ago put on, allowing him to rid you of it, not caring how cold it was anymore. In between the kisses he was placing down your neck you pulled his top over his head. Your eyes were trained to his shoulders as you admired him, only shutting when he re-joined your lips. 

The sound of a key turning the lock at the front door caught Charles' attention. There was a high chance he'd consumed less alcohol than you tonight which is why he giggled slightly when you chose to ignore the sound and bring him back in for another kiss. 

“WE’RE HOME” Arthur voice echoed round the villa. The sound of his brothers voice was enough for you to release him from your grip.

“Shhhhhhhhhhh, it’s 3am people will be sleeping.” Carla tried to whisper but the tiled walls carried the sound throughout the villa. You didn’t know if anyone else was home, you hadn’t checked and to be honest you hadn’t even thought about it. The only thing on your mind was Charles.

“Y/N and I are in the kitchen,” Charles called back. His eyes never left yours as he grabbed his shirt you'd thrown across the kitchen and redressed himself, not until Arthur stumbled through the door way knocking into chairs and making them squeal as the legs glided across the floor. You both watched as he regained balance and muttered a drunken apology before sitting himself on the floor.

"Good night Arthur?" you laughed slightly at the sight of him on the floor, he'd never been the most elegant drunk but at least he was entertaining.

"Great night." He confirmed as he laid himself down, a laugh leaving Carla's lips as she stared at the state of him. If someone had spoken to you a couple of hours ago you would've probably had a different opinion but as it turned out, you were starting to agree with him.

TAGLIST

@imthebadguyyy @abysshaven @phatyak​

[typical-simplelove]

Snowflakes, Hot Chocolate, and Traffic -> Will Halstead

12 Days of December

Author's Note: Happy Day Seven! Also, my first Will Halstead fic! Please be kind with this one as it holds a soft spot in my heart. For anyone who doesn't celebrate Christmas, this fic does not mention Christmas at all. Here's today's question: what's your favorite winter activity? Enjoy!

Warnings: explicit female!reader; mentions of car accidents; innuendo to sex

Word Count: 1.4k

The thermos sits perfectly in the cupholder of your car as you put your purse and tray of food in the backseat. The box of hot chocolate mix sits next to the tray and box of chocolate. Chocolate was always the way to go for Sunday dinners with your family. Starting from a young age, your family always got together on Sundays to have dinner together. Even when you, your siblings, and your cousins all got older, everyone was still required to get together for Sunday dinners. The only exceptions were if someone were away at college. Currently, you’re not away at college, so you had to go to Sunday dinner. “Had to go” makes it sound like a chore, but it’s not. You truly enjoy seeing your family each week, and it was one of the highlights of your day.

For the first time, though, you were bringing Will with you.

Ever since starting to date just over a year ago, you never felt comfortable bringing him. When you were finally comfortable bringing Will to Sunday dinner, his schedule at the hospital got busy, and couldn’t make it, so you went solo. Today, though, Will had the day off and was ready to join you as you go see your family.

Since graduating from college, it was your responsibility to bring the warm pasta dish. You often switched up the pasta dish, but you learned that your Cajun Chicken Pasta was the favorite, so that’s what you made this morning.

You start your car and begin to blast the heat as you wait for Will to hurry out the door. He slides into the passenger side door with a few snowflakes littering his iconic red hair. “I didn’t know it was supposed to snow today,” he remarks with a soft smile as he fastens his seatbelt. You shrug as you do the same to your seatbelt. You turn your head to make sure you have everything.

“What do you expect?” you say. “Chicago in the middle of December.”

He chuckles and turns to look at you as you begin to exit the parking garage. A smile graces his face as he watches you. Will puts his thermos of hot water in the cupholder next to your matching thermos. He turns on the radio to some random channel to allow for some background noise as you continue heading to your parents’ home.

“So,” he says but doesn’t continue the thought.

“So,” you repeat as you drive onto the highway. You release your foot significantly on the gas as you join in a lane with many slow-moving cars. In the past few minutes, the snow has started to fall quickly making the visibility low and cars moving slowly. The prominent sight out the window were many, many red lights.

“I don’t have anything to say; it’s just so,” Will clarifies.

You snicker, but it stops in the back of your throat as you suddenly press the brake. There must have been an accident ahead because all the cars suddenly stopped. You turn to Will and ask, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he answers breathlessly. “You?”

“Fine, just not sure what the holdup is.”

“An accident, maybe?”

You shrug as you stare ahead at the cars. The snow was starting to blanket all the stalled cars and the road. You curse under your breath when you hear sirens from behind your car. You move your foot to the gas and try to maneuver your car to the side, so the emergency cars can pass. You manage to get out of the way in time to see four police cars, two ambulances, and a fire truck drive past you. Yup, it was likely a car accident of extreme volume.

You lean your head against your seat as you wait for the cars to start moving again. You try to make out what’s happening in front of you as you wait to move, but the snow was blocking your sight. You opt instead to change the setting of the windshield wipers to a slower setting. When sitting in traffic, you always loved watching the snowflakes slide down your windshield.

“This is the first time I might be late or miss Sunday dinner,” you remark after a few minutes of comfortable silence pass. Will turns his head to look at yours and sees the sadness in your features. He reaches his hand across the center console and places it on your thigh. He strokes soft patterns with his gloved fingers in comfort. You turn your head to Will and see him looking at you intently. You place your right hand on Will’s hand while keeping the left on the steering wheel. Not much movement is happening right now, so you feel it’s okay at the moment.

“Well, we’ve got a part of the meal here, so we could always indulge in that.”

“With what, our fingers?”

Will shrugs. “If it comes down to that, sure. Or, we could just get off at the next exit and go home.”

You ponder that thought. “I think we have two options.”

“And what are they?” Will says in a teasing voice.

“The first one is what you said, but I know my family will be extremely disappointed in us.”

“We can’t have that when they have barely even met me yet,” Will adds.

“So, going home is a no.”

“There’s one thing we could do if we go home,” Will teases.

You roll your eyes. “Moving on, two is spending the night. I doubt we’ll be able to drive home in this weather, and at this point, it might be better to just keep going and stay the night.”

“You’re right. I might not be able to make it to the hospital, though.”

“The weather might clear in the morning, though,” you suggest.

“In the meantime, though,” Will says and removes his hand from your thigh. You turn to follow Will’s actions as he reaches into the back seat and grabs the box of hot chocolate packets. “Hot chocolate?”

You smile. “Smart.”

Will grabs two packets and places the box back. “That’s why you love me.”

“Okay, then, what will we use to mix our hot chocolate?”

Will pauses his actions of opening the thermoses as he thinks over your questions. His eyes dart briefly to the back before he reaches his hand back to grab the serving spoon you brought. If flipped upside down with the spoon facing up, it was long enough to stir the hot chocolate mix and hot water. “See? I can think of everything.”

You giggle. “Nice job, Dr. Halstead.”

“Do you know what has a good ring to it?” Will asks as he continues opening the thermoses and pouring and mixing the hot chocolate mix.

“What?” you ask as you slowly move your car up. It’s not much movement though as the cars are still at a standstill from the snow and the accident.

“Mrs. and Dr. Halstead,” he says without a beat as he closes up your thermos and hands it to you. You grab the thermos but don’t reply as you feel the warmth spread to your face. “You haven’t thought about it?” he asks worriedly.

You take a sip of your hot chocolate as a smile spreads over your face. You have thought about it, and when Will says it, it makes you happy.

“So you have thought about it,” he says. You can hear the smirk in his voice.

“And if I have?”

“I’m glad we’re on the same page, then,” he smiles and takes a sip of his hot chocolate. “Best hot chocolate I’ve ever had.”

You burst out into laughter. The next hour and a half go by as you’re finishing your hot chocolate and slowly making your way to your parents’ house. When you finally introduce Will to your parents and they embrace him with giant hugs, you smile at the comment Will made earlier in the day. It was all you could think about.

Sometimes hot chocolate, snow, and traffic are enough to bring out the truth in people’s lives.

Taglist: @stars-canucks, @jostyriggslover96, @lam-ila, @iwantahockeyhimbo, @shinyfalcon4, @rosesvioletshardy, @2manytabsopen, @krswrites, @themotogirl, @shinytoadpandadeputy, @ghostyjosty (Join the taglist here!)

[sugarmaplewings-fics]

When He’s Not Here

Pairing: Bakugou x reader (x Kirishima)

Warnings: Cursing, implied severe nightmare(s), mentioned character death (just kinda talking about it, nothing actually happened, dw), soft Bakugou (like, really soft)

A/N: I will take this as an opportunity to welcome myself back into writing (although I never really stopped; I just wanted to work on a few personal projects that were just for me :]). Um, I don’t have much to say about this other than I actually like it! I think it turned out pretty well, so props to me 🎉.

This is technically a Kiribaku x reader, buuut TWIST, Kirishima isn’t really in this one. Mostly just y/n and Bakugou interaction. Yeah, fun.

I promise this is fluff. It’s a little angsty, but not to any extreme. Just nightmare comfort and snuggles with Blasty.

Anyway, enjoy!

-Sugar

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

You bolted upright, chest heaving, disoriented.

Everything around you was uncomfortably hot—unbearable. A sheen of sweat coated your skin, and the sheets beneath you were damp. Your heart pounded in your chest, making it hard to think, hard to breathe. Darkness pressed around you, only making it easier to see your visions again, playing over and over in your memory.

Desperate, your hands patted blindly around you, looking for something that would make it stop, something to help you feel better.

Your trembling fingers bumped into a warm, solid mound beside you and you latched onto it, hoping to find solace in this sea of fear and nothingness.

“Eijirou?” you gasped, already somehow feeling more grounded as you shook the man’s arm.

“Hm?” Rather than who you’d been expecting, a familiar rough voice emerged from the dark mass beside you.

“Katsuki?” you called out instead.

“What?” He rolled onto his back, dragging a hand over his face. “(Y/N)? What time is—”

You suddenly tackled him into a hug, burying your nose into his shoulder. “You’re alive! Thank goodness you’re okay!” You could sob with how happy you were to find that your nightmare had been little more than just a dream, that Bakugou and Kirishima weren’t dead, and that you were still safe.

“Why wouldn’t I be okay?” he asked gruffly. “And what’s got you shaking so hard? Was it another—”

“Bad dream,” you affirmed, pulling off of him and straightening. “Just a . . . dream.”

“Oh,” he muttered, sitting up.

“Sorry I woke you up. I was trying for—”

“Eijirou?”

You nodded sheepishly. “Not that I don’t want to talk to you, I just . . . forgot he wasn’t here.”

“Oh.”

Now it was coming back to you. Kirishima was away on a mission on the other side of the country. This was yours and Bakugou’s second night without him, but it still felt so foreign to have him missing from your bed. The sheets felt . . . colder and emptier with him gone. Yes, the redhead had a habit of spreading out in his sleep and snoring much louder than necessary, but both you and Katsuki (though he wouldn’t admit it out loud) had grown quite fond of his presence.

“Need anything?” the blond grunted, bringing you out of your thoughts.

“Um,” you mumbled, thinking. “Maybe some water?”

Bakugou stood without another word, sliding silently out of the bedroom and down to the kitchen. Flicking on the light, he grabbed a glass out of the cabinet.

For as long as you’d been sharing a bed, Bakugou had been aware of your recurrent nightmares. He’d always been a light sleeper, so it was unavoidable that your muffled whimpers and kicking would wake him up. He was there for you when you needed him, yes, but . . . it didn’t take long for Katsuki to realize that Eijirou was just better with this sort of thing.

Bakugou didn’t know much about emotions, or comfort for that matter. He tended to just blast his way through things and hope others did the same. He had more important things to worry about than “feelings”. But he’d be a damn fool to overlook how powerful they could be, especially when it came to you and Eijirou. Hell, even the weight of his own feelings for the two of you shook his world from time to time.

But it just wasn’t something he was good at, and it frustrated him. He had to be the best. The best of the best, especially for someone like you. You were his partner, and he’d vowed to himself to be the best boyfriend to you no matter what. Maybe he was being a coward. Shouldn’t he work on the things he wasn’t good at? Even when they didn’t come easy?

He had to at least try.

Bakugou came back into the bedroom with a fresh glass of water in his hand. You took it from him gratefully, letting the cool liquid clear your mind as it slid down your throat.

“Better?” he asked, his voice low.

“Yes. Thank you.” You set the glass on the nightstand beside you, curling back into yourself.

The blond racked his mind. What did Kirishima do? Usually as soon as the redhead was awake and cooing over you, Katsuki would try to fall back asleep. He knew you were safe with him, so what was the point in doing anything more? Besides, Bakugou’s sleep schedule wasn’t something to be messed with. But now Eijirou was gone, and you needed someone to be there for you. You were more important to Katsuki than sleep. And you were still shaking.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Bakugou finally managed.

You thought for a moment before shaking your head. “It was just a dream. I don’t want to think about it more than I need to.”

“Oh.”

Bakugou sat on the bed in silence. Now what? If you weren’t going to talk, how was he supposed to know what to do?

“What does Kirishima do? When this happens.”

You glanced at the rumpled blankets underneath you, suddenly—for seemingly no reason—shy. “He usually holds me.”

Of course he did. That was your combined solution to everything. Figures.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” you threw out quickly. “I know you’re not really in a cuddly mood right now—”

Bakugou gathered you up in his arms and shoved your body into his chest. You gasped at the abrupt motion but were just as quick to relax against him, suddenly feeling secure in his strong hold. His body was a little different from Kirishima’s; still thoroughly well-muscled, but otherwise smaller and leaner. You breathed in his scent—also different, but still so heavenly familiar and sweet.

“What gave you that idea?” he asked, his chin resting gently on the top of your head.

“You, um, were facing away from me when we went to bed.”

“Tch, dumbass.” He shifted you into a more comfortable position on his lap, kissing your scalp. “Now what?” he mumbled into your hair.

“He . . . talks to me.”

“What does he say?”

“I don’t know,” you whispered. “He reassures me, I guess.”

Bakugou frowned. “How am I supposed to do that if I don’t know what your shitty nightmare was about anyway?”

He felt you stiffen in his hold, and he knew he’d messed up.

“Look,” he muttered. “I know this really isn’t my thing, but please. I’m just trying to help you.”

“Thanks,” you mumbled in a small voice.

Silence.

Bakugou didn’t mind silence. In fact, he generally preferred it. It gave him peace to think to himself, and he hated it when there was something annoying and distracting buzzing around him, especially when it was some dumb, unimportant person.

But you weren’t dumb, or unimportant to him, and this time, he felt truly uncomfortable in the quiet dark. Why weren’t you saying anything? You weren’t exactly the type to never stop talking—you could be pretty quiet yourself, actually—but even you had a tendency to fill the void with something.

If you weren’t going to do it, he might as well just get it over with.

“You said something about me being alive when you woke up, yeah?” he asked you. “Scared of me dying?”

You paused, then nodded, tightly clutching the front of his tank top.

“Nothing can kill me,” he said, trying to approach with his cocky attitude.

“. . . you know that isn’t true,” you murmured.

He scowled. “Are you doubting me or something?”

“No. You’re just . . . no one’s invincible, Katsuki. Not even you.”

Bakugou huffed. This wasn’t going the way he’d hoped. How did Eijirou do this so often? Why had Bakugou never paid enough attention? Now he was starting to feel guilty. Had he been slacking off with you?

“I think you’re amazing, ‘Tsuki,” you went on. “But I’m scared of losing you. Both of you.”

He sighed. “Now why are you worrying about that?”

“I don’t know . . . .” You shrugged. “I guess that the simple answer is because I love you. Of course I worry about something happening. I don’t—I don’t know what I’d do if one of you got hurt, or—or worse.” You bit the inside of your cheek, fighting to keep yourself from crying.

“Hey,” Bakugou said softly.

You nuzzled yourself closer into his chest, sniffling a little and taking a deep breath.

“You know you’re strong, right?” he muttered, brushing his thumb over your shoulder. “I see it in you. I have for years. I trust that you can handle anything. You’ve been through a lot.”

It was your turn to sigh. “But I don’t want to go through something like that.”

“You think anyone does?”

“Well, no. Of course not.”

“Listen. You’re talking about two of the best pro heroes there are, okay? We’ve all got each other and we can take care of ourselves, got that? Worrying about us isn’t gonna do you any favors.”

“I can’t just ‘stop worrying’,” you countered.

“Okay, but don’t put so much into it. We’re here with you now, dumbass. Enjoy it while you can.”

“. . . Eijirou’s not here.”

Bakugou paused, thinking. “‘That what all this is about?” he asked quietly.

“I don’t know. Probably.”

“I’m sure he’s safe.” Katsuki rocked you ever so slightly in his arms, settling back into the quiet night.

“Do you miss him?” you asked.

“. . . ‘course I do.”

You smirked. “Aww.”

“Hey!” he protested. “I . . . I’m not scared to say that I love him. Or you for that matter.”

“I know.” You leaned up, touching the tip of your nose to his.

He blinked in surprise at the gesture, but then smiled softly and rested his forehead against yours.

“This is weird to say,” you began after a moment, “but I can’t really sleep without him snoring in my ear like a lawnmower.”

Katsuki barked out a laugh. “Are you kidding? This is the most peaceful night’s sleep I’ve gotten since we moved in together.”

You giggled. “Okay. But don’t you miss his good-night kisses?”

“Tch,” Bakugou grumbled. “Of course not. He’s so clingy and annoying.”

“Oh? That’s not how I remember it,” you laughed. “You love it when he gets like that.”

The blond scowled in the dark. “Alright, maybe it’s not so bad.”

You hummed, resting your head on his shoulder again. “I love you both, you know,” you said. “I can’t wait until things can go back to normal.”

“Shitty hair’ll be home soon,” Bakugou assured you. He chuckled to himself. “Until then, do you want me to snore in your ear for you? How about that? Something like this?” He obnoxiously made a loud, fake snoring noise in the back of his throat, making it sound as gross as possible.

You cracked up laughing, holding him closer to you while your shoulders shook. “Eijirou does not sound like that!”

“Oh, yes, he does,” Bakugou argued playfully. “Believe me, I sleep next to him too. And for whatever reason, you like it.”

You laughed again, and Katsuki’s cheeks warmed at the sweet sound of your mirth. “It’s just too quiet without him! I’m not used to it.”

“Well how about hogging all the blankets, then? And stealing the whole bed? Would that make you feel better?” Bakugou turned your bodies so he could flop on top of you, starfishing his limbs so you couldn’t get up.

“Actually, you do do that,” you teased. “You sprawl out on the bed all the time.”

He pouted. “Do not.”

“Do too.”

“Well how about kisses then? I’m the best kisser there is, and I’ve got two partners that’ll attest to that,” he boasted proudly.

“Ooh, two partners, huh?”

“Yeah, and you’re one of them. Here, I’ll prove it.”

Before you could say anything in response, Bakugou’s lips found yours, kissing you deeply and taking your breath away. Your hand slid up to cup his cheek, holding him in place as he embraced you. His lips were so soft and sweet—he always wore chapstick before he went to bed. You couldn’t help but sigh happily as his mouth moved over yours; gentle, but still with the slightest hint of roughness to it he always carried no matter what.

Eventually he pulled back, letting you breathe.

“I do like having just the two of us here,” you admitted quietly, brushing some of his spiky bangs back from his forehead. “It’s . . . different.”

You couldn’t really see it in the dark, but he smiled. “I like it too.” He leaned in and kissed your lips once more. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” You stroked his cheek with the side of your thumb. “But maybe we shouldn’t be teasing our boyfriend while he isn’t here to defend himself.”

Bakugou snorted. “Eijirou doesn’t care. Besides, it’s all true.”

You chuckled, running your fingers through his hair and scratching at his scalp. “Thanks for making me feel better.”

Oh, that’s right, he was supposed to have been comforting you. He guessed that somehow, he’d done it. His chest swelled with pride. “Sure thing. Are you feeling alright now?”

“Yeah,” you said. “That dream was stupid anyway. It didn’t make any sense.”

“Of course it didn’t.” Katsuki pulled you into his arms again, rolling you both onto your sides so he could face you. “Shitty fucking dream. It’s not real, and it can’t hurt you. I’m here for you, got that? That’s what matters. Nothing’s going to take me away, and I mean it.” He kissed your forehead, pulling the blankets up around your shoulders again. “I fight and win for you, you know. I win for both of you. You two never leave my mind. I’m not stupid and reckless, okay? I’m careful enough so that I don’t get hurt like that.”

“I know.” You rested your head against his chest, sighing in contentment at the feeling of being held by him. It was warm and calming, comfortable and familiar. There wasn’t anywhere else you’d rather be.

“Ready to go back to sleep?” he asked you, rubbing your back.

“Yeah,” you murmured, shutting your eyes.

He hummed. “Good. I’ll see you in the morning, (Y/N).”

“Good night, Katsuki.”

Soon, the two of you drifted off to sleep, and until you awoke again at dawn, you were at peace.

…

“I’m home!” a voice called out by the doorway.

You jumped up from the couch, making a beeline towards the entrance of your house. “Eijirou!” you greeted happily, running up to him for a hug.

“Hey! It’s my darling, wonderful (Y/N)!” he laughed, dropping his bags and hoisting you up in his arms.

“It’s my big, strong manly man!” you countered, laughing.

He brought his face to yours, humming happily as he kissed you several times in quick succession.

“The two of you are going to make me puke.”

Eijirou let you go, setting you back down on the floor to look up at his boyfriend, who’d stepped in to greet Kirishima for himself.

“Katsuki!” he said happily, unfazed. He held out his arms, making grabby motions with his hands toward the blond.

Bakugou rolled his eyes, walking up to the redhead despite his annoyed façade. Eijirou hugged him tight, pressing a long, solid kiss to his lips.

“Group hug!” he said, pulling you in again for another hug, this time with Bakugou in the mix. “I missed you guys.”

“How was your trip?” you asked him.

“Great!” Kirishima said. “I’ll tell you everything about it as soon as I get something to eat, I’m starving.”

“I made dinner for everyone,” Bakugou said.

“So that’s why it smells amazing!” Kirishima kissed Bakugou on the cheek in thanks, then gave you another to be fair. “Let’s go then,” he said, stepping forward. “Although, I guess I should ask; did I miss anything while I was gone?”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Taglist: @aahilovetheatre​ @basicalyrandom​ @hyunmin-1404​ @kqtsukii​ @nabo39​ @pyrofanatic​​ @rainy-skys-and-bright-stars​ @sendhelpimstupid​ @sxngwoos-ash-box​ @xoxopam4​

[moonlight-frittata]

I Don’t Need a Mechanic

Overwatch: Dva and Brigitte (a few others make appearances)

Word count: ~5500 

My take on when Dva meets Brigitte and the first month or so of them getting to know each other on base.

---

Six months Hana Song had been a part of Overwatch, and during that time she set a very strict precedent that no one, not even Winston or Athena the AI was allowed to touch her mech, Tokki. So seeing the back of someone inside the cockpit as she entered the Watchpoint Gibraltar hangar made her blood boil. 

“Excuse me!! What the hell are you doing??” 

The person’s body jerked, their head banging against the low roof of the cockpit ceiling they wedged their torso inside. Hana heard a short mumble of something incomprehensible and a long, thick ponytail of red hair retreated from the mech in a hurry. A very tall, buff young woman around Hana’s age emerged blushing with a sheepish grin.

“Ah! I’m so sorry, I couldn't help myself. I’ve always wondered what these Korean models looked like up close. But in hindsight I really should have asked first.”

Her accent was European, but it was hard for Hana to place with any real certainty. Could have been Scandinavian, remembering some of the players from Finland she competed against back in her pro days. 

“Yeah, you should have fucking asked.” 

The crimson hue on the tall, possibly Finnish trespasser’s cheeks faded and she held her ground, not scared off yet by D.va’s harsh tone.

“Right. Won’t happen again, I promise,” she said. 

Dva scoffed a bit and pushed past the buff intruder to look inside the mech to inspect if anything was out of place. A moment of stuffy silence passed between the two and Hana hoped the other girl would get the message and leave.

“I’m Brigitte Lindholm by the way.”

Hana let out an audible huff as a familiar freckled face appeared looking through the glass on the other side of her heads up display.

“Oh. Yeah, Fareeha warned me a new girl was joining,” Hana replied from inside the cockpit while she busied herself checking Tokki’s systems. 

“And you’re Hana Song, right?” Brigitte continued lightly, clearly unperturbed. “Or do you prefer to go by D.va?”

Hana paused at the mention of her gamer tag turned call sign. 

“It’s Lieutenant Song, actually.”

Brigitte raised an eyebrow at the curt reply, her smile fading to a neutral expression. It only dipped for a moment though as she extended her hand. 

It was an awkward gesture to shake hands from inside the mech, even though the front of the cockpit was partially open near the joysticks. Hana looked at Brigitte’s outstretched hand and gentle smile on the other side of the glass. Was this a joke? She pursed her lips and sized Brigitte up for a few tense seconds before reaching out. The grip was firm and Hana’s hand practically disappeared in Brigitte’s large palm.

“Lieutenant Song. It’s an honor to meet you.”

Hana sighed and rolled her eyes, a little of the bluster going out of her at the sincerity in Brigitte’s tone. Satisfied that no harm had come to the mech, she backed out of the cockpit.

“Just call me Hana. That rank doesn’t really mean anything here anyway. Lena will probably make fun of me if she hears you calling me Lieutenant.”

Brigitte walked back around Tokki to join her, a lingering hand tracing over the pink exoskeleton as she moved. “I’m surprised she doesn’t make you call her Captain.”

“Oh, she’s tried.”

Brigitte laughed. 

“Sounds about right.”

D.Va chuckled for a moment, briefly disarmed by the new stranger, before she remembered how this person was rudely poking around her stuff only moments before, and snapped back into her gruff demeanor. 

“Lindholm, you said? Like Torbjörn Lindholm?”

Brigitte sighed, clearly used to this connection.

“Yes. Genius engineer of Overwatch 1.0, founder of Ironclad Industries, husband to Ingrid, and father of way too many children, including yours truly.”

“So, you grew up in an Overwatch family?” Hana asked as her full attention focused on Brigitte for the first time in their conversation.

“You could say that,” Brigitte said. She picked up a silver ratchet resting on a nearby worktable, spinning the head around between her fingers and levering the handle back and forth, testing the weight distribution of the tool in her hand. 

Hana could tell there was more to the story than her new teammate seemed willing to let on. She found it interesting that Brigitte, who had been all candid smiles a moment ago when she was caught somewhere she shouldn’t be and oversharing to someone she just met, was now hand waving around the subject.  

Overwatch kids are pretty up their own asses about 1.0 normally. Wonder what her deal is...

This was what Hana was known for back in her pro days. Seeing a flaw in an opponent’s defense and breaking it wide open. But she needed to remember she only just met this girl, who would soon be her teammate. Maybe save that for another day. 

“Well, Lindholm. As long as you stay clear of my mech, I don’t see a reason we should have problems working together. What’s your specialty?”

Brigitte perked up at the change of subject.

“Support. Both base level engineering support and in the field. I've got my bachelor’s degree in mechanical engineering, and I’ve been working on Reinhardt’s gear for over a year now. Angela - I mean, Dr. Ziegler, is training me to be certified as a field medic.” 

“Tough job. Think you can handle the gore?”

A wry smile pulled at Brigitte’s lips, her head shaking back and forth in a small, bemused gesture as she placed her hands on her hips. 

“You don’t pull any punches do you, Lieutenant Song?”

D.Va crossed her arms, holding eye contact with Brigitte who matched her gaze with amusement. 

“The best shot caller in the world is just a loud piece of shit if her team isn’t up to the same standard. So yeah, I like to know who has my back and if she can handle herself.”

Brigitte regarded D.Va for a moment, her jaw working back and forth as if chewing on the approach she wanted to take in response.

“I’ve been patching up Reinhardt for a while now. If I’m honest though, I’m scared it’s not going to be enough one day. But that’s not what I need to focus on, and instead I’ll do the best I can to support the people here.”

The plain way Brigitte shared her apprehensions left Hana uncomfortable. She couldn’t imagine telling someone out loud she was afraid, especially on her first day. Though in truth, she herself felt scared shitless half the time while doing this work.

Brigitte’s smile was back. Did it ever leave that pretty face? It did suit her though, framed by the freckles and warm brown eyes. If this girl wasn’t built like a literal tank of 6 foot something muscle, Hana might have more apprehension about sending her out to fight Omnics and Talon. 

“Well Lieutenant Song, I think I’ve taken up enough of your time with my intrusion. Fareeha and Winston will be missing me very shortly for the rest of their planned orientation schedule,” Brigitte said as she carefully placed the ratchet she previously picked up back on the workstation, breaking the spell of awkward silence.

D.Va smirked, feeling tension leave her shoulders to match Brigitte’s playful demeanor. 

“Mmm, well now I understand why you were hiding down here.”

“Yes they are indeed quite enthusiastic and thorough with their material.”

She gave a wink and started to walk away, turning briefly to call over her shoulder.

“I noticed there was a small coolant leak under the left fusion cannon. Might get a bit sticky on the left hand.”

“Bye Brigitte, enjoy your 300 page orientation manual quiz.”

Brigitte waved once more and turned around, already so sure and familiar with the layout of the hangar and the base.

She’s just another Overwatch kid, and just another nosey engineer trying to get in my mech.

Hana lingered by her workstation, picking up the ratchet Brigitte had been fiddling with and thinking over their brief encounter again. 

Would this girl be a liability on the battlefield? Brigitte looked strong on the exterior, but then, so did Tokki. If you took away the mecha armor, inside was just a squishy human target bullets and fire could cut through like paper the second she was exposed and vulnerable.

Hana took a deep breath.

She walked around to the left fusion cannon and did indeed see the signs that a coolant leak was backing up inside the casing. Pretty subtle to spot with minimal visible damage to the exterior. 

Not bad, Lindholm.

D.Va pulled her headphones on, turning to her latest loop of pop songs to blast while she went to work removing the panels on the cannon to replace the broken coolant line. The task felt good, and helped her mind drift to thoughts other than her conversation in the hangar.

---

Hana didn’t see much of Brigitte the next few weeks. The new recruit was busy with training and learning mission protocols expected of field agents in addition to shifts with Mercy in the clinic to  fulfill the certifications Brigitte was required to complete. Hana would see her sometimes at dinner, often in a spirited conversation with Reinhardt or Lena. It seemed to take Brigitte no time at all to fit in amongst the old guard, but it seemed that’s what being the favorite niece of pretty much every person here would get you. 

Hana would half listen to their stories, always feeling awkward and out of place amongst their banter. Overwatch was like a family, but she was more like the stranger invited as someone’s plus one. Everyone seemed to have an ingrained familiarity with each other. A single word could trigger a whole series of anecdotes every person around had some personal insight to add on to. 

Remember this! 

Oh how is so and so?  

Damn, that was 5 years ago already? 

Even on her squad in Korea, she never had what they people here seemed to have. Dae-hyun was a close childhood friend and followed her into the MEKA squad, but the other pilots were a different story. There was always a bit of friction and distance with the rest of her teammates because of their history as pro-gamer competitors forced into an arrangement as teammates. It never really gelled beyond cordial coworker relationships. Hana’s celebrity status didn’t help either, only adding another barrier between herself and the others. The fame of D.Va closed her off in access to most people unless they were on the other side of a screen, and then they only saw a polished up version of herself. 

Not exactly the best way to get close to people.

Sometimes she was curious to learn more when she heard the Overwatch stories, but she always stopped herself before saying anything. It was easier to pull out her phone and queue up a game. Easy to pull back and ignore them, and usually they left her alone to do it.

She was okay with that. She was okay with keeping Hana and D.Va separate. She was okay with only polite greetings and trite platitudes. She didn’t need to know about the times from before, or what her Overwatch teammates did on the weekends. She just needed them to listen to her in the field and leave her room to make her plays. Like every time she started a new game, she didn’t have to focus on the past, or what others thought, she just had to focus on the objective in front of her. It’s what got the job done and what kept her alive.

---

Brigitte kept her word to stay out of Hana’s mech. She set up her own work station on the other side of the hangar where she worked on Reinhardt’s gear as well as her own. Hana would sometimes see the blue flash of a shield out of the corner of her eye over the hum of diagnostic scans or smell the burn of sparks from welding. 

One day curiosity got the best of her when she heard the loud, repetitive pounding of a hammer on metal and she wandered across the hangar. 

“You’re doing that by hand?”

Brigitte stopped working when she heard the voice behind her, the deafening echo silenced on the metal shoulder guard she was beating against.

“On this armor I do. Reinhardt’s gear is special from the time it was made. It has to be maintained with some older techniques.”

“Why?”

Brigitte looked at her surprised for a moment then laughed, loud and warm. 

“You know, I wondered the same at first. It’s a bit of the way this armor is made, modern techniques can be too harsh on it, interestingly enough. Too precise and it becomes too fragile.”

“That doesn’t sound true,” D.va said.

“Oh, questioning my methods huh? Well, maybe the truth is more I didn’t originally have the right gear out in the field, and Reinhardt didn’t have much modern tech either, so the only way to do it was by hand. But it’s nice actually to keep doing it this way, I like getting my hands dirty with it. Helps me relax.”

“See that I believe.”

“Well, I’m glad I have your approval, Lieutenant Song.”

D.Va rolled her eyes, but smiled a little.

“I told you before, you can just call me Hana. Although, I do like the respect of authority.”

“Lieutenant suits you.”

Hana smirked a little at the complement, turning to pick something up on a nearby table. She picked up one of Brigitte’s gauntlets, slipping it on her hand. Her arm sagged under the weight, the glove coming up well above her elbow.

“Is it exhausting wearing all this armor? How do you run around with it on? I can barely lift this thing.”

“There’s movement assist when the unit is turned on. But I mean, I think I can handle it.” 

Brigitte smirked as she made a show of flexing her well defined arms, and Hana couldn’t help but gawk a bit before she turned back to fiddling with the glove. 

“Um, yeah I uh, noticed you seem to be in good shape.”

“Oh yeah?” Brigitte was smirking, clearly enjoying the slight fluster she was causing in her new teammate. Hana put the glove back on the table and gave Brigitte a light shove on the arm.

“Oh give me a break, you know you’re buff. Do you even own a shirt with sleeves?”

“I’m very familiar with OW 2.0’s handbook, and the dress code is quite lax about on-base personal attire. But, mostly I just like hearing you complement me.”

Hana rolled her eyes. “Well, I’m glad you’re strong enough to move your ass around in this armor so you can protect my blindspots while I’m doing all the real heavy lifting.”

Brigitte laughed again. Hana couldn’t help but smile too at the warm sound. Brigitte’s whole face lit up, and her eyes crinkled around the edges. No wonder she was the favorite niece.

“Fair. I’ve seen your battle footage and some news clips when you were back in Korea. You’re so strong, I doubt you even need me.”

“Ah, another fan of D.Va. Well, who can blame you,” Hana said with a flick of her hair. She continued to walk around Brigitte’s workstation, picking up random pieces of armor. Brigitte didn’t seem to mind.

“Actually Reinhardt was the real die hard D.Va fan. We used to always have a stash of the instant noodles with your face on them in our rig. Great shelf life. I’m surprised he hasn’t asked you for an autograph yet.”

“Well he’s one to talk! Did you know, when I was a kid there was a Reinhardt special edition line of noodles? I remember I tried them once and they had such a weird flavor. It was like ketchup and curry powder or something. He had a pretty big fanbase in Korea actually.”

“Hah! I didn’t know that, but I’d believe it. There’s been so much Overwatch merchandise over the years, I’ve lost track. They were such celebrities back in the day.”

“Yeah.”

Hana knew a thing or two about having her image used for propaganda. She wondered for a moment what it was like for Brigitte, growing up amongst the same environment, but removed from the center of it. An image of her laughing in the cafeteria with the old guard flashed through her mind. She decided it must have not been too bad, and refrained from asking the question.

“Okay well, I’ll leave you to your meditative, hammer time. I need to get back to my mech anyway, I’ve got a mission tomorrow morning,” Hana said, turning to leave. Brigitte let out a long sigh, slumping into a chair. 

“Oh, it must be nice to leave the base.”

Hana stopped in her tracks, curious again, hearing such an outburst from Brigitte. She turned around and poked one of Brigitte’s large muscles near her shoulder.

“Oh come on, don’t be dramatic. You’ll be done with your training block soon. Fareeha is just, really particular before she lets anyone out on a mission. It took almost two months, and me breaking every score in the simulators for her to let me out in the field.”

“I know, I know. It just sucks sometimes feeling like everyone is being overprotective of me. I can handle myself, I’m not a little kid.”

Hana couldn’t help but give a little hmphf sound, her lips pulling down at the corners. 

“Yeah, I get that feeling. You can’t speed up time though, you just have to grind it out.”

Hana wasn’t normally one for listening to whining, but she thought Brigitte looked quite cute while she pouted, her arms crossed tight against her torso and her lip jutted out. It was hard not to laugh at the sight a bit, but Hana held her tongue. She really did know how it felt to want to prove yourself.

“Hey come on, there’s plenty of work you’re doing here that’s valuable. And when you’re ready, you’ll get called up and out there with the rest of us.”

Brigitte took a deep breath, seeming to blow out the negative feelings in one dramatic sigh. When she straightened up in her chair she seemed to be in better spirits, smiling at Hana again.

“You probably know better than anyone how to do that. Thanks Lieutenant, I’ll try. Let me know if my hammering gets too distracting. I can always go find something else to do.”

“It’s fine. I hardly noticed.”

“Well in that case, I’ll just be over here until dinner time.”

---

A few days later Hana almost threw her computer across the hangar. 

“Why is this piece of shit so useless!”

The MEKA diagnostic program she used to keep Tokki up to date was crashing every five minutes when she tried to run a scan of the system. It had slowly been degrading the last few weeks and after the latest mission it apparently decided it had enough. She tried every trick she knew, both from working on the mech for years and everything she could think of on her personal gaming rig, but she only had rudimentary coding skills and was vastly out of her depth.

“Everything okay?”

Brigitte’s gentle voice called out from a few feet away as she had stopped her own work to come see D.Va’s meltdown.

“Everything’s fine. Except I’m going to have to go throw this piece of crap, and then myself, in the ocean.”

“Sounds like a costly solution. What’s going on?”

“It’s fine. I’m fine, I don’t need anyone’s help.”

She could feel Brigitte’s sympathetic look burning into her cheek and hated it.

“Okay no problem. I’m around though, just let me know if you want an extra set of eyes.”

Hana stared at the email she had sent to Dae-Hyun the day before that still had no response. She knew her mech’s hardware inside and out, but he was the one who really handled all the intense computer program internals. She was out of her depth here and needed him to call her so she could get this thing working again, but he wasn’t answering. Maybe he was deployed somewhere or too busy with a social life now that she was gone. 

She had decided to come here for Overwatch. So maybe she should trust Overwatch.

“Brigitte, wait a minute.”

The other girl paused and turned, only having walked a few feet away from D.Va’s workstation.

“I could probably use some help here, if you’re still offering?”

Brigitte smiled, but it was more muted than her usual mega watt grin. Hana appreciated that she wasn’t making a big deal about it. 

God, why is this girl so nice.

“Definitely.”

Brigitte walked around the workbench where Hana set up her computer station and listened to the general description of the problems. As Hana started clicking through screens to show the protocol she usual ran, Brigitte held up a hand to make her stop.

“I understand what you’re saying, but looking at the text, I can’t read Korean. Does it have a translation setting?” “I doubt it. This thing was only meant to be used by the Korean MEKA squad.” Hana felt her stomach drop at how quick her hopes of getting this programming running were already dashed.

“Well lucky for us, Overwatch has some very robust translation tech we can utilize.” “Really? It’s not the AI is it? I’ve been so resistant to letting her in my computer.”

“That would be one possibility, but there are some more localized options we have. I’ve had to do this once or twice on one of my papa’s projects.”

“How long will it take?” “Don’t know! Could take a while, I’m not going to lie to you, especially with your program already acting buggy. But don’t worry Lieutenant, we’ll sort you out.”

Hana groaned, already having major doubts about letting Brigitte mess with her tech. But she didn’t have a lot of options, and this was probably the least embarrassing choice on the table at the moment. 

Brigitte moved back and forth between D.Va’s workstation and her own across the hangar, gathering cables and a laptop she would use to debug the system. Hana watched over Brigitte’s shoulder for a while, monitoring her work to get the translation program working on the MEKA diagnostic software. 

“Where’d you learn to do this type of thing?”

“Back in college. I had to learn a certain amount of coding for my major, but I helped out Winston some in his lab on campus and he taught me a lot of tricks too.”

“Jesus, is there literally anyone on this fucking base you don’t have some personal connection with?” 

Hana stepped away from the computer and dropped down into an empty chair with a huff, spinning the chair on its axis in erratic circles.

Brigitte stopped typing and watched Hana’s tantrum. “It bothers you that I’ve got a close connection to Overwatch?”

Hana did not reply, but crossed her arms and let out a frustrated sigh. Brigitte’s gaze held her for a moment but eventually shifted back to the computer screen as she seemed to weigh her thoughts on how to respond.

“Why did you leave the MEKA squad to join Overwatch?” she asked finally. “It doesn’t have the best history as an organization, you know.”

Hana stopped spinning to look at the side of Brigitte’s face, who’s eyes were still trained on the laptop screen. “Well it’s better to actually be in a fight than on the sidelines.”

Brigitte stopped what she was doing and turned to face D.va. “You’re the best pilot in the MEKA program. Why would you be sidelined?”

Hana let out a bitter laugh. “Best pilot? I was more than that. I was the face of the fucking Korean army! Which eventually meant I was too valuable to be an actual soldier.” Hana stood up walking to the end of the workbench, reaching out to touch one of her mecha’s guns. She couldn’t see Brigitte, but she could feel the other girl watching her.

“I got real banged up in a fight with the Gwishin. Like, probably should have died kind of banged up. I was out of action for months. After that, the army realized they couldn’t let the poster girl for their success stories die in an actual fight. So they moved me off the Busan base and deployed me to lead baby fights happening inland, but whose sole purpose was really just a photo op.”

Hana balled her fist in anger at her side, remembering how awful it hurt seeing images of herself on television in all those epic battle sequences, reporters singing praises of heroism, only to know the real truth that it was all a fabricated lie. She couldn’t stand it.

“So when Winston and Lena came to my apartment and asked me to join the new Overwatch, it was a no brainer. My piloting skills are too valuable to just be sidelined in a studio with a green screen.”

The MEKA squad team was fairly understanding when she told them. The same couldn’t be said for her commanding officers, but as D.Va, the amount of influence and money at her disposal proved sufficient for a smooth enough transition.

“I believed this was my shot to get back in the fight. So even if there’s some bad history there, this is a new chance for me, and I am ready to deal with any fallout.” 

Text whizzed by in the background of the computer screen as the console spat out a continuous stream of logs from the program Brigitte fired off as she listened in silence. 

“I never liked Overwatch. I still don’t,” Brigitte finally said.

Hana turned to face her, very confused. 

“Really? But, you’re like, one of the legacy kids.”

“All that means is I know more of the gritty details and seen firsthand the way people I love were chewed up by this place.”

Hana’s brow furrowed in thought, crossing her arms as she focused on Brigitte. Hana had been so taken in by all the happy scenes in the mess hall and around the base, she hadn’t even thought about the implications and complications that must have been a part of Brigitte’s life. She was so good at always putting on a bright face, how could she have known? 

Brigitte took a deep breath, looking weary as she took a moment to gather her thoughts. 

“When I was a kid, it was like I was one of those audience members you talked about. I was told all the best stories about heroes and villains, and it so happened that my family were literally starring as those heroes. But when I was a little older, I started learning more about history, and the other side of things. The PETRAS act. In fighting and war crimes. Blackwatch. Angela’s medical tech weaponized against her wishes, by my own father it turns out. Winston and Tracer buried under so much red tape, I’m honestly surprised they were ever allowed to leave a military base of their own free will. And Reinhardt... He’s a lot like you, I think. Brave, loyal, too stubborn to be just the face of a movement without putting his own skin on the line. Not when there’s something bigger than himself he believes in.”

A deep sigh, and an almost painful expression crossed her face.

“So no, I don’t like Overwatch. But I also can’t sit on the sidelines while they risk their lives, knowing I can help them. They’re my family. So here I am. Family can be complicated, ya know?” 

Before Hana could come up with something to say, the computer dinged behind them. Brigitte tapped on the keys, reading quickly when a smile crossed her lips. 

“Look at that, perfectly legible Swedish.”

“It’s fixed?” Hana hurried over to look at the computer screen.

“Well, the translation program is running. Now I need to actually debug your diagnostics program.”

“Ughhhh, I’m never going to leave this place.”

Brigitte chuckled. “Don’t worry, we’ll get it done. Feel free to go get some dinner if you want. This will take a while.”

“No way I’m going to leave you here all alone!”

“I promise I won’t touch Tokki.”

“It’s not...it’s not that, Brigitte. I just don’t feel right strolling off to dinner while you’re stuck here fixing my shit.”

Brigitte smiled.

“Okay. I definitely don’t mind the company.”

---

Hana tried to keep up with what Brigitte was talking about as she debugged the code. And she could follow along, for a while. Eventually she was way too lost to feel useful, and didn’t want to distract Brigitte while she was fixing the issues, so she retreated to a nearby futon against a wall. It was well past midnight, and Hana’s eyes were starting to droop. Brigitte drank one of the Dva branded nano cola energy drinks a while ago and seemed to be completely in the zone. 

The next thing Hana knew there was a strip of bright light in her eyes as the sun started to stream in through a window in the hangar. Hana stretched to pull out the discomfort her back protested with from not being in her bed, but it was really not that unfamiliar, considering some of the positions she’d fallen asleep at her gaming computer before. A blanket was draped across her body she didn’t remember picking up when laid down on the futon. She was all alone in the hangar and her watch told her it was just after 5am. 

“Brigitte?”

No one answered.

She sat up, noticing an unopened water bottle and energy bar laid out on the ground beside her futon with a little sticky note.

“Give it a go, Lt - Brig”

Hana scooped up the rations and dropped in front of the dark screen of her laptop. When she started up the terminal screen, her diagnostic programming kicked off like it normally did. All in Korean. 

The screen showed exactly where an electric circuit was tripping in the defense matrix grid of the mech, which had been glitching in the field the last few days. Hana noticed the parts and tools needed to complete the fix laid out on the workbench neatly, but when she poked her head in the mech, it remained untouched.

She smiled to herself.

“Kept her word to stay out of Tokki. These Overwatch kids are too much sometimes.”

D.Va pulled the panel off her mech and got to work.

----

At dinner that night, Hana spotted Brigitte in the mess hall with Reinhardt, Tracer and Winston. Brigitte gave her a wink when she noticed her. Hana got her meal and sat beside her, leaving her phone in her pocket for once.

“Thanks for the help with Tokki, Brigitte. Works like a charm now.”

“It was my pleasure, Lieutenant Song.” Brigitte’s smile was kind, her expression gentle and warm. Hana noticed this close up Brigitte’s eyes were lighter around the edges, and she had a few more freckles on her left cheek than the right.

“Did I just ‘ear you call ‘ana Lieutenant?” Lena cut in. “She’s ‘Lieutenant’, but I can’ get none of you to call me Captain? Double standards round ‘ere, I tell ya what.”.

“Well, Hana was a more recent officer in her respective position, while you have been discharged from the RAF for several years now.”

“Who’s side you on Win!? Those ranks don’t expire!”

Brigitte chuckled, whipping her head around to look at Tracer’s shaking her hand dramatically in the air, eyes downcast in an over acted, scandalized look. Hana also let out a small giggle.

“Your rank on the flight simulator scoreboard sure did,” Hana said, poking her tongue out with a playful smirk at Tracer. Brigitte, Reinhardt and Winston all laughed.

“She’s got you there, Lena,” Brigitte said.

“The youth of today. Ruthless.” Tracer grabbed a fist over her heart as if shot in the chest by a bullet.

“You know, back in my days of Overwatch…”

Reinhardt started in on one of his specially tailored stories for whatever situation was at hand, this case a very detailed recount of the first time he granted a field promotion in the Crusaders. Brigitte sighed, correcting inaccuracies she heard along the way, giving a wink to Hana when Brigitte’s presence in the story was pulled into the story much later on.

Lena took up the torch after that, remembering a time she accidentally flew into restricted airspace and managed to sweet talk her way out of being shot down. They all took turns sharing more elaborate one ups from their time before Overwatch. Hana even volunteered a story, sharing the time she convinced Dae-hyun to set Tokki up to stream a battle with the omnics. She broke her single day subscriber count in under one hour.

They all laughed well into the night, and for the first time Hana really started to feel like part of the team.

---

Thank you for reading! Please leave a comment if you enjoyed!

[ymiwritesstuff]

The Limits of a Hero

Hello hello, I’m here to bring you something rather special. A quick fun fact: When I started writing years ago, Link was actually the first character I ever wrote for, so this piece is sort of going back to my roots as a writer. That, and I’ve been in a HUGE Twilight Princess mood lately, (I recently bought a few volumes of the manga and I am very much enjoying it) so I thought I’d write this quick thing for my favorite incarnation of Link. I hope those of you who also like him will enjoy this.

The Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess

Link x Reader

Summary: During a seemingly ordinary night out in the woods you decide to give the hero a much needed chance to rest.

Notes: Fluff, some light angst

The tree trunk felt rough against your back, but it provided a much-needed opportunity to finally rest and recollect your energy after yet another day of fighting against the twilight and its corrupt ruler. Yet you found a strange calm when surrounded by the night, the warm flames of the campfire swaying in the cool wind.

The wood crackled, the breeze howled and your eyelids grew heavy. You wouldn’t close them, however. Not yet. Instead, you kept your (E/C) eyes on the glowing fire, occasionally throwing in a stick or two to make sure your source of heat wouldn’t disappear.

Your thoughts wandered, as they often did ever since you were thrown into this dangerous adventure. How did everything change so fast? You could still hear the water trickling down the waterwheel in Ordon as if it was yesterday. Everything had gone wrong so fast, and now you were trying to save the entire kingdom from something you didn’t fully understand.

You knew it was the same for Link. But unlike you, he was much better at suppressing his confusion and doubts. You had noticed a change in him, no doubt caused by the sudden responsibility laid upon his broad shoulders. In addition to the more obvious changes in his attire, his cerulean eyes lost some of their glow, he somehow grew even more silent and he didn’t smile as often. All because he felt that his role as the hero chosen by the Gods demanded it.

It must have been tiring, you thought, yet he pressed on, never once letting even a single mention of how much it all weighed down on him slip from his lips. But you could see it. Whether it was in the way his shoulders fell with a sigh whenever he finished slaughtering a group of Bokoblins or how he yawned and stretched his arms almost every time he hopped off Epona. His body was fatigued, but his eyes held nothing but determination.

The rustling of leaves that came from behind snapped you back to reality, and your eyes fell on the bush where the grey animal soon emerged from, carrying something in his mouth the edges of which and a part of his lower body was seemingly damp. You watched as he walked with heavy steps towards the fire before dropping the thing you recognized to be a Hyrule Bass on the ground.

The fish flopped on the dirt and you found yourself raising a confused eyebrow at him, before locating his fishing rod not too far away from the fire, indicating that he had forgotten to take it with him. You looked at the fish again.

“Are we this desperate?” You managed to ask him as his beastly form quickly reverted to his original form you were familiar with. He sat on the ground and gave you a slight nod.

“We’re running low on food,” he said, taking a sip from his bottle of water. Most of his equipment was laying on the ground, though he was still fully clad in his green tunic, chainmail and all.

You noticed him taking out a small knife, no doubt intending to use it to prepare the freshly caught fish. He would not dare use his sacred sword for such a task. The bass was fairly big, enough for both of you, you surmised.

“I can take care of it,” you offered, noticing the tired look in his eyes as they turned to you. He shook his head lightly.

“It’s fine, (Name),” he assured and began cutting into the flesh, but you persisted.

“You haven’t slept properly in days.” It had been an exhausting few days, filled to the brim with battles against Shadow Beasts and other enemies. It took its toll on both of you yet he showed no outward signs of fatigue. Not that it was necessary, for right now, anyone could see the dark circles and bags under his otherwise gorgeous eyes.

He glanced at you, clearly pondering over your words while continuing to cut the fish. You were right, as you often were. He was exhausted, but the selflessness in him didn’t want you to lose any of the sleep you needed.

“Someone has to keep watch,” he began, but you quickly shut him down.

“Which I can do.”

You scooted over to him, noticing him making the final cuts to the scaly flesh of the fish. Placing a hand on top of his, you kept your eyes on him, trying to convince him.

“You need to rest, Link. Please.”

Upon hearing your voice that left your lips as a quiet plea he finally gave in, letting out a sigh that carried all his exhaustion into the air and letting go of the knife. He finally turned to you, his drained eyes glowing in silent relief.

“Will you be alright? You know you can wake me up any time if-”

“I’ll be fine. The only thing you need to worry about is getting some sleep.”

Your hand reached up to slowly remove his cap, exposing his dirty blond hair that bathed in the glowing embers of the campfire. You offered him a smile equally warm as the flames which he thankfully returned.

Planting the tiniest kiss on his cheek, you retreated from him, once again leaning against a lone tree. With your hand you lightly patted your lap, wanting the hero in front of you to have the best possible chance at getting a good night’s rest.

He laid his weary head on your lap and almost immediately, he let out a long yawn that indicated just how much he needed this, despite his stubborn protests. Your fingers found their way into his hair, running through his locks in a soothing manner.

Silence fell around you, though it was a refreshing change from the usual noises of battle and struggles. You stared at the fire once again, its welcoming warmth enveloping both of you.

“You’ve changed,” you admitted, thinking back to the simpler times, during which Link would have been more than compliant to sleep when he needed it. He let out a soft sigh, his eyes glued to the starlit sky above.

“I guess I have,” he agreed. You wondered if he meant it to the same degree as you did. Even now, you noticed the solemn expression on his face you had never seen back home.

Home. You thought about it a lot. Maybe a little too much at times. Ordon meant a lot to you, even more to Link you assumed. Perhaps that’s why he had gotten so stoic and serious. He was merely trying to protect what he held dear.

It was admirable, he was, by all accounts, a hero. Courageous, selfless, strong, yet still a mere Hylian. A capable Hylian indeed, but still a Hylian. A Hylian who the entire kingdom needed to save them. Everyone expected so much of him, it seemed as if he himself forgot his limits.

“You’re not all-powerful, Link.”

Your eyes fell on him, and his own looked up at you. Someone needed to be his voice of reason, and you were more than willing to take that role if it meant ensuring his safety when he sometimes couldn’t.

“Maybe I should be.”

Your eyebrows frowned at that. You knew he felt a certain sense of guilt about what happened to the children of the village. They were safe now, but there was a stinging sensation of shame embedded in him that made him feel responsible for all of it.

“Don’t say that. You did all you could. Pushing yourself to the point where you can’t stay up anymore won’t solve anything.”

He knew you were right. You almost always were. Link had always secretly wondered if it was a blessing that it was you who had accidentally stumbled across the same wall of Twilight that had transformed him into a beast. In all honesty, he was thankful.

“I’m just... Worried about you,” you confessed, feeling a small sense of dread in the core of your being. Just thinking about what could happen to him if he didn’t take care of himself made your stomach churn.

A troubled look fell on his face, as if he was feeling guilty about making your eyes fill with concern. You inhaled deeply and pressed your lips on his forehead, not wanting your own uneasiness make him anxious.

“Rest now. I’ll keep watch.”

With a small nod, he allowed his heavy eyelids to close and it didn’t take long for him to fall asleep, soft snores escaping his mouth that was partially agape.

For the first time in days, he looked truly peaceful. His body relaxed, rid of any signs of stress or tension, the only movement being that of his chest, moving up and down due to his steady breathing. With a smile you continued running your digits through his hair, hoping to comfort him even in his dreams you could only hope were as tranquil as your current surroundings.

“Goodnight, Link.”

[mycrofts-gunbrella]

Caring is the Greatest Advantage- Part Eight (Mycroft Holmes x Reader)

Sorry for such a long delay!! It’s my little boy’s first birthday this week so I’ve been running around making arrangements and picking up last minute presents! Hope you enjoy this little chapter. It’s only 3K words, but it is a build up ready for the next chapter which will contain smut! Not full blown smut (I don’t think Mycroft is ready for that yet!) but still smutty nonetheless!

I will separate the smutty bit enough so that you can skip it if you want, but it will be referenced later on in that chapter!

Word Count- 3062

This morning differed from the last few that you had experienced since staying at Mycroft's home, namely because Mycroft had awoken before you this time, but also because it was the first morning you had ever been awoken by long fingers prodding at your forehead. That and also because, despite last night's late events, you managed to arise at a reasonable 9am.

"Did you know there are a lot nicer ways to wake somebody up?" You questioned, opening your eyes to see Mycroft staring at you with a slight frown to his brow. He retracted his hand slightly and shifted to sit a little higher.

"You know, Sherlock as a child once woke me in a similar way. I felt small scratches on my eyebrows and woke up to see him crouched over me with a smug little grin on his face. As it turns out, he had slipped sleeping pills into my cup of tea before bed and in my slumber covered my eyebrows in toothpaste." You covered your mouth with your hand and snorted slightly. "He'd come in to see if there was anything left beneath them, which, of course, there wasn't.. claimed it was just an experiment. I'd like to laugh and be more dignified about it upon looking back, but I struggle because he was only six and already a sod."

"Okay, you've proven there are in fact worse ways to wake up." You didn't make big deals out of it, but every time Mycroft welcomed you a little more into the stories of his youth, you can't help but feel your heart warm. It may not seem like much, but coming from Mycroft, a very private man who hasn't been treated the best over the years, it meant everything. You stretched and moved your hands up to rub your eyes, flinching a little as your fingers brushed against the bit of your head above your eyebrows. "Bugger." You winced, poking again and feeling a small lump.

"I was going to warn you but you laughed at my traumatic eyebrow removal story." You groaned and recalled your memory of last night and where you believe the bruise originated from.

"I jumped into bed last night sulking a bit that you wouldn't talk to me and uh.. misjudged.." Mycroft snickered slightly from your side, you swatted his arm. "Tit. I'm blaming you. This wouldn't have happened if you didn't go all Han Solo in carbonite on me." You spoke playfully, letting him know you weren't truly peeved.

"I thought you said it was cute?"

"That was clearly a concussion talking." You stretched once more and climbed out of the bed, walking over to a mirror above a dressing table and rolling your eyes. "Might need your special government powers to clear out the cafe else Ms Woodall will think we've had a domestic." Bernice Woodall, owner of one of your favourite little cafes settled on the outskirts of St James' Park was a very.. particular lady. She could have a good laugh one moment, and start a quarrel with a customer over the amount they stir their tea the next. But, you'd have to admit, she has one hell of an all day breakfast menu; you could practically taste one of her omelettes just by thinking about it, making your stomach growl loudly.

"I would but, if I am to be very honest, she genuinely scares me a little. I think she could overthrow MI5 so I daren't even try." You stood and moved into Mycroft's bedroom, grabbing your bag of clothes and picking through a few of the pairs of your jeans Anthea had brought and scanning through the t-shirts. Your fingers brushed over the creases of the shirt that had formed from being stuffed in the bag and frowned.

"Perhaps it would be more suitable for you to pop those in one of the chest of drawers? I'm sure I have at least one drawer empty.." Myc's voice came from behind you and you fell from your crouching position, clutching your heart.

"You and your bloody spy legs, you just scared the shit out of me." You stood back up, your pile of today's clothes in one hand and the bag of the rest in the other. "Giving me a drawer in your place already? Ooh Myc you are serious." You grinned playfully, following him as he guided you to a set of drawers in the opposite corner of the room. Mycroft halted and opened his mouth to make some kind of comment but you cut him off, placing your folded clothes inside the Edwardian furniture. "Only teasing.. I'm just glad you haven't kicked me out yet. Though I don't think my own bed will ever feel as comfortable as yours. I might not want to go back now you've spoilt me, you'll just have to be blunt when you're bored of me." You winked at him and carried your outfit into the en suite bathroom to get ready. Mycroft headed over to his wardrobe to pluck out his own clothes, electing to remain somewhat casual for your trip to breakfast with a pair of navy chinos and a lighter blue button up before muttering slightly under his breath.

"And if I never am?"

In the rare parts of his life where he allowed to imagine himself getting into a relationship, Mycroft had never expected himself to be overwhelmed with so much emotion so quickly, but with you it was almost as though he had no control; as though there had been so many pent up feelings over the years that they just seem to have exploded without any rational thought behind it. And whilst these were all new to Mycroft, and how he still wasn't entirely sure about everything that he felt when it came to things with you, the only thing he was positive about was that he didn't want it to go. And that meant not wanting you to leave. Which was ridiculous. You had just under two weeks left together until you would be needed back at work, and he would have to return to fighting on Britain's behalf, but the thought of you not being at home to greet him when he finished, or him not being able to pick you up in one of his cars from the Yard to take you both home made him feel a sense of disappointment. He shook himself from his thoughts when you emerged from the bathroom fully dressed.

"On second thoughts, I may take the risk. I'm not sure I can have members of the general public associating me with a Sex Pistols fan, no matter how humerous you may believe that top to be." You walked out proudly wearing your 'God Save the Queen' t-shirt with a grin. "You are aware tha-"

"That when the Sex Pistols released their song 'God Save the Queen' in 1977 it was around the same time of The Queen's silver jubilee and thus it was banned for a while on the premise of being 'bad gross taste'? You've only mentioned it every time I wear this shirt.. Though if your research extended enough then you'd know Paul Cook said it wasn't written specifically FOR the jubilee.. So if one of Lizzie's spies catch me in the act, I shall make a very sincere apology." Mycroft took his own clothes into the bathroom to get ready himself and scoffed.

"But I AM one of 'Lizzie's Spies'." He mused, leaning slightly against the doorframe after settling the outfit on the counter. You turned around on your heel and stood up on your tiptoes, pushed him more forcefully against the doorframe and placed your hands on Mycroft's cheeks, pressing your lips softly against his. His shock subsided before he kissed you tentatively, his hand resting on your lower back. You pulled away after a moment and ushered him into the bathroom to get ready, closing the door behind you and leaving him still slightly red faced and confused.

"Consider that my sincere apology." You headed over to the dresser and began to tie up your hair. "But hurry up, I'm starving." You called, moving the hairbrush too low and brushing against your bruise, making you wince loudly. From the bathroom, you heard Mycroft's voice before the sound of him brushing his teeth.

"Head?"

"Well I was thinking more along the lines of breakfast, but who knows what the day will bring." You heard the sound of Mycroft choking on his toothpaste and wished to whatever deity out there that you could have seen his face. Yes, you had promised to try and be less overbearing with your comments but he walked into that one. You grinned and sat down on the side of the bed, briefly scanning through your phone before Mycroft emerged, his face still burnt a red as deep as the burgundy sweatshirt he had paired with his outfit. The fact he had come out at all at least let you know that your joke hadn't taken it too far.

"You're a minx."

"And you wouldn't change it. Now let's go!"

---

Only 20 minutes later had you both be found sitting comfortably in Ms Woodall's cafe, tucking into your respective meals- with you noticing, but not commenting on, Mycroft eating comfortably until the last bite of toast was gone, a sense of pride warming within you. Not too long after, Bernice herself headed over to clear up your tables.

"I trust everything was up to standard?" She asked, piling your plates onto her little trolley and offering top ups on your drinks.

"Splendid as usual, Ms Woodall." Mycroft smiled, accepting his new cup of tea and cradling it comfortably between his long fingers.

"Still proving to be our favourite place for breakfast." You praised, your hand reaching out to fondly brush against Mycroft's before taking your coffee into hand. Bernice watched your movements and raised her brow knowingly.

"Took the pair of you long enough. I had been half tempted to abstain from feeding you here until I got one of you to say something, it had started making me feel a bit sick watching you eye each other up each time you'd get up to order something." You rested your elbow on the table, hand covering your mouth as you let out a laugh.

"Yes, well, I can't promise you the ogling will stop on my behalf." You teased.

"And why should it? Mr Holmes in those posh little outfits is enough to make anyone swoon." And with that she had headed back out into the kitchen again.

"There you go, Myc. Should anything happen to me, my replacement is only round the corner."

"Mmm, and she does make a rather good cup of tea. Perhaps I shouldn't wait that long." His lip raised slightly in a smirk as he took a sip of his hot beverage.

"Oh really? Need I start getting possessive; stand my ground?" Before Mycroft could quip back, Ms Woodall had returned with a plate of biscuits in hand.

"Means you've already answered my next question, anywho." She hummed, placing the plate down between you and perching on the corner of the table beside yours. The pair of you gave her a questioning look and she continued, pointing up to her own forehead. "Tony and I were just as bad at the start of our marriage. Anywhere and everywhere we could get our hands on each other, I ended up with bumps and scrapes from alleys, the backs of cars, even in that one restaurant toilet that time.." You choked on your coffee and Mycroft all but dropped his teacup. "Oh don't act so ignorant, even us oldies had sex in their time." Your eyes caught Mycroft's and you could see him stifling down a laugh, biting softly on his knuckle- which, in itself, shouldn't have been as attractive to you as it was, but it is what it is.

"And with that thought, we best be off. Got a movie date planned." You commented, coughing down your own laugh as Bernice continued.

"Though to be fair it never stopped, all that spontaneity. Even towards the end, he could be like a lad of nineteen with how it was. God the positions, you'd have mistaken me for a gymnast and he could last for ages. I'd just lie there wondering 'will this pleasure never end'?" You could feel tears prick at your eyes as your laughter began to break through. "And then of course once Tony passed a couple years ago it all stopped. Shame really, all those years together, ending how it did.. Though sometimes I'm not sure if it's him that I miss or his massiv-"

"Ms Woodall we really should be going, thank you for breakfast." Mycroft hastily threw a few £20 notes on the table, far too much to cover your meal but enough to distract Bernice while tugging your hand and beelining for the door. Once safely distanced from the apparent nymphomaniac cafe owner you had to stop in your tracks to let out a laugh, Mycroft's hand still in yours as you doubled over.

"I can't believe she said that! She's so open."

"Evidently." Mycroft's comment set you off again, his laughter following, ignoring how you caught the attention of a few people passing by. "I do hope you are in no rush for breakfast there again any time soon, I don't think I can look her in the eye for a good while."

"Still so sure on replacing me with her so soon? I think she'd break you."

"Or turn me into a whore." You snorted and settled back to walking.

---

"Drink?"

"Please. Tea, hold the sexual history."

"I'll try my very best, though, much like my tea, I imagine my list would be abysmal in comparison to old Ms Woodall." You flicked on the kettle, eager to replace the half drunk coffee you had discarded on the cafe table in your escape from listening about pensioner sex. "Will you load up the movie?"

"No. But I shall get the film ready to go.. How the American dialect found its way back to England will never fail to disappoint me." You had followed him into the room shortly after, mugs on the table and settled on the sofa beside Mycroft.

"You know, typically, when people elect for a movie day, they don't choose the tenth movie in the series to watch first." You grinned, tucking your legs beneath your body in an attempt to get comfortable. You continued your shuffling movements and heard Mycroft's voice.

"I believe we both agree that Carry On Cleo is the superior of the 31 movies for, well, a multitude of reasons." He trailed.

"I shan't object. It's sweet that you remember it's the first one we watched together.. Had it not been for you hearing Kenneth's famous 'Infamy, infamy' line persuading you to come over, I fear that I'd have been set up with one of Greg's mates by now, sitting in a pub nursing a G+T."

"I never said I remembered that."

"You didn't have to. You and I both know that your favourite was always Carry on Camping."

"Yes, well.. Opinions change with experience."

"Is this our equivalent of a patronus? Yours has changed and matched with mine? Very cute, Myc. Might I expect you in a 'Never Mind the Bollocks' shirt next week?" You teased, electing to lay down with your head lightly using Mycroft's thigh as a pillow, feeling grateful when he didn't shove you off with a comment about ruining the linen of his trousers, and instead took to softly brushing his fingers over your head, narrowly missing the purple bump each time.

"You'd have better chances of catching me running naked down the street."

"Is that a promise?" A flick to your forehead.

"Just play the bloody film."

---

By the time the film had finished, your cheeks had hurt from smiling and your eyelids had felt heavy. Whilst getting up at a reasonable hour had felt like an achievement this morning, the lack of sleep from the previous night was beginning to catch up to you.

"Myc? Would it be entirely improper to nap on the sofa when there are multiple reasonable beds upstairs before continuing our films?"

"Only about as improper as it is to have a midday nap when you're not a young child." You shifted your head from his lap and sat up, ignoring the fact that you actually did end up ruining the linen of his trousers with the crease of your skull.

"Let me rephrase. Mycroft, would you be willing to break your proper posh boy streak and nap with me on the sofa?"

"I suppose it wouldn't hurt to deviate from one's usual behaviours in order to satisfy those one holds dear."

"That's a yes, right? Good, lay down, else I may just collapse right at this moment." Mycroft's sofa certainly was a significantly bit bigger than those usually found in somebody's front room, but it was still nowhere near wide enough for two people to lay with distance. Even still, he followed your request and rotated his body, lifting his long legs to rest down the side of the sofa while you slid into the gap beside him. He eventually circled his arm beneath you and rested his hand on your hip, your face softly brushing against the comforting material of his jumper. "If you drop me, I will be holding you accountable." You mumbled, shifting your body closer to his. He merely hummed, his hand slightly bunching in your shirt and his arm tightening. "I'd always hoped you were secretly a cuddler."

"Make a point of it or tell Sherlock and I'll throw you off." You couldn't even think of a witty comeback before your slumber had taken over, the smell of Mycroft and the sounds of him breathing overstimulating your senses. Mycroft being a secret cuddler hadn't been as much of a shock to you as it probably should have, but you welcome it completely and feel incredibly thankful that he trusts you enough to let you be that close to him, to feel his body in such a way. And you would embrace that- and him- as long as he would let you.

[cherriesfineline]

Au Pair – Chapter I

It's finally here – I'm sorry this took so long, this past few weeks have been a mess but here it is, our first chapter for the Au Pair series; I kinda hate this, ngl- I always hate first chapters, a lot of introductory info and bla bla but yeah.

In the weird case you happen to enjoy this and want to be added into the taglist (starting next chapter) you can request it here.

Feedback, likes or reblogs are so, so appreciated! I'm very much new to the whole writing world so yeah it'd be really helpful to hear your thoughts about this <3

Love you all, have a wonderful week beauties!

Warnings: none specifically for this chapter – age gap.

WC: 6.6k

Masterlist

Y/N was tired, to say the least.

And it wasn’t the tiredness she used to feel after a long work shift at her previous job -where her boss was an old, grumpy lady with horrible manners- or the exhaustion felt after spending hours crying due to a fight with her mother. No, this was different. It was a tiredness she couldn’t get rid of; a tiredness no lavender smelling bath or hours upon hours of sleep could amend.

She couldn't pinpoint the exact moment her brain shifted in such a drastic way. Y/N could easily recognize and admit her life had never been an exciting one; a memorable one. Ever since she was a little girl it all seemed to fly by; graduations, birthdays, friendships – nothing ever seemed to leave an impact and nothing ever seemed as exciting as everyone else put it to be. She knew she struggled with allowing herself to enjoy things, but this far her life had been pretty average.

Maybe it was the fact that she was 22 years old and never been in a real relationship what skyrocketed her fear of dying alone. Now, she knew it might seem exaggerated – 22 years wasn’t a long life at all, but the pungent emptiness she’d been feeling felt like her inevitable destiny – like that’s how life was supposed to be for her.

England felt different, though. But in all honesty, her emotions hadn’t had switched into completely different ones like she’d expected to happen when she applied for this job as an Au Pair all the way back in February.

With a steaming hot cup of coffee between her cold hands, she sat down next to Coco (a very soft grey Scottish Fold) on the giant couch of her new home, scratching in between his tiny ears earning a low purr in response. Coco had become one of her closest friends so far, along with Anya, a three year old girl with cute blonde locks and a laugh so contagious it made the muscles on your cheeks ache after a long playdate.

Maybe moving away wasn’t the smartest choice. It actually might be one of the stupidest choices she had ever made, actually – moving all the way across the globe when she cried herself to sleep most nights due to her loneliness overcoming her (almost inexistent) self-awareness. Y/N liked to believe she had a wide understanding of her emotions, but it was a blatant lie.

At least she was distracted for most of the day – taking care of two kids and looking after a teenager wasn’t an easy task. It required a lot of mental presence; but by the time she was in bed at night, it all hit back again. She thought maybe this is how life is supposed to be for her, lonely – maybe it was not her brain playing her tricks but her brain making her see how her life truly was.

It’d been two weeks since the Lockehold family picked Y/N up from the airport, and on one side getting physically adjusted to this new life hadn't been as rough as she thought it’d be. She did have it easy, if she had to admit – a big room in a giant, beautiful home and a car to her disposal. Emotionally, on the other side, life was still the same.

She knew the moment she heard heels hitting the cold marble staircase Bella was on her way down with Ivy, the eldest of the three sisters, following close behind, complaining about a hangout she was apparently going to miss because they “are expecting a guest” as Bella announced, meaning neither of her parents could drive her. That’s how Y/N found herself sitting in her (borrowed) blue Jeep Renegade driving Ivy to her friend Lily’s house – who lived in the same rich, over-the-top neighborhood as her guest family, which meant the ride to and back was no longer than twenty minutes. During those minutes together, though, Y/N could physically feel the irritation running through Ivy’s blood because first, she still wasn’t too fond of Y/N because she is 16 and doesn’t need a babysitter -her words, not Y/N’s- and second, Y/N is still not accustomed to driving on the other side of the road.

Technically, Y/N had the weekends off. Living with the same people who employed her gladly didn’t mean working 24/7, but she hoped she could earn a couple of points in her favor if she took her free time to drive her around.

After a short conversation between the two (where Ivy refused to save Y/N’s number in case an emergency came up because she could always call her dad), Y/N dropped her off and drove back to the Lockehold’s. What caught her off guard, was the sight of someone in the driveway at the house next door getting suitcases out of the trunk of a black cab – there hadn’t been any movement in the old Victorian mansion since she’d moved in next door. A man, definitely very tall, dressed in a dark suit is all Y/N could decipher since it was already dark outside and she had to strictly concentrate on not switching to the opposite side of the road out of habit.

Alex was coming down the stairs when Y/N locked the front door – Bella’s husband was a very handsome man for his age, probably anyone could admit it. He was kind of scary sometimes, but was a true sweetheart on the inside; he’s in his mid-40’s and it was clear as day his family meant everything to him, he even treated Y/N like his own daughter, always making sure she’s comfortable and inviting her to most family hangouts – even though Y/N declined pretty often to allow them to have quality time as a family (and because being too socially involved drained her, but they needn’t have to know that)

“You wanna join us for dinner? We have a guest tonight. A family friend.”

“Oh, no, I'm good, you guys enjoy yourselves. I’ll say hello, though.” Y/N replied with a smile; and as before mentioned, even though she had the weekends to herself, they still loved to insist on her joining them for fancy dinners and whatnot. The Lockehold’s loved being hostesses, loved having people around (from what Y/N learned this past two weeks) but she really wanted -and needed- some time for herself after being with them the entire week, and even though she loved hanging out with them, she just wasn’t in the mood tonight.

“You sure? Bella made homemade pasta, from scratch. Her specialty.” Mouthwatering, Y/N thought. Bella was such an amazing cook, and even though she worked hours upon hours every day, she still came to her husband and kids in time to make dinner every night, not missing a single day.

“Sounds delicious, but I think I’ll pass, I’m just really tired.” And before anyone could make another comment, the loud bell ringing through the main floor of the house startled Y/N as it’s louder than ordinary – and sounded kind of old and creepy, in her opinion. By the time the constant thud in her chest lowered to a normal speed, she could recognize Bella’s voice in the foyer, meaning she was the one who received their guest, with a deep voice following after saying 'thank you for having me'.

"He's here!" Alex clasped his hands together, a wide smile appearing in his face. Y/N followed him into the living room where Bella was already chatting animatedly with a man; tall and with broad shoulders (but not excessively; just the right amount) his figure was leaning slightly forward as he listened to Bella rambling about all the 'good things he had missed while he was away'. His hands were clasped on his back and when he lifted his head, he made direct eye contact with Y/N without even having to search for her eyes. His brown curls were perfectly placed on top of his head looking extremely soft, and when he ran his hand through it Y/N couldn’t help but swallow harshly. He undoubtedly looked like someone who belonged in Hollywood next to a young Leo DiCaprio and he was definitely older than Y/N – probably already in his 30's, she guessed, but ageing like the finest wine. He had the softest looking wrinkles in the corners of his eyes – those eyes, forest green; reminded Y/N of what used to be home for her. His intense gaze held a lot of emotion, a lot of thought, unlike his face, that appeared stiff and cold, with a slight crease between his brows. His pink, heart-shaped lips were pressed in a line, a cute mole adorning one side of his chin.

"Harry! It's so good to see you, we've missed you." Alex's excitement forced him to drift his gaze away from Y/N, leaving her like a heated teenager salivating for him. Y/N honestly thought he might had left her speechless and most likely with increasing probabilities to make a fool out of herself if someone needed her to talk, as she was certain she wouldn't be able to formulate any coherent sentences.

Harry. It totally suited him, Y/N repeated his name a couple of times inside her head to check on its pronunciation. Alex reached him and pulled him in a big hug, patting each other's back, and Harry's lips broke into a huge smile making a line of pearly white teeth appear. And dimples. God, he had dimples.

This is how I die, Y/N thought.

"So good to see you, Alex." If sex was a sound, his voice would definitely be it.

"Your skin is glowing, Harry. Italy always does you wonders." Bella gushed. And she was right – his skin had this beautiful golden undertone, but it looked natural and radiant, almost like the sun itself kissed and caressed his skin with the softest touches. Alex snapped Y/N into reality when he turned to face her and grabbed her hand to pull her closer to them, starting a long introduction no one was paying much attention to, explaining how he’d missed her arrival, like he even cared, and how she was the Au Pair they’d all been talking about ever since February. It wasn’t until Alex mentioned something about Y/N and Harry probably seeing each other a lot she was suddenly interested in what was actually going on.

“He owns the school the girl’s attend.” Alex directed towards her. Now, Y/N assumed the moment she laid eyes on him he was probably rich – who wears a suit to a Sunday dinner with friends? Rich people are weird, that’s something we can all agree on; but owning a school which’s monthly fees per kid were worth three of her salaries? That was quite unexpected.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Harry." Y/N offered him her hand, trying to sound as casual as possible, even if her skin felt like it was burning under his intense gaze and her eyes were definitely betraying her.

"The pleasure’s all mine, Y/N." He shook her hand. His strong hold sent shivers down her spine; the cold rings making a big contrast against the heat his hand radiated and she couldn't help but fantasize about how his touch would feel in some other places.

The sudden embarrassment feeling hot against her cheeks made her turn around impossibly faster, feeling guilty at the dirty thoughts consuming her brain while around her bosses – and in front of him. Making a beeline straight to her room, announcing she was calling it a night, she sent Harry a quick -but quite charming- smile, and couldn’t help but soften at the sound of Anya running down the stairs yelling an excited ‘Harryyyy’ once she was past the kitchen.

She knew she got lucky with her commodities – an entire studio-like apartment past the main kitchen of the house, where the servant’s area used to be located a handful of decades ago; but she cussed in a whisper when she remembered half way through her making of a sandwich (four hours after she’d retreated to her bedroom and because she decided on skipping dinner that night, not having enough energy to cook) that her lazy ass still hadn’t bought mayonnaise. Her small kitchen had enough space to hold her snacks, along with some ingredients to make a few meals, since she only had to worry about food on the weekends. Reluctantly, she took the small plate holding her sandwich and made her way towards the main kitchen. There was no way in hell she’d eat a sandwich with no mayo – never in a million years, too dry to go down her throat.

I guess they won't mind if I grab just enough to put on my sandwich, she thought. The house was quiet, everyone probably already in bed, therefore she almost pissed herself when she found Harry sitting in one of the kitchen stools, looking down at his phone with an annoyed expression adorning his face. Almost as if he could sense someone was in the same room, he looked up to find Y/N standing at the kitchen threshold, his face abandoning any sort of emotion.

"Hey."

"Hi." Y/N walked towards the fridge on the far right of the kitchen, opposite from where she came in. "Sorry, I thought no one was here."

"Don't worry, just waiting for Bella and Alex to come back down to have some tea, they're putting the girls to sleep. Would you like to join us?" He offered. And honestly, she'd love to say yes and just listen to him talk with that deep, melodic voice, but her stomach was really hating her right now.

"I'm good, just grabbing some mayo. Thank you, though." She declined with a small smile.

"Next time." He sounded more demanding than suggesting, which slightly baffled Y/N. "Can I ask where you are from?" He asked respectfully.

"A small town in the Argentine Patagonia." Y/N replied with her back facing him as she busied herself with the mayonnaise container.

"Never been to Argentina. Or anywhere in South America, actually." And when Y/N turned around, sandwich in hand ready to go back to her room, their eyes met across the kitchen and she felt the heat creeping up her neck for the second time that night. Y/N wondered how his gaze was always this intense – she wasn’t a fan of how they’d barely exchanged a few words and somehow she felt so exposed.

"You should. It's beautiful." She almost, almost, choked on her own words and when she looked down at her fuzzy pink socks and back to him to try and calm her growing nerves down, he surprised her when she caught him looking up and down her body – in any other case she definitely would’ve felt creeped out, but there was something about him, the fact that he definitely didn’t do it with the intention of her catching him (she noticed how he shifted uncomfortably on his seat after the exchange) and how he simply added a “I’m sure it is," afterwards, she knew she was fucked right then and there – she wanted him looking at her. Was that something bad?

But then – then she remembered how she was wearing her soft cotton pajamas, and she began wondering if he was just laughing internally at her outfit instead of checking her out like she initially thought. And just like a save from heaven, Bella and Alex appeared in the kitchen discussing who was picking Ivy up from her friend's house. "Hi Y/N, still awake?"

"Yeah, got hungry. Stole a bit of mayo, hope you don't mind." She shyly held the plate up.

"Please, this is your house too." Alex waved her off.

"Thanks. Gonna go back now." Y/N pointed towards the small hallway that led to her room. "Goodnight." Turning her body to walk away, she caught Harry's eyes, again, still staring at her, but decided on simply walking away, breaking eye contact, making that small interaction their last one for the night.

&

The following week consisted of Anya and Y/N playing lots of fun games, trying to get a word out of Charlie and Ivy ignoring her for the most part. Her relationship with each of them was completely different, each trusting her at their own peace, getting used to having a stranger around. Anya seemed the only one openly excited to hang out with Y/N every day, and even though she could tell Charlie didn't exactly mind her presence, she still hadn't talked to her as much as she'd like her to.

"What are you up to, Charlie?" Y/N asked the seven year old as she sat next to her in the big playroom they had on the main floor. Charlie kept her gaze locked on her drawing with a handful of crayons on her right hand as she drew with her left. "You're left handed? That's so cool!" Bella had mentioned some time ago that Charlie had a really hard time letting people in, Y/N knew it'd take some time for her to see her as a friend -like she wanted her to- rather than someone who gets paid to hang out with her, but Bella confessed Charlie was actually really excited to meet Y/N, which felt like a small relief, knowing she actually wanted her there – unlike Ivy. Charlie spoke only when necessary and struggled with making friends but her psych pedagogue said she's just really shy and that ‘once she breaks out of her shell, she's unstoppable’. "I love the birds you drew here." Y/N pointed at some small birds sitting in a tree branch.

"Bluebirds." She murmured.

Getting a single word from her was considered progress, in Y/N’s opinion, but that’s all she got for the entire afternoon – even after constantly sending comments her way while playing with Anya so Charlie wouldn’t feel left out, not a single word came out of her mouth. Anya mentioned Harry at some point while talking about her favorite doll (which Harry had gifted her for her 3rd birthday) and the flash of captivating green eyes almost blinded her internally (she couldn’t deny she’d thought about Harry every once in a while this past week)

And it wasn’t until later that same day, after spending a long while sitting alone in a nearby park, she got the chance to see him again – even if he had scared her (almost) to death, she couldn’t help but feel an annoying flutter in her stomach.

She would like to say she loved her long walks during the most unreasonable times at night, but her reasoning behind her late night needs of distraction didn’t exactly thrill her. It was during the quietest and most peaceful times of the day when her mind seemed to speed faster than ever before; the sleepless nights and brain-wrecking thinking of how alone and empty she actually felt, along with the laziness and reluctance when it came to things that used to make her happy weighed her down like carrying a sack of potatoes on her back.

As she was walking past her neighbor's house (the one where she had seen that man with the suitcases last week) she noticed someone sitting on the large porch. Weird, she thought. She hadn't noticed any movement in the house since that night a week ago, to the point she even considered it being empty again. The silhouette seemed oddly familiar though she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

"Y/N." She slightly jumped as she heard them call for her, in a strong and deep accent. Was that...

"Harry?" She asked befuddled. Did he live there? She watched as he stood up from his sitting position on the outdoor couch and walked across his front yard to take a closer look at him stopping at the bottom of the short staircase that leads to the porch. "What are you doing up so late?" And then something clicked in her brain – he was probably the man she saw that night, with his suitcases. It made sense, how he probably got home from vacation the same day he had dinner at the Lockehold's – the same day Bella mentioned something about him being in Italy

"Can't sleep." He simply replied, with a small sigh. He then nodded to the seat behind him, and Y/N could physically feel her brain going a thousand miles per minute. She sat on the far left of the couch as he retook his seat on the right, "what are you doing up so late?" He repeated her question.

And Y/N repeated his answer. "Can't sleep."

So they sat in silence, what felt like hours barely being a few seconds. "Didn't know you lived next door." Y/N took the time to take in his side profile - sharp and long nose, the tip curving slightly downwards when he spoke the next line.

"Never mentioned it." He replied apathetically. The unexpected switch in his tone made her immediately shut up, and even though it confused Y/N as to why he would want her joining him if he didn't want to talk, she was dreading going back to her room alone to drown in her thoughts again. She'd take uncomfortable company over being alone when her head got like this, it helped her get distracted; overthinking this situation instead of the same scenarios that constantly lived in her head.

They again sat in silence for a while, this time for longer than a few minutes, and even though it was slightly uncomfortable, there was an unspoken understanding between them. He just wanted company, and so did she. This time, however, it was him who tried for conversation. "Why did you choose England for your Au Pair program?"

"I was actually convinced I was going to choose France," Y/N shared with a soft tone, "but when I met the girls in one of my interviews I just knew I had to come here. Anya was so excited about meeting me, she thought it was already settled." She ended with a small smile on her lips. The memory of Anya smiling happily at her through the computer screen even when she hadn't had met her yet warming her heart.

It was true, the fact that she’d chosen England because of the girls. She wanted to learn French – she knew her way around the English language pretty well; but the French family whom interviewed her didn’t come close to the Lockehold’s at all – she thought maybe the experience of living in a whole different continent with a wonderful family was better than choosing a place because of the language – the experience was being experienced either way.

"Anya is a very special kid. They all are." Harry declared, the left corner of his mouth turning upwards in a small half smile.

Y/N nodded slowly before asking, "How long have you known them?" She could recall Alex saying he was a family friend – but she had no other information about him besides that.

"A while." The small conversation went for a long while, he shared the real reason as to why he was awake so late, explaining how he has struggled with falling asleep ever since he was young, but besides that comment, he kept his life very private; not sharing much information about himself during their chat, and every time Y/N reciprocated a question, he would either answer vaguely or didn't answer at all, changing the subject with another question. "It's really late" He commented, Y/N’s phone reading 1:08am.

"Yeah, I should probably go to bed." She lifted her head to look at him, who was already searching for her eyes. Y/N cleared her throat when a few moments passed by, again, with no one speaking a word. She wondered what could possibly be going through his head at the time, but he nodded, got up and said, "I'll see you around, Y/N." Her name flowed so nicely out of his lips it made her knees get weak. Locking herself in her bedroom (after entering it by the door at the side of the house – which leaded straight to her room) she laid in bed trying to understand why they’d just hang out in his front porch way past midnight when they clearly didn’t know each other very well – or at all, better said.

&

First day of classes came by in a heartbeat. The first Monday of September Y/N found herself getting up earlier than she was accustomed to, since the girl's sleeping schedule was different during the summer. 6:15am read her alarm when she lazily threw the soft covers off her body. A quick shower and minimal makeup application later, she stood naked next to her bed checking the weather app, as to know how to prepare the girl's clothes.

After putting a soft pink sweater on and a pair of flared jeans, Y/N left the warmth of her room to wake the girls up. Going for Charlie first (since she didn't need any help changing into her uniform and Ivy used her own alarm) she didn't give Y/N any work at all, waking up immediately after softly calling her name once. Picking her uniform from her closet and leaving it for her to change, Y/N left Charlie’s room to walk towards the next door.

"Morning, Anya." She whispered as she brushed some of her hair out of her face. Anya’s little nose scrunched up and a soft whimper left her mouth as she switched positions, now laying on her side, "gotta wake up, love." Y/N shook her arm softly, and she finally opened her eyes, a tired smile creeping up her face as she noticed it was Y/N sitting next to her. Y/N left her to rub the tiredness off her eyes while she picked her clothes (since her daycare was at the same school her older sister's attended -Harry's school, Y/N couldn't help but think- her uniform consisted of only a white t-shirt with the school logo along with any pair of bottoms she chose for the day.

After picking up her cute small rain boots and help her get dressed up, Y/N did a cute hairstyle on her with the small butterfly hair clips she chose, and went back to Charlie's room to do her hair, Anya coming along.

They arrived at their school; a big, period-like brick building with hundreds of students roaming around and a beautiful fountain at the front – which actually made Y/N’s childhood look like a big joke; the school she had attended was located in the middle of the mountains in a remote field.

"I'll be here at two thirty. Good luck, girls, I'll see you later." Ivy walked away sending a 'mhm' her way to let her know she heard her, and Charlie offered a small smile along with a wave and walked away like her sister. Y/N took Anya off her car seat and helped her get out of the car, her tiny backpack sitting on Y/N’s right shoulder as she grabbed the hand Anya offered her.

"Mommy said I have the penguins' classroom!" She said with excitement as they walked through the doors at the right wing of the building.

"That's so cool! I love penguins, let's search for the door which has penguins on it, shall we?" Y/N suggested even though she could clearly see their door at the end of the hallway.

"Yes! This one has elephants," she pointed at the door they were passing, "look, butterflies!"

"Like your hairclips!" Y/N exclaimed, and she giggled nodding her head. "Ah! Look what we found..." Y/N pointed at the next door.

"Penguins!" She skipped towards the door, dragging Y/N along. They entered the big and colorful classroom where they found some kids crying in their parent’s arms, others being as excited as Anya.

"Hi there! Anya, am I correct?" A woman who appeared to be around Y/N’s age came up to them, scrunching down to be on Anya’s eye level. She nodded frantically, excitement dripping from her smile. "My name is Miss Pia, I'm going to be your teacher this year." She introduced herself, Anya gave her an even bigger smile and slyly asked if she could go meet her classmates, to which Miss Pia agreed, asking her to first hang her small backpack in the rack at the back of the room, taking it from my hands and running excitedly to do it.

"You must be Y/N, then?" Miss Pia asked, getting back up to her feet. She was short with blonde curly hair sitting high in a ponytail, rosy cheeks and a cute teacher apron on top of her regular clothes.

"I am." Y/N offered her hand.

"The administration office said we would be having an Au Pair this year, they always give us a heads up with situations like these." She explained, and Y/N nodded as she continued, "we have the parents, nannies or in this case, Au Pairs," they both laughed," stay for the introduction, you can leave afterwards."

"Perfect, I'll sit at the back with the rest of the parents." Y/N ended up staying for about half an hour, smiling at Anya every time she turned to search for her when something exciting seemed to be happening. She won't be needing any adaptation, as Miss Pia said, and she was dismissed right before they had their first trip to the playground outside, taking advantage of the fact that it hadn't started raining yet.

Right when Y/N was walking out of the building, she spotted Harry at the main entrance, reading something on his phone. He was wearing a navy blue suit with a white shirt underneath, and he looked even more handsome in the daylight. She made her way towards him, walking up the marble stairs (marble stairs! In a school?), and when he noticed her, he put his phone away and slowly (and trying to be as discrete as possible – which he failed to, again) looked up and down her body. Something about him giving her his full attention made her insides burn, and she couldn’t help but bit her bottom lip to suppress a smile.

"Hi." She stopped in front of him, taking a moment to look at his eyes; they definitely looked a lot lighter now that there was natural light surrounding them.

"Hi." He repeated, "Dropped the girl's off?" He motioned towards the building with his head.

"Yes, just left Anya’s classroom." She shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

"Miss Pia?" He asked, squinting his eyes.

"Yes. She's nice, looks like she knows what she's doing." Y/N shrugged. She didn't exactly know her enough to have a conversation about her – and she most definitely couldn’t be one to talk, since she herself didn’t know what she was doing half of the time. “How’s the first day back been so far?” He got cut off from his next comment by his phone, and the small crease between his eyebrows grew deeper, which didn’t go unnoticed by Y/N. "I'll leave you to it." She announced, but his eyes found hers again, and it was almost like he was asking for her to not leave him to it, but Y/N didn’t trust her instincts, not with him – not when he made her so nervous her brain couldn’t process things around him, and she was scared of misreading his expressions; he was hard to read. Not like she was expert at reading people but he was frustratingly confusing.

&

They didn't see each other again until a week later on a Tuesday evening – the same day Charlie, Anya and her decided to go for a walk and treat themselves with ice cream from a cute shop across from (what had come to be) her favorite park, Harry and Y/N found each other's eyes across his front garden, just like that night, but this time it was easy for her to recognize him as she could see his face clear and glowing from the sunset shine. His eyes were glued to her until the fence that divided their houses blocked his view, and again, Y/N wondered what could be going through his head.

It wasn’t until after dinner, past her work hours, she decided to leave the house through the door on her room with the sparking curiosity to test if she would run into Harry. Stopping on the sidewalk in front of his house, she noticed he was not sitting outside, and even though that's exactly what she had expected -he was not going to sit there for hours and hours, right?- There still was a small feeling of disappointment that rushed through her, and when she snapped back into reality, it was too late to stop herself as she knocked on his front door.

And Y/N didn’t know where to hide – not like hiding would be less embarrassing but God she did hate herself that moment. The embarrassment running through her veins was painful and made her lightheaded – she knew she had trouble sometimes with not thinking things through, but this was beyond her. He barely knew her. And suddenly his door was wide open.

"Y/N?" Of course she was not lucky enough for him to be asleep and not hearing her knock – life would’ve been too in her favor for that to happen. Of course he was very awake with a half drank cup of tea in his hand and the softest looking pair of grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips. "Are you ok? You look really pale." His voice was calm, probably the softest it'd ever been in her presence. At least he doesn't sound mad, Y/N thought.

Harry wanted to be confused, but he was more curious than anything else. For some reason, he felt very intrigued by Y/N – how she seemed confident but insanely insecure at the same time; it reminded him of himself, if he had to be honest. He just learned how to hide the latter.

"Uh, yeah- um, I was-" she nervously turned around halfway to look behind her and back at him again. He raised his eyebrows in curiosity and Y/N really tried her hardest not to step over her words. "I was about to go for a walk, uh, I was wondering if you'd like to join me?" Stupid. So, so stupid, Y/N thought.

"No, I'm good." He replied, finding oh-so-amusing the way her eyes gave her embarrassment away – he was having fun, watching her like a lost puppy trying to think through her next words.

Her mind was, of course, over speeding. She now felt even more embarrassed. Of course he doesn't want to go for a walk, Y/N conscience spoke to her, it's a Tuesday night and he's probably tired and I'm his friends' Au Pair – he probably thinks I'm this young and annoying girl who has a stupid crush and- "would you like to join me?" He interrupted her self-beating up raising his cup and she noticed the half smile adorning his face, almost like he could tell the wheels in her brain were fast-moving.

"Wouldn't want to interrupt-"

"You're not. I wouldn't have invited you in if you were. C'mon in, now. It's kinda cold out here." He disappeared inside of his house, leaving her on his porch with an open mouth and a blank brain. After closing the door behind her and taking her black vans off, she turned on her left as she guessed that was the way Harry went – and she knew she’d guessed correctly when she stepped into a big open-plan concept living room with a giant kitchen on the far back, Harry standing with his back towards her preparing her tea, "sugar?"

"No, thank you." She sat in one of the stools at the kitchen island as she took the scene in front of her. Her very cute (and much older), very hot neighbor Harry, in sweatpants and a very thin white shirt, a small patch of skin showing on his hip, making her tea. His shoulders were broad and she could see his back muscles moving as he poured steaming hot water into the cup, the little curls on his neck so inviting, if only she could run her hand through his soft looking hair just once-

"There you go. Cardamom." He snapped her out of her (probably inappropriate) thoughts, and she thanked him as she grabbed the cup from where he placed it; he stayed in his position standing in front of her on the other side of the island, with his forearms against the cold marble, sipping on his own mug, thinking about how strange it felt to have someone he wasn’t close with sitting in his kitchen after so long. "Why are you up so late?"

"I couldn't sleep."

"I figured. I couldn't either, looks like we both have a bit of sleeping issues, huh?" He sounded playful, but tired. Y/N knew exactly how it felt, being so tired but not being able to peacefully go to bed and get some needed rest.

"I remember you mentioning it before, I figured I'd check if you were up. Walking helps me relax, thought maybe you'd enjoy it too." OK, that wasn't entirely true but her reasoning to be there was quite similar – to check if he was up so they could, maybe, share a quiet night like that one a few weeks ago. None of them understood why they found such comfort in each other’s company – none of them felt like they needed to try too hard.

At some point during their conversation they moved to the couch, where they laid with a wide gap between their bodies. "Elton John's was definitely an interesting read. Lots of crazy anecdotes, you should read it."

"Probably not as good as Keith's, but I'll give it a go." He let a dimpled smile creep into his face, turning his head to look at her from across the couch and the annoying turn her stomach made obliged her to return it, just as bright as his. Finding out their music taste was quite similar made Y/N’s insides all warm and fuzzy, he showed her his vinyl collection (which was quite large) and ranted about how the modern industry was missing a rock star with some of that unexplainable essence old rock bands have – to which she respond saying maybe that something that makes them special was the fact that they were old bands... added to the fact that even though she was an old music lover, modern pop was her guilty pleasure.

Their third teacups were long forgotten on the modern coffee table by the time he noticed Y/N’s eyes were slowly beginning to close and he, as last time, said, "it's really late." And Y/N only nodded and tiredly got up from her position, with him following close behind.

"Goodnight, Harry. Thank you for having me even though I came unannounced." She shyly said, her actions still making her embarrassed even though it had already been a couple of hours.

"My pleasure. We should- do this again," He coughed into his hand, and uncomfortably continued, "I enjoy your company." That sentence alone made her heart explode with a thousand emotions, because even though they barely knew each other and it clearly pained him to admit he enjoyed having her around, his presence made her calm but anxious in a peculiar mixture of emotions. All she did in return was gift him a big smile, face hot of embarrassment (a nice kind of embarrassment, that feeling when you just want to smile really big and tightly hug whoever is making you feel that way) and slowly pushed herself up on her tiptoes to give him a sweet kiss on the cheek. "Bye." He said lastly, and closed his front door with red cheeks and dimples on display.

- Joey.

[remedialpotions]

Off The Train

Thanks to @mertronus for tagging me in the HPRomione Discord Popcorn game thingy! The prompt she gave me was: "I can finally see you."

I'm tagging @acnelli with the prompt: "You can't just keep pretending things are fine!"

***

”I can’t wait until you get off that train,” says Ron, his voice low and lazy with fatigue, “and I can finally see you.”

Hermione shifts in her bed so she’s lying on her side, mirror held out before her. This way, she can pretend - if she squints a bit, and ignores the crimson hangings of her four-poster bed - that he’s lying next to her, and not hundreds of miles away in London.

“What do you mean, ‘finally’?” Hermione, too, keeps her voice quiet. It won’t do, in her final days as Head Girl, to be waking her dormmates. “You’re looking at me right now.”

“Yeah, but it’s not the same. I can see you, but I can’t touch you, or...” The corner of Ron’s mouth twitches up into a crooked smile. “Or do anything else for that matter.”

“Right. Well,” she says, trying to infuse positivity into her voice, despite the weeks since the Easter holidays dragging into what felt like months and years, despite missing him so much that it’s like a heavy fog surrounding her. “It’s only a couple more days, right?”

“Can’t it be now?” Ron looks like he’s reclined in bed too now, his fiery hair stark against the deep navy of his sheets. “Just get to Hogsmeade, then you can Apparate-“

“You know full well that I cannot,” she replies briskly, even though it’s tempting, really tempting. “It’s-“

“-behavior unbecoming of a Head Girl,” Ron finishes her sentence. “I know. I just miss you, that’s all.”

“I miss you too.”

“I love you,” he adds after a moment’s silence, before his eyes widen with inspiration. “Oh, I’ve got it. What if I Apparate to Hogsmeade, and then walk to the castle - I bet Hagrid would let me through the gates-“

“It’s only two days, Ron.”

He sighs. “Fine.”

“And I love you too.”

He grinned. “Yeah, I know.”

•••

Pigwidgeon is the last owl to fly into the Great Hall, his little wings beating wildly to keep him aloft. With a scrap of parchment clutched in his tiny talons, he struggles over to the Gryffindor table before somersaulting down into Hermione’s lap.

Hermione’s heart sinks, and not just at the sight of the exhausted little bird currently burrowing into the crook of her elbow. Their two-way mirrors mean they don’t usually have to resort to writing letters. Not unless...

Hermione, the parchment reads when she unfolds it. Got called on an emergency mission. I’m not allowed to tell you where or why or even how long but I’m hoping it won’t take too long. I’m still going to be there at King’s Cross, because I’m dying to see you and I can’t wait until all this is over and we can just be together. Anyway, I love you and try not to worry too much. I promise to do my best not to die.

Ron

“Oh, good,” comes Ginny’s voice from beside her, and Hermione turns to see her peering intently at the parchment. “He’s promised not to die, that’s a relief-“

“He’ll be there,” interrupts Hermione, tucking the note in the pocket of her robes before Ginny can further infringe upon her privacy. “If he thinks it’ll only take a day, then I believe him.”

Ginny blinks. “I never said he wouldn’t be.” Plucking Pigwidgeon from Hermione’s lap, she offers him water from her goblet. “I’m sure he knows what he’s talking about.”

“It’s probably just a quick day trip,” Hermione rationalizes, eyes focused hard on Pigwidgeon as he drinks so she doesn’t have to see the sympathy she knows is etched on Ginny’s face, “and he just wanted me to know in case - well-”

“In case he dies?”

Ginny’s attempt at a joke falls flat.

“Well, just in case, you know, something were to - to happen,” Hermione stammers, “and anyway, it’s just good for me to know - I like to know what he’s up to - not in a controlling way or anything, just-”

“Of course,” Ginny interjects bracingly. “I’m sure he just wanted you to know, that’s all. I’m sure he’ll be there.”

Hermione picks up her mug of tea and holds it close to her face so the steam washes over her. She knows what they’re both thinking but are unwilling to say: that in the year Ron and Harry have been Aurors, neither has had a mission run shorter than a week.

•••

And so Hermione sits with Ginny and Luna on the train, watching the Scottish Highlands slowly transform into the low, tidy hills of the English countryside outside her window and hoping against hope that Ron will be there on Platform 9 and ¾. But she hasn’t heard from him since that first letter, and his mirror has gone dark. This doesn’t worry her - not for his safety, anyway - but it does make it difficult to share in Ginny’s gleeful anticipation as the train pulls into King’s Cross.

She busies herself with tending to Crookshanks, who is furious about his prolonged confinement in his basket, as Harry and Ginny embrace on the platform. It’s not that she’s upset, not really. Ron is doing what he needs to do, and she would never want him shirking his responsibilities just so he can kiss her on a train platform for the first time since April. She just wishes things could be different.

After Harry and Ginny depart for Grimmauld Place, she flags down a taxi and rides alone to her parents’ home. The family car is parked in front, which is unusual for a weekday, but when she goes inside, she finds her parents have been eagerly awaiting her arrival and can hardly let her set down her trunk before whisking her away to an upscale restaurant in South Kensington.

“So, tell us about school,” says Mum with an eager smile once they’re seated at their candlelit table. “How were your exams? I want to hear everything.”

“I will later,” Hermione replies, raising her brows and tipping her head pointedly in the direction of the waiter currently pouring red wine into their glasses.

“Oh, right, right, of course. Well, anyway, dear,” she begins as the waiter sets down menus and strides away, “your father and I have a little surprise for you.”

It’s foolish, she knows, but her mind leaps instantly to Ron. Maybe all of this business with his mission has been a ruse, and he’s here in London after all, and she’ll be able to come up with an excuse to spend the night at Grimmauld Place…

Until she notices that her parents are still talking, and there’s no tall, lanky, red-haired wizard to be seen in this high-end French restaurant, but there are three Eurostar boarding passes laid out across the tablecloth.

“Sorry,” says Hermione, shaking her head to clear away the daydream, “what’s going on?”

“We’re going to Paris!” announces Mum with delight. “We thought it would be so lovely to spend time together since you’ve been away for so long, and you’re about to start your new job - and I know you’ve always wanted to go there. We’ve got ten whole days, and everything’s booked, so all you’ve got to do is pack.”

“That - that’s - that’s brilliant,” Hermione musters, forcing her lips into some semblance of a smile. Her parents beam so brightly back that it’s almost difficult to look at them. “Erm, so when are we leaving?”

She crosses her fingers under the table, praying they’ll say August, or her birthday in September, or Christmas, anything but-

“This weekend!”

Of course.

•••

Paris is beautiful. It exceeds every single one of Hermione’s expectations. She and her parents consume copious amounts of bread, cheese and wine, they visit museums and cafes and old bookstores, they ascend to the top of the Eiffel Tower and take in the view. She thinks of Ron constantly as she walks the cobbled streets, as she crosses the Pont des Artes and sees the countless locks affixed to its railing. Before she left, she sent Harry an owl to tell him that she was leaving, so Ron would know where she was if he returned home before she did. As they can’t communicate when she’s staying in a Muggle hotel, she truly has no idea where he is, but she tells herself that he’s still on his mission. It feels better that way, imagining that even if she stayed in London, there would still be obstacles keeping them apart.

On their last day, she nearly empties out a patisserie buying eclairs and macarons for Ron, and then they board the Eurostar back to England. Nervous anticipation grips her stomach as the train barrels through the tunnel (idly, she wonders if Ron’s dad is aware of this train that travels underwater, and makes a mental note to tell him), because she has no idea what awaits her back in London. What if Ron’s still away? Or worse - what if something’s happened to him, and she’s been off enjoying a holiday while he’s been suffering?

The train can’t move quickly enough. Hermione can focus on nothing - not the paperback romance novel her mother has loaned her to read, not the Muggle newspaper that her father is engrossed in, not even the argument of the couple seated across the aisle from them. It’s only a two-hour trip, so why does it feel like it’s taking days?

She checks her mirror, but it’s still dark.

“You go ahead, sweetheart,” says Dad when the train finally rolls to a stop in St. Pancras station. “We’ll get the cases.”

Hermione looks up at the luggage rack over their heads, then at her parents. “Are you sure? I’ll bring mine-”

“We can manage. Go on ahead, get some fresh air.”

She doesn’t bother reminding them that train station air is hardly fresh, and instead heads down the aisle with just her purse and the box of pastries in tow. Truly, she’s not sure why her parents have sent her off the train without them; with the station as busy as it is, they’ll surely lose track of each other.

But then she sees him. Standing a head above the crowd, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, his bright blue eyes scan the throngs of travelers. At first, she doesn’t believe her eyes. Surely, she’s just become so desperate to see him that she’s actually begun hallucinating.

But as she draws closer, he doesn’t ripple into nothingness, he doesn’t fade away. He’s really, truly there, his red hair curling behind his ears, one knee jiggling with pent-up energy the way it always does when he’s particularly impatient. As he turns his head, still surveying the crowd, their eyes lock and the rest of the station recedes into the background. Finally, they’re within sight of each other after months of hushed mirror conversations and stolen moments borrowing Professor McGonagall’s Floo. Hermione picks up speed, nearly skipping across the concrete in her haste, and flings herself into his waiting arms.

She fits against him perfectly. The fabric of his faded t-shirt is soft against her cheek as she breathes him in, and for the first time in recent memory, words fail her completely.

The box of pastries thuds to the ground.

“Hi,” he mutters, lips brushing her skin and sending chills up her spine.

“How - how did you-”

“Harry told me where you’d gone.” He presses a kiss to her cheek, and then, at long last, their lips connect. “It’s not that hard to look up train schedules.”

As reluctant as she is to pull away from him, she leans back just enough to look up at him. Behind the freckles scattered across his face, his cheeks have gone pink. “You’re amazing,” she tells him, rising on tiptoe for another kiss, unconcerned with the passersby and the blast of nearby train whistles.

Ron lifts one shoulder in a casual shrug when they break apart. “Had to meet you on a train platform somehow.”

[kaito-is-baby]

Flirty

Shoto Todoroki x Reader

Plot: Todoroki gets jealous when he sees you flirting with Kirishima and you take advantage of it to finally confess your feelings (fluff, a lot of fluff) (gn!reader)

Hiii~ this is heavily inspired by this @pillow4iida 's post, please go check it, their writting is amazing and I love them. The point is as I was reading it I thought about a very similar scenario but where Todoroki is not so... experienced and confident, I usually think about him as an awkward boy when it comes to socialize so it must be even worst when flirting, the point is, he is very cute and this post is very fluffy to me, Shoto is a cutie

"Kiri just give it back!" you said between soft laughs

You were on your toes, clinging onto Kirishima's arm trying to grab your pencilcase from his hand, your pitchy voice echoed through the walls of your class

He giggled knowing you couldn't reach it, you were too small to do so and he always teased you about your low height

"Come on, y/n, you can't grab it?" He teased you with a fake pout on his face "I can give it back if you let me write whatever I want on your face" that fake pout easily turned into a devilish smirk

But it soon disappeared when a taller hand grabbed it from behind him

"This is theirs, isn't it?" He sounded particularly annoyed by Kirishima's existence right now

You smiled widely seeing the boy behind your red head friend, It was Shoto, one of your closest friends on the UA and the only boy who made your stomach ache like this just by looking at you

You had try to flirt with him many times, you even went to some dates together but he never seemed to catch on it, or maybe he just did not like you back

"Y/N?" His voice woke you up from your own thoughts and once you came back to reality you found his heterochromatic eyes looking directly at yours while he held your case in his arm, pointing at you, waiting for you to grab it

"Oh, yes..." you nervously laughed grabbing it back "thanks Sho"

It had already been months since he told you to call him by his first name and as you two grew closer you found yourself calling him Sho more than you believed correct but... it was a nickname only you called him, it made you feel so special to him that you couldn't stop using it

Maybe you could have thought why did he let you use that nickname on the first place, you oblivious mess

"You're welcome, I don't like him messing with you" again he sounded uncommonly annoyed

Well, he wasn't really messing with you, you two were jocking and flirting around... just what 16 year olds teens usually do between classes but you were not going to reject a protective and helping Shoto, you always enjoyed those little details he had for you even when they weren't really necessary

But then it hitted you, you were flirting with Kirishima, not that you liked him, you just had an impresive flirting nature, but Shoto looked so annoyed, so... jealous?

A smirk came to your lips as you found the perfect moment to try and discover if your feelings were at all corresponded

"Sho, can we talk for a moment?"

"Uh... sure, yeah" Usually you would've said whatever came to your mind and start a conversation with him instead of asking him for a moment. It made him kind of nervious

You finally reached the emergency stairs, they were lonely and quiet, and you two could sit one in front of each other comfortably

So you chose it as your new personal couch

Once you had him right in front of you you decided to shoot your shot

You took his hands on yours before asking

"Do you ever... just... want to bond a little with us? Live some good experiences?"

"I don't quite understand you" He admitted, with his eyes on both your hands, swinging them back and forth and rubbing yours with his thumbs

"Sho, back there with Kirishima" you started, gripping at his hands with more strength so he could slightly relax

"Yeah"

"That was flirting"

"Oh, I'm sorry for interrumping" he apologized with his usual monotone voice tone empty of any feelings

Except this time he wasn't sorry at all and neither were his feelings untouched, he was extremely jealous and glad he had interrupted you before it became something worse

“No, that’s not the point. What I mean is... we all kind of flirt around and talk to each other all the time, I mean, that's what people our age does. But you don't seem to do that with any of us, why?” You asked. Still holding and swinging his hands you felt how the slight relax that you had managed to get him disappeared as they tensed

After some seconds, his hands relaxed again and he came back to rubbing yours with his thumbs

“Well I guess I’ve never been in that kind of situation” he confessed smiling while looking down.

He had been in situations like that, you had flirted with him countless times, you had asked him out, you two even went to see a movie together last week, how was that not clear enough to see it as a date?

Inside your head your heartbeats sounded worryingly fast, the fear of being rejected suddenly disappeared thinking that maybe he was just too oblivious to flirt like any other boy your age

You were still holding his hands, now locking your fingers with his, gathering the courage you needed to finally ask him about his feelings

"But... have you never been in that situation because you have never liked anyone that way or...?"

"I don't really know, how it is to like someone to want to flirt with them?" No sign of embarrassment or nervousness on his face, he was inexpressive as always even asking something like that

As impossible as it seemed his small knowledge about feelings, reactions and human relationships always got to impress you and even more when he did not seem to realise that his question was quite rare

"Well, to flirt there isn't much really, it's just having some chemistry? Like... you find them attractive and want to have a good time with them so you flirt, it's not something so special really"

"Hmm" He shook his head and you felt like you were losing him "then I'm not going to flirt with anyone, I don't really like that, isn't it kinda like... jocking?"

"Yes! Yes it really is! Is just that the person you are jocking with... well you would like them to be so near you, to touch you... to feel their breath on you and taste their lips, you know what I mean? " you felt your cheeks heat up the moment you realized you two were still holding hands while explaining this to him, but you stood there anyways, holding onto him

He looked at you, staring directly at your eyes, confused, not relating really to that feeling

"I'm not good with jokes, I don't think I will be good with that either"

His eyes placed onto yours made your brain malfunction and just... start talking about your own feelings

"Sometimes it may be even better... you are craving to see them or to be with them because you want to be by their side, listen to their voice... it makes you quite happy just to hear it. And... and whenever you see them all you want to do is kiss them, everywhere, everytime" now you had went over the top explaining how you yourself felt about him and everything you heard in your head was 'please, cut me off please, don't listen to me, forget about this' but his answer did surprise you

"Hmm I think I get it, yeah... I may have felt that, yes"

"Yes?" Your eyes opened in disbelief

"Yeah, I think I do" Still, his usual monotone tone, as if he weren't admitting to have some strong feelings towards someone

Being honest a little piece of your heart broke at that moment, was he really feeling that way for someone? Then no flirting or teasing would make you look any interesting to him

"What should I do in that case then?"

"You... you should tell them about how you feel, you are smart, and the strongest on our class and... you're handsome and polite and so sweet truly..." you stopped yourself before you regretted saying anything else "I'm sure they will return your feelings" you managed to get out a smile to calm the boy, yet your heart ached incredibly

"Okay, so... tell them straight out?" You nodded, incapable of talking anymore

"Y/N" you looked at him again "I do feel that way about you, is that okay?"

Is that okay? Was he asking if that was okay? You couldn't help but to laugh

To laugh the sadness and tension this whole situation had brought to you

"Did I say something wrong?" He asked, truly concerned

"Nothing, you've never said anything wrong" you said approaching your face to his, placing your hands on his cheeks and reaching to his lips, planting a very sweet and innocent kiss on them, a fast one, just to reassure him that you felt the same way "after all, I feel the same way"

"Oh. Then... what do we do now?" Oh God, this was going to be a difficult relationship

"What do you think goes now dummy?" You said teasingly, with your hand still resting on his left cheek

"Uhm..."

"Kiss me back, you idiot" you chuckled and his lips found yours this time

You melted in a sweet kiss with a taste of mint, warm and sadly, soba

"What do you think if we go on like... our 5th date today?"

"5th?"

"I... have asked you out so many times... I always took it as dates but you never seemed to realize or... wanted to make any move so I thought you just did not like me"

"I'm stupid" Shoto hid his face on his hands but his expression remained the same, as always inexpressive

"What?" You laughed

"I am not good at this things, I can't catch signals or... when you were flirting, I was the one to think you did not like me and that's why I never made a move, I'm sorry"

"Well, I should have been the one to make a move first and I was too scared to because... I actually really liked you so... it's a tie! We both are stupid" You laughed and with your sweet laugh his face brightened and the softest smile grew on his face

"Let's have our first date as a couple, shall we?"

He nodded kinda awkwardly, he is not the best at those things so don't expect many shows of affections from him and even less on public, you will have to be the one to hold his hand or kiss his cheek, at least at the beginning, he is new to this but he loves you more than he thought he would ever love someone

Later on that date you asked him, laughing and teasing him, holding on his arm

"Was that you first kiss, Sho?"

"Uhm... well, yes" his cheeks grew slightly red and his eyes kept looking at his feets, usually he was incredibly confident so seeing him like this catched you off guard

"Well, don't worry, it will be the first of many more I plan on giving you" you said, placing your hand softly on his cheek to turn around his face, now facing yours, you got on your toes and kissed him for the third time today, making those words true, you will make sure you give him many many kisses and cuddles from now on

[extravalgant]

Any thoughts on Lemuria’s ending? Also any theories about Nothing?

MAJOR LEMURIA TEST SPOILERS BELOW THE CUT

honestly anon i didnt have high hopes for it when the stuff was coming out (and by that i mean, the bar was pretty low) but test pretty much blew it out of the water.

it was absolutely charming and as our relationship with the nothing developed, i found myself getting really attached to them and the wizard's relationship and character dynamic...!! the fact that as the story progressed, it was becoming more clear that we were acting as the nothing's morale compass -- a way for them to judge things based on how we handled situations. ultimately, it put our wizards on a pedestal once more, with us being the "ultimate good".

initially i was a little wary on that part because it seemed a bit too cut and dry, but i was pleasantly surprised to see how ki reverted my expectations about going about this - the heap most of all, with some parts having us talk to the enemy rather than have us fight.

it made the nothing more... interesting. you can tell it was curious about the world that the old one left behind, and i found myself impressed by the way they were written! they talked to us about their feelings and how they felt conflicted, because now they were this new "person" or "thing" that wasn't meant to have existed - but they do, so now what?

i think our second chance to nuture something else through the old one, and teach them the "right" way, allow them to see our faults and admit we were wrong about the ways we were going about things - it was important for their development as a character.

there's a dialogue log in the night woods where i found it to be very interesting:

an "old friend".... seeing this made me smile so much because we know that the feelings are mutual between the wizard and the nothing...!! seeing as they are polar opposites (everything v. nothing) you would expect to see some animosity there, but there.... isn't. i feel like it says more about the wizards kind nature - the fact that they were willing to be the nothing's moral compass, the fact that despite everything, they had not grown to hate them - it really just says a lot about how much the wizard puts trusts in others and expects the same thing back.

and it makes it all the more tragic when the final dungeon of lemuria hits, and we realize, we are back where we started -- others, betraying us, and others, also sacrificing themselves so that the greater good (us) can press on.

IM NOT EVEN GONNA LIE TO YOU. I BAWLED LIKE A BABY. THE NOTHING WANTED AND YEARNED TO BE SOMETHING AND BECOME PART OF THE ""EVERYTHING"" - EVEN WANTING TO CHANGE THEIR NAME AND IMAGE BECAUSE IT DIDNT SUIT SOMEONE LIKE THEM - THEY WERE SOMEONE ELSE AT THIS POINT...!!!

i feel as if the nothing and the wizard could both relate to this - suffering at the result of someone else's selfishness. having to sacrifice things for the fate of the spiral.

AS FOR THEORIES... I DONT REALLY HAVE ANY? it was really interesting to see how the old one's thinking changed from slightly benign but slightly fucked up from doing these experiments, to how we were truly meant to see him - someone who wanted the first world to emerge, for the spiral to fall. even if he had to lie, cheat, and manipulate his way through the process.

then, the nothing took notice of us, and well... we have the result of that.

[kjack89]

An Agreement Between Gentlemen (Chapter 8/?)

Continuation of the E/R Bridgerton AU, regency-era fake-marriage fic. This chapter was once again split in half (if not more) because apparently I just want this fic to never end (Chapter 1 tumblr | AO3, chapter 2 tumblr | AO3, chapter 3 tumblr | AO3, chapter 4 tumblr | AO3, chapter 5 tumblr | AO3, chapter 6 tumblr | AO3, chapter 7 tumblr | AO3)

The start of the season may be marked by the annual Thénardier Ball, but everyone knows that the peak of the season is the annual de Courfeyrac Ball. It almost certainly helps that the de Courfeyrac family has enough money to make sure each ball they throw is better than the last, especially as the Dowager Countess becomes increasingly desperate to get the Earl settled.

Of course, this part of the season is normally marked with betrothals and the speedy weddings intended to hide the scandals that have not seen their light in this paper, or any other. But with the season’s most prominent bachelor having already gotten married and subsequently having disappeared, it does make one wonder if there is anything left that could possibly top it. 

Well, there is certainly one event that could: the return of the Marquess of Enjolras with his bride. If there is one event that the Marquess does not miss in the season, it is the de Courfeyrac Ball, in large part because the Earl is one of his oldest friends, and in larger part because, as we understand it, the Earl can get quite put out should one of his friends not attend.

Does this mean that the Marquess might finally deign to return to the city? Only time will answer that question, but if there’s one thing we would bet on, it’s to keep a careful eye on the de Courfeyrac Ball. One never knows who might show up. LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 12 MAY 1831

Enjolras had loved his cottage since the moment he purchased it, relishing in the freedom he found there: freedom from responsibilities and expectations, freedom from the endless parties and balls, and freedom especially from his mother.

At least, he had thought he had loved it before.

But it was nothing compared to how he felt now.

Waking up that next morning next to Grantaire took the place of the previous evening as the best moment of Enjolras’s life, and it was surpassed fivefold before they even reached their noon luncheon. Every moment was a revelation, from waking up with Grantaire’s arm still wrapped firmly around his waist, to breaking their fast together in relative silence (neither man awake enough yet for much conversation), to spending their morning together, much as they always had.

That was the truest revelation, at least to Enjolras: how much of their day passed just as it always had, how easily everything fit together – how easily it always had. Certainly now there were perhaps more frequent lingering glances, or touches that lasted longer than before, and, of course, the day was interspersed with kisses that made Enjolras’s heart beat double time, but they were still them, and that more than anything else made Enjolras believe that this could really work – that it was perhaps meant to work, and had always been.

That night, when it came time for bed, Enjolras did not hesitate. “Your bed or mine?” he asked, his voice pitched low.

Grantaire leaned in and kissed his cheek. “Wherever you’ll consent to try me,” he murmured, offering Enjolras his hand, which Enjolras took eagerly.

Of course, they did not do anything that second night of sleeping in the same bed, nor the third night, nor any other. Grantaire, for his part, seemed content to let Enjolras go at his own pace. He was not subtle about the fact that he would gladly do more, his desire for Enjolras obvious in the way he looked at him, the way he touched him, the way he kissed him. But he made no untoward advances, and aside from that bath they shared, their time together was spent entirely clothed.

In truth, Enjolras was not entirely sure why he hesitated to take that final step, to consummate their relationship. He wanted Grantaire, far more than he would ever admit aloud, but something about the timing just did not seem right.

At least not yet.

Still, on their third morning waking up in bed together, he supposed he should offer some sort of explanation. Or, barring that, an apology of some ilk.

Or, because he truly was exceptionally stupid, an incredibly ill-conceived joke.

“You could just take me, I suppose,” he murmured as Grantaire skimmed his fingers lightly up Enjolras’s side, neither man willing yet to emerge from the warmth of the bed. “Legally, I mean, since we are technically married. The law would be on your side.”

Grantaire’s fingers stilled. “First and foremost,” he said, his voice rough from sleep, “I truly cannot believe that you would choose to make a marital rape joke right now, and at my own expense.” Enjolras flushed but Grantaire did not let him interrupt. “Secondly, I very highly doubt our marriage, such as it is, is legally binding and affords me the rights of a husband.”

“I apologize,” Enjolras said. “I did not mean—” He broke off. “No, that was exactly what I meant, and I apologize for even thinking it, let alone voicing it.” Grantaire nodded, just once, but his fingers resumed tracing their path up Enjolras’s side, which he took as a good sign. “That said, what makes you think our marriage is not legally binding? Because you did not sign your own name on the marriage certificate?”

Grantaire arched an eyebrow. “No, because we are two men,” he said, as if Enjolras was a bit dim (which Enjolras supposed he deserved). “The signature is perfectly valid.”

Enjolras sat upright, running a hand through his sleep-tousled curls. “It’s actually a bit of a legal gray area regarding the validity of a marriage between two men,” he said. “But how is the signature valid? Didn’t you sign your sister’s name?” He froze in panic that this one small act may have exposed their ruse. “Please tell me you signed your sister’s name.”

Grantaire reached out, lacing his fingers with Enjolras’s and tugging his hand to his mouth to kiss his knuckles, a soothing gesture. “I signed it A. Grantaire,” he assured him. “If we are to be exposed, it will not be because our papers are not in order.”

“But then how can you claim the signature is valid?” Enjolras asked, frowning, and Grantaire’s eyes narrowed.

“Are you to tell me that we have known each other for over a decade and you have no idea what my given name is, let alone what letter it starts with?”

Realization hit Enjolras like a brick, and he flushed again. “I just assumed it started with an R, since that’s how you sign everything,” he mumbled.

Grantaire laughed lightly. “You’re an idiot,” he informed Enjolras, who scowled.

“Maybe, but you needn’t sound so delighted by it.”

“Oh, but I really must,” Grantaire said. “In any case, my first name also begins with an ‘A’, making my signature perfectly valid, the legality of our union aside.”

He turned to get out of bed, but Enjolras caught his arm, wrapping his fingers around Grantaire’s wrist. “Then if I may be so bold as to inquire, what is your given name?”

Grantaire made a face. “Antoine.”

“Antoine,” Enjolras repeated, the name feeling foreign on his tongue, before offering, “It suits you.”

Grantaire snorted. “It does not,” he said flatly. “Why do you think I choose to go by my surname or the pun therein? The only one who ever calls me by my given name is my father, and thankfully I’ve not heard his voice in close to a decade. Of course,” he added, “it suits me better than yours suits you, unless you wish for me to start calling you—”

“Do not even jest about that,” Enjolras interrupted. “You know I hate my given name.”

“Almost as much as I hate you even jokingly thinking that I would ever do anything to you without your consent.”

Enjolras winced. “I already apologized for that,” he said, before adding, in a conciliatory way, “Besides, I like it when you call me Enjolras.”

Grantaire smirked as he leaned in to kiss Enjolras. “More than when I call you ‘my lord’?” he asked, his lips just brushing against Enjolras’s.

Enjolras planted a firm hand on Grantaire’s chest, giving him a look. “Much more,” he said sternly, before kissing him.

Grantaire kissed him back for a long moment before pulling away, just far enough to cradle Enjolras’s face in both his hands. “Just so that we’re clear, in regards to the joke you made earlier, I would never hurt you,” he told Enjolras, brushing his thumb across his cheek. “Not purposefully, at least.”

“I know,” Enjolras said softly. “And I will never again insinuate otherwise.” He paused. “Though if I may, you were the one who joked previously about primae noctis.”

Grantaire exhaled in a sharp sigh. “Then can we at least both be agreed that from here on out, rape is a topic best not spoken of in jest?”

“I believe I can manage that.”

“Good.” Grantaire’s expression softened. “I love you.”

Enjolras turned his head to press a wordless kiss to the palm of Grantaire’s head.

He had also not yet returned those three words, but in that regard, he understood his hesitation fully: he knew Grantaire would put far more stock in those words than in any physical act, and he was determined not to say them until he knew, beyond any doubt, that he meant them.

Of course, he reflected, as Grantaire tilted his chin gently to kiss him once again, at this rate he was bound to break on one or both fronts sooner rather than later.

But not even their happy cocoon could keep out the work that Enjolras was meant to be doing, and he told Grantaire after breakfast, with not a small amount of regret, that he needed to actually take the morning to get some work done. There were a dozen odd pieces of legislation looking to pass through the House of Lords that Les Amis was seeking to oppose, and he needed to study up before returning for the rest of the season.

Grantaire did not seem put off. “Do you mind if I take a look at the third bedroom?” he asked instead.

Enjolras blinked, his mind already on the legislation. “The one being used for storage?”

“The other one.”

Enjolras waved a dismissive hand as he headed into the library. “Do what you wish with it,” he called over his shoulder, and when he sat down at his desk, the conversation was already forgotten.

At least, it was forgotten until his stomach gave a loud grumble and Enjolras glanced at the clock on the mantel, surprised to see it was well past midafternoon. He stood and stretched before calling, “Grantaire?”

When he received no answer, he frowned and went to seek him out. Before he could get far, there was a knock on the front door, and Enjolras hurried to answer. “Message for you, m’lord,” said a bright, cheerful young lad who was waiting. 

Enjolras’s brow furrowed, wondering who in the world would be sending him post here of all places. He paid the boy and sent him on his way, closing the door after him. The furrow in his brow only deepened as he scanned through the letter, and when he had finished, he hurried upstairs in search of Grantaire.

He was surprised to see light streaming into the hallway upstairs from the room at the end, and it took him a moment to realize he couldn’t remember the last time he saw the door to that room opened. “Grantaire?” he called again.

There was a slight clatter before Grantaire shouted back, “In here!”

Enjolras poked his head into the room. “You’ve been busy,” he remarked, taking in the newly gleaming surfaces and the old furniture that had been pushed into one corner, away from the windows. Most of the old furniture, at least: Grantaire perched on an old stool, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows as he adjusted the canvas on the easel in front of him.

A slightly guilty look flashed across his face. “I hope you don’t mind,” he started. “Only with this room facing west, I thought this might be a nice place to set up my easel.”

“Looks like you’ve done more than that,” Enjolras said mildly, and Grantaire certainly had. His paints and brushes were laid out neatly, with not one but three different easels, all facing in slightly different directions, assumedly to capture different lights in the room.

Grantaire worried his lower lip between his teeth for a moment before blurting, “I should have asked first, I know it’s not really my place—”

“It’s fine,” Enjolras assured him, and he more than meant it. Not just because he did not much care about the room, having not used it the entire time he’d lived there. But also because it was Grantaire’s place, in so many more ways than one. Grantaire fit in so perfectly to his little life of solitude that he never wanted to leave

But leave they had to, and all thanks to the ill-timed letter he had just received. “I’ve had a letter from Courfeyrac, he told Grantaire, stepping closer to him. “It’s his family ball on Saturday. And you know as well as I do that if we do not return in time to attend, Courfeyrac will murder us both in our beds.”

Grantaire nodded slowly. “Or, given his penchant for arson, light our houses on fire.” Enjolras laughed and Grantaire managed a small smile. “Of course, you knew we would have to return to the city eventually.”

Enjolras made a face. “Eventually, certainly, but not so soon.”

“The excuse of a honeymoon can only last for so long, even following real weddings,” Grantaire reminded him before standing. “And speaking of soon, it looks like my use of this room shall have to wait, as I should take my leave.”

“Leave?” Enjolras repeated, a little blankly. “What do you mean?”

Grantaire arched an eyebrow at him as he rolled his shirtsleeves down.. “It would surely rouse suspicion if you and I were to return to the city at the same time from seemingly opposite directions,” he pointed out. “So I shall return to my house tonight, and meet up with you in the city tomorrow.”

It was a perfectly reasonable plan, but Enjolras couldn’t seem to bring himself to say as such. “What if I could convince you to stay?” he asked, pitching his voice low and taking another step toward Grantaire, hoping his meaning would be clear without him having to say a word.

Judging by the way Grantaire’s eyes darkened, he caught on quick enough. “You could certainly convince me to delay,” he murmured, capturing Enjolras and pulling him close to kiss him before telling him, “but we have come too far for me to spoil this now, even with what you are offering.” The lavacious way he swept his gaze up and down Enjolras’s body told him that Grantaire absolutely understood just what he had been offering. “Besides, there will be time for that later, when our presence – or lack thereof – is no longer the subject of a gossip column, and we return here and stay for as long as we want.” He kissed Enjolras once again, a long, heady kiss. “And trust me, it will be worth the wait.”

“In more ways than one,” Enjolras murmured, ducking his head to kiss Grantaire once more.

But as he somewhat aimlessly trailed Grantaire back to his bedroom to watch him pack his bag, he could not quite seem to raise his spirits. When Grantaire was ready, he paused at the front door, turning to face Enjolras, looking torn between amusement and exasperation. “Oh, do cheer up,” he said, catching Enjolras’s hand in his. “It is only for one night, after all. We’ve not been together for so long that you will miss me when we’re apart.”

“But I will,” Enjolras told him.

For one moment, Grantaire’s expression softened. Then he smirked, and leaned in to kiss Enjolras. “Good,” he said simply, picking up his bag and heading out to the waiting carriage. 

“Good?” Enjolras repeated, following him outside. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Grantaire just winked and squeezed his hand before climbing up into the carriage. “See you tomorrow!” he called out the window, waving once before the carriage took off down the road.

Enjolras watched until the carriage disappeared from sight before heading back inside and glancing around the now empty house. It seemed emptier now than it ever had in the years when it had only ever been him staying here, and he marveled for a moment that Grantaire really had achieved the impossible: for the first time ever, Enjolras was looking forward to getting back to the city.

----------

“What do you think, m’lord?” Enjolras’s butler, a genial man named Porter, asked. “The place could probably do with a fresh lick of paint, but with short notice, this was the best we could do.”

Enjolras nodded as he glanced around the brightly lit room that adjoined his own suite. “It will certainly suffice,” he told Porter, not having the heart to tell him that it would almost certainly never see any use. “How long have you been working on it?”

He doubted his hastily penned letter from the previous day would have given them enough notice to have the room as ready as it was. “We started as soon as we read it in Lady Whistledown—” Porter broke off, looking embarrassed. “Er, that is, when we got word of your nuptials.”

Enjolras just chuckled and shook his head. “How that woman gets her information…”

Porter cleared his throat. “In any case, m’lord, do you know when your bride might be joining us? Only if she intends on bringing any household staff, or hiring any, there’ll be adjustments that need be made.”

“I’m afraid she’s returned to her family house in the country,” Enjolras told him, the lie coming easily after he had practiced it his entire way back to the city. “She took ill on our trip up north. I doubt she’ll make it up for the remainder of the season.”

“Shall we hold off on completing the renovations of her suite until after you close the house, just in case?”

Enjolras sighed. “Whatever is easiest for you, Porter. I’m sure you have better things—”

The bell rang, and Porter glanced at Enjolras. “Are you expecting company, m’lord?”

“Not expecting,” Enjolras hedged, even as he could barely contain his grin. “But Grantaire did mention he might stop by – I believe he was anticipating arriving back today as well.”

Porter looked as though he had many questions that he wanted to ask, but thankfully, he was too well-trained to voice any of them. “Very good, m’lord,” he said instead. “I’ll have the kitchens put together a tray for tea. Do you want to receive him in the drawing room or the formal parlor?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. Porter asked this question no matter who he received, and never before had he instructed that anyone should be received in the formal parlor, easily one of the least utilized rooms in the entire manor. “The drawing room will be fine, Porter, he’s practically family now, after all.”

“Very well, m’lord.”

Porter left to answer the door and Enjolras glanced in the looking glass above the wash basin. He felt strangely nervous, though he was not quite sure why, and he straightened his cravat and considered doing something about his hair (a quickly abandoned thought) before finally heading downstairs to meet Grantaire.

Porter was just showing him into the drawing room when Enjolras arrived, a little out of breath, and Grantaire’s entire face lit up when he saw him. “Speak of the devil and he doth appear,” he said with a lazy grin.

“Are you calling me a devil now?” Enjolras asked, arching an eyebrow.

“It was between that, Apollo, or my lord, so…”

Grantaire trailed off, his eyes twinkling with unspoken laughter and Enjolras just shook his head before turning to Porter, who was setting the tea tray down. “Thank you, Porter, I’ll ring if we need anything.” He waited until the sound of Porter’s footsteps disappeared down the hall before crossing to Grantaire and kissing him. “God, I missed you.”

“And I, you,” Grantaire murmured, kissing him back, though his was a softer, gentler kiss. “Who would have thought how quickly I’d get used to having you in my bed, rather than my usual rotating cast of young, nubile lovers.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes, though he was too elated by seeing Grantaire to take any real umbrage at his teasing comment. “Hilarious,” he said dryly, gesturing for Grantaire to sit next to him on the sofa. “And here I was thinking of offering to let you stay here.”

Grantaire raised both eyebrows as he poured them both a cup of tea. “Here?” he repeated. “In your house?”

Enjolras met his raised eyebrows with one of his own. “As my wife’s brother, you’re welcome as a member of the family to stay whenever you wish,” he said as he accepted the cup of tea from Grantaire. “Totally proper, and no one would second-guess it.”

Grantaire didn’t look so convinced. “Well, certainly, but I would presume that would be more acceptable for when your wife is in town.”

Enjolras shrugged. “Maybe so. But I’m willing to risk it if you are.”

To his surprise, Grantaire sighed and set his tea cup down. “Enjolras—” he started, and Enjolras frowned.

“What?”

“These past few days were like something out of a dream,” Grantaire told him. “But I did not imagine that we would be able to continue it when we’re back in the city.”

Enjolras stared at him. “Does that mean you’re saying no to my invitation?”

Grantaire gave him a look. “It means that I want you to be sure about extending that invitation. There’s only a couple more months until the end of the season, and then we’ll have all autumn and winter to do as we please with none the wiser.”

Enjolras felt his heart sink. “I see,” he murmured, trying and failing not to think of all the ways that Grantaire would probably find to amuse himself in the interim, his comment about nubile lovers searing in Enjolras’s mind. He could hardly hold it against him if he did, of course – it wasn’t as if they were truly married, and besides—

“You’re an idiot,” Grantaire said, breaking him from his reverie.

“Excuse me?”

Grantaire grinned at him. “I can tell what you’re thinking, and you’re an idiot.” Enjolras scowled and Grantaire’s grin softened as he leaned forward to cover Enjolras’s hand with his own. “I’m doing this for you, you fool, not because I want to keep up my bachelor lifestyle or whatever you were imagining.”

Enjolras, of course, had been imagining exactly that, though he had no plans of telling Grantaire that. “I was just imagining that it was easier to love me when we were up north, and away from everyone,” he said instead, which was not untrue. “Perhaps now that we are confronted with the reality of what our lives would be like…”

“The only one second guessing because of reality is you,” Grantaire said bluntly. “Do you think I have somehow deluded myself into thinking I was going to actually be living as if we were truly married? If this is to work – and believe me, no one wishes to make it work more than I – we cannot rouse suspicion unnecessarily. If you are certain that I can stay here as your guest without anyone being suspicious of our true intent, then you know I will accept your invitation in a heartbeat.” He leaned back in his seat, his expression becoming more somber. “But I must be sure that you fully understand what you are offering – and that you fully mean your offer.”

“What are you saying?”

Grantaire shrugged, suddenly unable to meet his eyes. “You are not the only one who may have been easier to love outside of the city and the season,” he muttered.

Enjolras did not hesitate, setting his tea cup down on the end table in a decisive motion before closing the space between them and kissing Grantaire once again. “Now who’s the idiot?” he asked, but his tone was as gentle as his touch. “Yes, I am certain that we can pull off cohabitating, at least on a semi-regular basis, without arousing suspicion, and more than that, I am absolutely certain that I want to at least try.” 

Grantaire nodded slowly. “In that case, I have been meaning to schedule a remodel of my entire first floor, which will make living there quite difficult…” Enjolras laughed and Grantaire smiled. “So since I will be taking you up on your offer, may I inquire as to where you wish for me to stay? Perhaps you wish to give me a tour that ends in a bedroom?”

His meaning could not be less clear and Enjolras smirked as he stood. “I do believe that can be arranged.”

He managed a tour of the first floor in record time, mostly pointing in vague directions as he ushered Grantaire to the stairs, since the only place he cared about being was in his bedroom or Grantaire’s. “My bedchamber,” he said, gesturing towards the room before leading Grantaire next door. “And adjoining it, here, is your sister’s.”

Grantaire arched an eyebrow as he looked inside. “Surely you would not have me stay here,” he said in an undertone.

Enjolras laughed. “Of course not, not even I’m that stupid,” he said, leading Grantaire to the bedroom on the other side of the master suite. “But my...great-great-grandfather, I believe? Had about eleven mistresses over the course of this life, so he had this built.”

He swept aside a tapestry on the wall and pulled on the wall sconce, watching with no small amount of satisfaction as part of the wall swung inward, revealing a secret passage that connected the bedroom with the master suite. “This way, when everyone else has gone to bed…”

A slow grin crossed Grantaire’s face as they walked through the passage into Enjolras’s bedroom. “Oh, you have thought this through, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” Enjolras told him, turning to rest his hands on Grantaire’s chest. “But I believe we’ve both had enough of thinking for the moment.”

Grantaire’s eyes darkened, and he grabbed Enjolras by the hips and pulled him flush. Unlike their gentle kisses earlier, this kiss was fierce, and heated, Grantaire licking into Enjolras’s mouth as if staking a claim there, and neither man seemed able to keep his hands to himself. “Perhaps we should take this to a bed,” Enjolras murmured, and Grantaire grinned.

“Your bed or mine?” he asked, but before Enjolras could respond, a knock sounded on the door.

Enjolras and Grantaire quickly sprung apart as the door opened and a housemaid came in. She startled when she saw them, dropping the pail she was carrying. “Oh! Begging your pardon, m’lord,” she said, bobbing a curtsy, her eyes wide. “Only I came to light the fire, but if you’d rather I returned later—”

“No, no need,” Enjolras said hastily, before adding, a little awkwardly, “I was just finishing giving Mr. Grantaire the tour.” Her wide eyes flew to Grantaire, who looked very much like he was trying not to laugh. Enjolras cleared his throat, and she looked back at him. “And when you’re done here, will you light the fireplace next door as well? Mr. Grantaire will be staying for a bit while renovations are completed in his house.”

She bobbed another quick curtsy. “‘Course m’lord,” she murmured, casting one final, questioning look at Grantaire before hurrying to light the fire.

Grantaire took Enjolras’s elbow and steered him out into the hallway. “Master of the House, I see,” he said with a snigger.

“Something like that,” Enjolras muttered. “Though I do wish we hadn’t been disturbed.”

“As do I,” Grantaire said, his eyes dark. Then he managed a slightly grim smile. “But it’s perhaps for the best. After all, I need to return to my place anyway to get some clothes and other things if I’m to be staying here.”

“And to perhaps schedule some renovation work?” Enjolras asked wryly.

Grantaire winked at him “You read my mind.” 

He turned to head down the stairs but Enjolras caught his hand. “And tonight?” he asked.

Granatire paused. “Tonight, as every night, I am all yours,” he murmured, his voice low. “And only yours.”

Enjolras glanced around and chanced taking a step closer to press a kiss to the corner of Grantaire’s mouth. “Something to look forward to.”

Grantaire laughed breathily before telling him, “Don’t forget, we also have the de Courfeyrac ball to look forward to tomorrow evening.”

Enjolras groaned. “Don’t remind me.”

“Who knows, now that you’re a married man, perhaps it will be somewhat enjoyable.” Enjolras gave him a look and Grantaire laughed. “Very well, then perhaps it will be at least somewhat tolerable.”

“Well,” Enjolras said gloomily, “I suppose there is but one way to find out.”

[kinnoth]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Loki smiles. ”Household.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I loved you best!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"We cannot be friends."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That's not it."

"Then what is it, Loki?"

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

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

"Did it hurt before?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do I?"

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

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

"Brother."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How do they fight?"

"With their ice magic--"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Our mother," Thor snaps.

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

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

"Me."

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

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

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

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

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

"And then?"

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

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

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

"Tell me anyway," Thor demands.

"I have seen my death."

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

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

"Tell me how it happens at least."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Loki huffs, "Beloved."

"Aye, if that is not too forward."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What is it that you want?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A moment later, his world explodes.