#i need a tag for this thread i shall come up with it tomorrow

[morri-draws]

Gwaine x Reader - 'The Threads That Bind Us' - Chapter 14

Story Summary:

You, a humble dressmaker from Camelot’s lower town, are commissioned to make a new gown for Queen Guinevere. Impressed by your skills, she offers you the position of Royal Clothier. During your time in the castle, you catch the eye of one of the knights of King Arthur’s inner circle, Sir Gwaine. What starts as a sweet courtship is turned upside down when misfortune strikes and you must deal with the aftermath, as well as an unwelcome visit from Gwaine’s unpleasant sister.

Rating: Mature

Tags: Female Reader/Gwaine, set between seasons 4 and 5, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort

Words: 5,847

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6

Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9

Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Read on Ao3

The day before the feast, you add the finishing touches to your gown and remove any stray threads you missed, until at last you can call it finished. You pack away your sewing things, regularly glancing at the gown to admire your hard work. Once all your tools are neatly tucked inside, you snap shut the lid of your sewing box when there’s a knock at your door.

“Just a moment!” You call out, bundling up the dress and taking it to your room, throwing it onto the bed before rushing to open the door to Gwaine.

“Harvest feast tomorrow,” He grins, clapping his hands together.

“And I have finished my gown,” You reply excitedly.

“I suppose I’m still not allowed to see it?” Gwaine quirks a brow.

“You need only wait one more day,”

“Then I await eagerly. But I have news of something before the feast. It has come to my attention that there will be food stalls and games in the tournament grounds during the day. I wondered if you might like to go together and see what it’s all about?”

“That does sound interesting… and I have no other plans,”

“Shall I come get you after breakfast then?”

“Sounds perfect,” You smile.

“Oh, and wear something you don’t mind getting dirty. The tournament grounds are muddy this time of year,”

“I’ll wear something that’s already brown,”

Gwaine chuckles. “I’m afraid I can’t stay, I’m meeting Percival at the tavern. See you tomorrow,”

~

Having requested water be brought up to your chambers that evening for bathing, and having paid the servants handsomely for their trouble in this busy time of year, you submerge yourself in the bathtub. You wash your entire body thoroughly as well as your hair, determined for everything to be perfect for tomorrow.

Once the water becomes tepid, you step out of the bath, dry yourself and get dressed, before tidying up for the night. Once your hair has dried some, but is still slightly damp, you apply the rags to your hair as Gwen showed you, and head to bed.

~

You rise the next morning, washing your face before getting dressed and covering your rag-wrapped hair with your regular cap, not wishing to reveal the new hairstyle until the feast tonight. You have breakfast and wash up, putting the last of the dishes away as there’s a knock at your door.

“Good morning,” Gwaine greets you, wearing his casual clothes. “Shall we?” He offers his arm to you with a grin.

You take your cloak from the hook beside the door, put it on, slip your arm through his and head out.

The tournament grounds have been transformed, the muddy ground hardly visible between the food stalls, tents, and other attendees. The grounds are already bustling with adults and children alike, with various mouth-watering aromas wafting through the air.

“Ah, here’s a good game,” Gwaine steers you toward a small tent with a bearded man, of about middle-age, standing by it. Under the shelter of the tent, you spot variously sized pails, each marked with a number, and by the tent’s opening, another pail is filled with apples.

“Welcome gentleman and gentlelady,” The man says cheerfully. “One silver for a turn, what do you say?”

Gwaine looks to you, brows raised in question.

“I’ll try it, if you support me from the sidelines,” You say.

Gwaine unfastens a pouch on his belt and removes the required coin, handing it to the gamemaster, who pockets it and nods his thanks.

“Has the lady ever played before?” He asks.

“I’m afraid I haven’t,” You reply.

“That is all well and good, for I shall explain the rules. To play this game, you shall take an apple,” He picks one from the nearby pail. “And toss it to the buckets yonder. As you can see, the smaller buckets toward the back are worth higher points, and the closer, larger buckets are worth less. Throw the apples until there are none left, trying to score the highest number of points you can. The more points you earn, the better the prize. Is the lady ready to begin?”

You look to Gwaine, who gives you an encouraging smile.

“I’m ready,” You reply to the gamemaster, fishing an apple from the pail.

It’s bruised and marked, clearly having been used for the game several times already. You toss the fruit with an underarm throw, and it bounces off the rim of the nearest bucket, into the mud. You grimace and grab another apple, using a little more force this time. It lands in the nearest bucket, worth ten points. On your third throw, you earn another ten points.

“You should try for the ones at the back,” Gwaine encourages.

You attempt it, your fourth toss overly forceful, the apple flying over all the pails and landing somewhere behind them, out of sight. You try again, but the apple bounces off the rim of one of the pails.

You look to Gwaine with a grimace. “Perhaps I should settle for a smaller prize,”

You throw the sixth and final apple, which lands in the pail worth twenty points.

“Forty points in total,” The gamemaster announces. “A good effort for the lady’s first time. Wait here a moment, I’ll get your prize,”

He turns and steps toward a wooden crate a few feet to the right of the pail of apples. Reaching into the crate, he removes a small item which he passes to you.

“Made by my wife,” He says. “To keep ladies’ clothes smelling nice while they are stored,”

You inspect the small prize in your hands. It’s a drawstring bag, made from a sheer fabric, with flower petals within it. Raising the bag to your nose, you inhale the floral aroma of roses.

“Please pass my compliments on to your wife,” You say. “This is a lovely prize,”

The gamemaster smiles widely. “She will be very pleased to hear it,”

After wandering through the grounds a while, taking in what the fair has to offer, Gwaine stops by another game tent.

“How about this?” He asks.

“I believe it’s your turn for a game,” You grin. “I shall cheer you on,”

Gwaine agrees and approaches the gamemaster, handing him a coin. Peering into the tent, you see a table at the far end, with ten cups stacked upon it in a triangular formation.

“What’s the aim of this game?” You ask.

“You take these,” Gwaine leans down to a hay bale beside the tent’s entrance, on which is a small pile of little sacks. He picks one up and bounces it in his hand. Judging by the sound of it, it’s filled with grain. “And toss them at the cups, trying to knock as many over as you can,”

He pulls his arm back and throws the sack. It hits the cup on the bottom right, but the cup only shifts slightly.

“I did wonder,” He murmurs.

“About what?” You ask.

“The cups are filled with water to make them harder to shift,”

“Ah, sneaky,” You smirk.

“Luckily, I’m the strongest knight,” He grins and grabs the next sack, throwing it with much more force this time.

Three cups tumble off the table. He throws the remaining sacks, knocking over eight cups in total. The gamemaster congratulates him and leads him to a small handcart nearby to choose a prize. Gwaine returns to you a few moments later, placing something into your hand.

“For you, my dear,”

Your heart flutters at the term of endearment and you look into your open palm to see a small whittled horse.

“Oh, that’s so sweet! I love it,” You smile.

You continue through the grounds and find another game to play, which consists of a tub filled with water, containing small wooden fish, each with a metal ring attached to it. With a miniature fishing rod (a hook attached to the end of a string, tied onto a stick), you’re given three chances to hook a fish, each marked with a number on the bottom which cannot be seen until it is caught. From this game, you win a handkerchief, embroidered with a simplified version of the golden dragon from Camelot’s crest.

After Gwaine purchases lunch for the both of you from one of the food stalls, you head back to the castle.

“Thank you, Gwaine,” You say once you reach your chamber door. “That was fun,”

“There’s more to be had tonight,” He smiles.

Slamming footsteps echo through the corridor, the sound causing you and Gwaine to turn your heads in unison to see Merlin rushing toward you. He skids to a halt a few feet away and pants.

“I saw you both coming this way,” He says breathily. “Just wanted to let you know that Erika won’t be coming tonight,”

Gwaine quirks an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

“She’s come up with a terrible rash, all over her face and everything,”

Gwaine presses his lips together into a line, but his eyes hold a twinkle of mirth.

“I see,” You say steadily, attempting to hide your relief and triumph from your face.

“Have a great time tonight!” Merlin beams, before turning on his heel and rushing back the way he came.

You and Gwaine catch each other’s gaze and chuckle.

“Well, I hope that eases any worries you might have had,” He says.

“As uncharitable as it may sound to admit, it really has,”

“It’s not uncharitable at all, considering who we’re speaking of,” Gwaine says. “Besides, her affliction won’t be anything that Gaius can’t clear up in a few days,”

“I suppose you’re right,” You nod thoughtfully. “Have you much to do before tonight?”

“Just polish my armour until it gleams,” He grimaces. “I already had my cloak laundered earlier this week, and you’ll be pleased to hear it’s still in top condition,”

“I am pleased to hear that,” You agree. “Well, I will let you attend to your armour and I shall see you tonight,”

“I’ll come and get you at six?”

“I will be ready,”

Gwaine reaches out a hand, cupping your face. Your heart quickens as you think he might kiss you, but he strokes his thumb gently across your cheek before pulling away, giving you a warm look and departing.

Once checking over your gown again, you idle away the next few hours, the sensation of Gwaine’s hand on your cheek still present. You have been yearning for his touch since his sensual hand kiss outside your chamber a few days before, finding yourself hoping for more every time you see him.

~

At last, the evening approaches. You go to your room, remove your clothes and swap your stockings, since the current pair is flecked with mud. In just your shift and clean stockings, you pull up a chair to the basin mirror and take off your cap to begin removing the rags from your hair. Once they are all removed, you begin the lengthy process of brushing through the fresh curls to tame them. Once you are happy with it, you slip into your new gown, using the mirror to aid you with fastening the side lacings.

The basin mirror too small to offer a full view, you move to the tall mirror in your main chamber by the work tables. As you gaze at your reflection, your chest swells with pride for your creation. The silver gown hugs your form to your waist, where it flares into a full skirt. The narrow sleeves on your forearms peek out from the wide scarlet sleeves of the over-robe, which forms into a cape at the back, and is secured at your throat with a gold clasp.

You finger the ends of your hair, anxiety about your appearance returning as the hour draws closer. You start to wish you had made some kind of head covering after all as a backup, but it’s too late now, you have no choice but to be seen like this.

You return to your bedchamber to brush through your hair again, manipulating it with your hands to form it how you want. Once that’s done, you apply some perfume to your neck and wrists before sitting on the edge of your bed, your stomach squirming with anticipation.

There’s a knock at your door and your mouth turns bone dry. Is it six o’clock already? You stand and lift your skirts to walk swiftly to the door. You open the door a crack, Gwaine looking back at you through the small gap.

“Are you ready to go?” He asks with a smile.

“I… suppose so,”

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m afraid I’ve been stupid,”

“Stupid? How do you mean?” His brow creases with concern.

Seeing nothing else to do but show him, you swing the door wide open. He looks you up and down, lips parted, and you have the overwhelming urge to shrink away and hide, but before you can make any move, Gwaine rushes toward you, his hand cupping your cheek as his lips crash into yours. Your body goes rigid with shock and he pulls away, wide eyes searching yours.

“I’m sorry, I –”

Flinging your arms around his neck, you pull his face toward you, your lips enveloping his, tasting him as he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling your body firmly against his. His hair brushes against your face as he deepens the kiss and your body goes slack in his embrace. You realise how much you’ve wanted this, needed this, to be so close to him, his arms around you, his actions, not just his words, showing how much he desires you.

You slowly pull away, eyes searching his to gauge his own feelings.

“(Y/N),” Gwaine says breathily. “I –”

“Took your time?” You suggest with a sly smile.

He laughs. “I suppose I did. I just,” He takes your hands into his. “Didn’t want to rush into anything. “Especially with everything that’s happened,”

“Let’s not dwell on falsehoods that were spoken about us. We know the truth,”

“You’re right,” He smiles, and takes a step back, looking you up and down. “You look magnificent. Your gown – knight’s colours?”

You nod.

“Give me a twirl, then,”

You chuckle, recalling your command to him to do the same when you made his new cloak, and spin around on the spot, your skirts flaring around you with the movement. Gwaine applauds and steps toward you, extending a hand to stroke your hair.

“I love it,” He says in a low tone.

“Really?” You look up at him. “You don’t think the other ladies will laugh at me?”

“I don’t think so. But if there’s anyone who does, they will suffer my wrath,”

“Your wrath? Goodness, will you strike them down where they stand?”

“I might, if pressed,”

“Well then, let’s hope you remain thoroughly un-pressed throughout the evening,”

Gwaine grins, before exclaiming. “Oh, I almost forgot,” He fishes in his pocket and procures a small item which he places in your hand. “I got you a little something,”

You look at the item in your open palm. It’s a small and ornate metal box. It’s oval shaped and engraved with a pattern of swirling leaves and flowers, a deep blue gemstone set in its centre.

“I thought maybe you could store your sewing needles in it,” Gwaine says. “Or whatever you prefer,”

You look up at him with a smile. “Thank you, Gwaine. It’s beautiful, and is the perfect size for my sewing needles. But I didn’t get you anything,”

“Don’t worry about that. You’ve done more than enough for me,”

You step forward and embrace him, the box still clasped in one hand.

“Shall we head to the feast?” He asks, his thumb rubbing small strokes on your back. “Or is the plan to be fashionably late?”

You pull away to see his smile, before you take the trinket box up to your room and place it on the bedside table. You return to Gwaine, who offers you his arm. You slip your arm through his and you both leave your chambers for the great hall.

The heavy double doors of the hall are propped open, allowing the golden candlelight to spill out to the corridor. Gwaine leads you within, where long tables line either side of the hall, the benches behind them already mostly filled with guests. At the far end of the room is another table, shorter than the rest, facing out, where the king and queen are seated, overlooking their guests.

Elyan spots you and Gwaine as you enter and approaches.

“Gwaine,” He says, giving his friend a playful smack on the arm. “Late, as always,” He turns to you and bows. “Good to see you, (Y/N),”

“Good evening, Sir Elyan,” You reply with a smile. “I’m afraid the blame for our lateness lies with me tonight,”

“Well, any extra time spent in preparation has paid off, (Y/N). You look stunning,”

“Thank you,” You smile. “You’re very kind,”

“Just stating facts,” Elyan winks.

“Go and woo someone else’s lady,” Gwaine shakes his head with a smile.

“Perhaps I will,” Elyan says with a grin, and returns the way he came.

“I didn’t realise Elyan was a flirt,” You remark.

“He’s not really, he just likes to rile me,”

“And are you riled?”

He chuckles. “No, it just makes me feel even luckier to have you on my arm,”

“Sweet-talker,” You nudge him playfully. Glancing to the front of the hall, you see that Gwen has spotted you. “You can greet your friends if you wish,” You say to Gwaine. “I would like to speak with the Queen,”

“Alright, I’ll save you a seat,” He unthreads your arm from his and kisses your hand, giving it a gentle squeeze before letting go.

You approach the royal table and Gwen stands, walking around to meet you, pulling you into an embrace as you approach.

“You look gorgeous, (Y/N),” She says. “Your gown is breathtaking; you are a true artist. And your hair looks beautiful,”

“Thanks to you,” You reply. “I wouldn’t have known what to do without your help,”

Gwen smiles and hooks her arm around yours, leading you around the hall.

“Sir Gwaine looks very dashing tonight,” She says, giving you a sly look.

“He looks just as dashing as he always does, only his armour is shinier than usual,”

Gwen chuckles. “It is a bit monotonous having the knights just wear their uniforms for special events. Perhaps I could submit a petition to change it? But then I foresee I’d receive some resistance from those who prefer not to have to think how to dress themselves,”

“Perhaps we should leave it then,” You reply. “So we need not witness any crimes of fashion. Monotony is more bearable than that,”

Gwen laughs as you turn at the front corner of the hall, approaching the knights’ table.

“I shall leave you with your dashing knight,” She stops behind an empty space between Gwaine and Sir Leon.

“Dashing knight?” Percival turns his head from beside Gwaine. “You must mean me,”

Gwaine elbows him before scooting over slightly, allowing you room to step over the bench and sit down, smoothing your skirts.

“Have fun,” Gwen smiles, before heading back to her place.

Shortly after, the hall goes quiet as the king stands, goblet raised in one hand. He expresses his gratitude and thanks to the kingdom’s farmers for a bountiful harvest, and urges everyone to enjoy the feast. Once he’s seated again, the chatter resumes and servants flood into the hall, bearing platters of food. The royal table is served first, then both the guest tables simultaneously.

“Can I get you something?” Gwaine asks, once another round of servants place down plates and cutlery in front of every guest.

You glance over the abundance of food laid out before you. “A bit of everything within reach,”

Gwaine grins and begins to load up your plate. A minute or so later, he places your plate, now covered with a mountain of food, back down in front of you, before attending to his own.

“Would you like something to drink, (Y/N)?” Leon asks from your other side. “There’s ale, wine and mead,”

“Oh,” You purse your lips thoughtfully, as you remember the delicious and warming drink you shared with Gwen during the intermission at the jousting tournament. “I’ll have some mead, thank you Sir Leon,”

“Just Leon will do, we’re all friends here,” He smiles and reaches for a flagon, bringing it forth to pour some of the golden liquid into your goblet.

You thank him and take a sip of the rich drink, before starting on the pile of food in front of you, sighing at the wondrous flavours that bless your tongue.

“Good, isn’t it?” Gwaine leans in to your ear to be heard, his warm breath tickling your skin.

“You must invite me to every feast from now on,” You reply.

“I was planning to,” His eyes twinkle in the candlelight.

You finish your plate, declining Gwaine’s offer of seconds only for fear that your stomach might burst. When the feasting is finished, conversation flows more steadily throughout the hall, guests��� mouths no longer occupied with chewing.

While you have some conversation with Gwaine and Sir Leon since they are beside you, you can’t manage much more above the noise. Your mind wanders to what occurred only hours ago. You glance beside you, watching his mouth as he brings his goblet to his lips, and you wish you could retire early and head back to your chambers, just the two of you. Gwaine catches your eye and you give him a quick smile, attempting to disguise the nature of your thoughts, before reaching for your own drink and draining the rest. You ask Sir Leon to pass you the mead flagon and refill your goblet before the king stands, the hall going quiet again.

“I have called in the minstrels, so the dancing may begin!” He offers his hand to Gwen, and she takes it and stands, the king and queen making their way around their table and to the middle of the hall.

Noticing movement in the corner of your eye, behind the royal table, you spot a small group of minstrels seated together. The king and queen get into position, the king turns his head to the minstrels and nods, and they begin to play. The king and queen dance as the guests, including yourself, look on, however your focus is not so much on their dancing, but their faces. Their love and adoration for each other is clear to see, and it brings a smile to your face.

A few minutes later, the music ends and the king and queen return to their seats, as members of the nobility gather in the centre, and the minstrels play another tune. The music is pleasing and you find yourself lightly swaying with the rhythm.

“Would you care for a dance?” Gwaine asks from beside you.

You chuckle. “Oh no, you’d better not ask me; I don’t know how,”

“There’s no one else I’d want to ask,” He replies and glances to the dancers ahead. “I haven’t danced like this for a long time, not since before my father passed. But I’m sure it’s all still in here somewhere,” He taps against his temple with the tip of his index finger. “I can teach you,”

He offers his hand to you. You glance between his open palm and eager eyes with a grimace.

“Not in front of everyone,” He clarifies. “There’s a quiet looking spot over there,” He inclines his head to the front left corner of the hall. “We can dance our own little jig with our own rules. What do you say?”

You look to the aforementioned corner, seeing that it is unoccupied, and out of the way. Surely no one would look there, when all the goings-on are happening in the centre of the hall.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but… I accept your proposal,” You slip your hand into Gwaine’s.

He grins, and you take two large gulps from your goblet before you allow Gwaine to guide you from the table. When you reach the chosen dancing spot, Gwaine lets go of your hand.

“Right, let’s see… first, we must stand apart,” He takes you by the shoulders and gently guides you a few steps back.

You stay in position as he retreats a few steps away and turns to face you.

“I bow, and you curtsy,” He continues, and you both do so. “Now we close the gap and take each other’s hand,”

You follow his lead as he approaches and extends his right arm, and you take his hand in your left. He turns his body and encourages you to do the same, so you are both facing the same way now, standing side-by-side and hand-in-hand.

“We take some steps forward,” Gwaine says, and you follow his lead as he talks through the steps. “And some steps back. Then, hang on, I’ll show you,”

He lets go of your hand and hops forward, then alternates between hopping on one foot while the other is extended slightly in front, leg bent, then does a larger hop with a flourish, before doing the same movements again, but moving backwards this time.

“I don’t know how I’m going to remember that,” You frown.

“It’s not so bad,” Gwaine replies. “Let’s go through it together slowly,”

You stand beside him and watch as he goes through the movements slowed down, before attempting to copy him. The two of you go through the slowed down version a total of three times, before Gwaine suggests to try it at full speed. You feel slightly foolish but laugh your way through the steps.

“You’ve got it!” Gwaine exclaims with delight. “Now do it while holding hands,”

You go through the steps again, your fingers enclosed in his.

“And now,” Gwaine says. “We do the same steps while moving in a circle,”

Gwaine guides you, doing the same leg movements as before but gradually turning as you do, until making a full rotation.

“And now, the really fun part,” Gwaine says. “We face each other,” He turns to you and you do the same. He puts his hands on your waist, your heart fluttering at the contact. “Now put your right hand on my shoulder,” He instructs, and you do as he says. “We do the same movements while turning, but on the fourth count, I lift you into the air,”

“You what?”

“Lift you,” Gwaine grins as his hands grip your waist tightly and the next moment, you’re about a foot off the ground.

You squeal with a mix of terror and delight, blushing on your return to solid ground when you notice some of the other guests are looking your way.

“And we do that four times,” Gwaine says. “The part after that is a bit complicated, so we can leave it out. Shall we do it all together now?”

“In a moment, I need some refreshment after all that!”

You return to your place at the table and drain your goblet, finding the flagon and refilling, taking a few sips from that, before returning to Gwaine.

“Nothing like a bit of liquid courage,” You remark.

Eying the dancefloor, you see the noble couples dancing, their movements fluid and graceful.

“Don’t worry about them,” Gwaine says, following your gaze. “They’ve had years of instruction from dancing masters.”

“Did you have a dancing master?” You ask.

“I did back in the day, if you can believe it,” He chuckles. “It’s all part of being from a noble family. You’re lucky you didn’t have to waste so much time attending lessons,”

“Lucky until today, where I have no idea what I’m doing,”

“But tonight, I am your dancing master,” Gwaine gives an exaggerated bow.

“I don’t think you’d be a good dancing master for me,”

Gwaine clutches his chest in mock offence. “Why would you say such a thing, dear lady?”

“Because… I wouldn’t be able to focus on the dancing,”

He smirks. “You’ve managed well enough tonight. Shall we put my instruction to the test?”

The minstrel’s tune finishes with his sentence, and you nod before taking position. The minstrels begin a new tune and you watch for Gwaine’s signal and begin the dance. You move in time with the music, though you stumble through the hopping steps, laughing as you do so. After the section where the steps are performed in a rotation, you face Gwaine and he grips your waist, lifting you into the air. In the next moment, you’re on solid ground again, doing the leg movements, then you’re in the air again, down, up, down and up, you feel giddy and light as air, looking into the face of the man who has become so dear to you as he smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling in the way you love.

After the fourth and final turn, you and Gwaine laugh, breath laboured from the exercise. Though you’ve reached the end of the steps you’ve been taught, the minstrel’s tune continues. Not wanting the dance to end, you move your hand from Gwaine’s shoulder around to his back, pulling yourself closer to him, so your body is against his. His hands shift from the sides of your waist to the small of your back and you both sway with the music, slowly turning on the spot with small steps. You relish the feeling of his body against yours, wishing you could stay like this forever, when the tune comes to an end. You pull apart slowly, as if waking from a dream.

“You danced well,” Gwaine says softly.

“My gown hid my terrible footwork,”

He smiles. “My favourite part was the bit you improvised at the end,”

His gaze is so tender, his words so sincere, you feel a blush creep onto your cheeks. You take his hand and return to your seats, Sir Leon giving a knowing smile as you sit down. You take another sip of mead as the minstrels begin their next tune. You watch the dancers, chin resting on your palm. If you could dance like them, you think you should want to do it every day. You conjure an image of minstrels set up in the corner of your chambers, playing a tune while you and Gwaine dance.

“You alright there?” Gwaine’s amused voice pulls you back to reality.

“Just daydreaming,”

“What about?”

“Silly things,”

The music stops and the minstrels stand and bow, marking the end of their performance. You join the other guests in applause as the minstrels gather their instruments and quit the hall.

“They were wonderful,” You comment. “There should be music every night,”

“I’ll bring it up to Arthur at the next council meeting,” Gwaine smirks.

“Then we shall have daily music and crimes of fashion,”

“What?” Gwaine chuckles.

“Oh, nothing. Just something Gwen and I spoke of,”

Laughter erupts from the opposite table, in response to some unheard jest. Glancing down your own table, you see Sirs Percival and Elyan arm wrestling. The murmur of chatter fills the hall again now that the dancing and music has come to an end, and your head buzzes from the hours of noise and recent physical activity. You sigh as fatigue hits you.

“It’ll probably be mostly drunken antics from now on, if you wish to retire,” Gwaine murmurs in your ear.

“Perhaps I should, if you don’t mind,” You drain the remaining contents of your goblet. “We wouldn’t want to add my own drunken antics to the display,”

Gwaine stands and offers his hand, aiding you up from your seat. You express your desire to say goodbye to Gwen before you leave, so Gwaine escorts you to the royal table.

“We’re leaving now,” You lean down to speak in Gwen’s ear. “I had a lovely time,”

“It looked like it. I enjoyed your dance,” She smiles between you and Gwaine.

The king leans out to speak from beside the queen. “I hope you enjoyed your first feast in the palace?”

“Very much, sire. I’d never tasted such delights before tonight,”

“I’m glad to hear it,” He smiles.

“We shall bid you goodnight now, sire,” Gwaine says to the king. “My lady,” He bows to the queen.

You and Gwaine walk arm-in-arm down the length of the hall and through the double doors into the corridor. The sound of the festivities fade as you turn into a passage and climb the first flight of stairs.

Once reaching your chambers, you head inside, leaving the door ajar behind you. Feeling no presence at your side, you look back and find Gwaine still standing just outside the entrance.

“Come inside,” You beckon him, extending a hand, which he takes and closes the gap between you.

You cup your hand on his cheek, brushing against his short beard, lightly pulling him closer to plant a soft kiss on his lips.

“My dancing master,” You sigh with a serene smile.

“As a general rule, I don’t think you’re supposed to kiss your dancing master,”

“I suppose not. But I am supposed to kiss my…”

Love. You shift your gaze from his as you think the unsaid word. You feel it with all your heart. You love him. But if he is not there yet, not ready to return the words… you do not want to force him into an awkward situation, or worse, have him say the words when he might not mean them.

“My sweetheart,” You settle for the lesser word, returning your gaze to his.

He smiles. “That, of course, is allowed,” He leans in and kisses you.

The sensation of his lips on yours sends a warmth through you, and once he pulls away, you wrap your arms around him. He does the same, cradling the back of your head in one hand.

“It feels so good being in your arms,” You sigh. “Though your armour is a bit hard and cold,”

“I don’t think they had embracing in mind when they designed it,”

You simply hum in response, feeling as if you might drift off in his arms.

“You need to get some rest,” Gwaine rubs your back.

“I’m not tired yet,” You lie.

“Yes, you are,” He laughs “You should get yourself off to bed,”

“But I want to stay with you,”

“You’ll see me again soon enough. We do live in the same castle,” He grins. “I’m going to go, then you can change in to your night things and go to bed,”

You sigh. “Alright,”

Gwaine pulls back to look at you. “Thank you for a wonderful time this evening,” You smile up at him as he plants a tender kiss on your forehead. “Goodnight,”

He lets go of you and heads for the door, stopping to look back from the doorway.

“Goodnight, Sir Gwaine,” You blink sleepily as he closes the door behind him.

[she-posts-nerdy-stuff]

Portrait of a Dead Girl

Summary:

Alina Starkov was given to Duke Aleksander Morozova of Os Alta in marriage when she was fifteen years old. Within a year, she was dead. The official cause of Alina's death was marked as putrid fever, but many at the time believed, and many in the future will go on to believe, that she was poisoned by her husband.

-

This fic is completely inspired by The Marriage Portrait by Maggie O'Farrel, which is a work of historical fiction based on the real lives of Duchess Lucrezia d'Este (née de' Medici) and Duke Alfonso ii d'Este of Ferrara. You don't need any prior knowledge of The Marriage Portrait or history to read and enjoy this fic, but know that my writing is very much going to mimic that of O'Farrel in format and although I'm hoping to write the story in my personal usual writing style I will definitely be borrowing a lot of my descriptors, symbols, and so on and so forth from O'Farrel - there will be some of mine too though :)

Warnings for these chapters: discussions of death and murder, xenophobia and religious discrimination, underage forced marriage references, fear of violence, implied violence, animal abuse/mistreatment

If anyone would like to be tagged in future chapters let me know :)

Note: Two chapters today! (partly since the first one is so short) Both are going up on AO3 at the same time and both are in this post :)

AO3 link

Chapter 4 - What He Is Capable Of

Krepost, near Pykan - Now

“Perhaps tomorrow,” Aleksander is saying, “we shall go for a ride along the river. The views are beautiful, I think you will enjoy them. I shall see to it that your saddle is adjusted,”

Alina restrains the sudden want to look up at him sharply, her nerves on alert. Her husband does not appear to have noticed, so either her repression has been successful or he is not paying her particularly close attention. She feels that he is someone who can read the truth of a person on their face, who makes too easy a habit of reaching inside you with choice, precision words, and can find just the right thread to unravel you. He doesn’t pull it right away though; he holds it in place, sometimes with his thumb tucked into the perfect position that it applies just enough pressure for you to know that he has hold of it, know that he could tear you apart with one simple motion - but sometimes it is subtler than that, sometimes he holds it secretly so that you will never see it coming when he begins to undo all that careful stitching with such ferocity, ripping all that you put so much effort into until all that remains is a confetti of who you used to be. For all Alina knows he has already found her thread, and he is just waiting to give it a sharp tug. 

“It seemed today that it was listing on one side,” he continues, “and of course your mare’s hooves will need attention,”

He keeps talking, of this she has no doubt, but as she sits and stares at him the words become nothing more than a distant thrum in the back of her mind, background noise to the voices in her head. Why is he saying these things? How can he sit here talking of horses, of groomsmen and saddles and beautiful scenes, when somewhere in the same mind that speaks of these things is a plan to end my life? 

The hoarse, desperate voice of his sister, Marie, grabs at Alina once again; it is clawing at her edges, threatening to fray her fabric. You have no idea what he is capable of. The air feels frigid, like her skin is bare and being pressed against cold iron. Even the candle in front of her seems to shiver.

The candles on the table, hardly many in number, are the only light in the room except the fire behind Alina’s back, and now they are casting a flickering, pathetic glow onto Aleksander’s face that makes shadows dance across his skin. She feels as though the shadows are chasing the light, threatening to swallow it. Consume it, until they are left alone in the darkness. In every flash of light that illuminates him, his expression changes. He is thoughtful, kind, stern, animated, forbidding, handsome, amorous, detached. Her husband is a man of many faces trapped beneath the skin of one, and where she’d once naively thought that some of them were trustworthy she now saw every single one of them for what they really were. Marie was right. She has no idea what this man is capable of. 

She does not want to find out.

The intending murderer reaches out across the tiny space between them, as though to take her cold fingers in his and wrap them close. It is this that finally shakes Alina back to life; she pulls away to pick up her spoon, hoping he has not realised that she was drawing away from his grasp but believes the movement entirely innocent, and attempts to draw soup with trembling hands. She wonders if her fingers will be this cold, when she is dead, or even colder. 

A terrible rage begins to burn inside Alina almost unexpectedly - How dare he? She studies the broth below her, trying to control her thoughts. How dare he? She keeps her gaze low, feeling that if she has to look him in the eye again that she will scream or shout or do something else altogether ridiculous and stupid. 

You need a plan, she hears - or rather, feels she hears - her old nurse, Ana Kuya, saying at her shoulder, to lose your temper is to lose the battle. 

Alina will not let this man kill her. She will not lie down and quietly die, she will not let his shadows swallow her whole. But what can she, a bride of sixteen, small for her age, far stronger in will than limbs, possibly hope to do against him, a man of almost thirty, tall and broadly built, a soldier no less, trained his entire life for battle? A plan, a strategy, a scheme of some sort - some way of outwitting him, if she could manage it, in mind instead of body?

So be it, she told the invisible Ana, without moving her lips, but I made myself a plan three years ago, didn’t I? And look how that turned out.

Chapter 5 - Tigers Do Not Belong In Os Kervo

Os Kervo, nine years ago

The first lesson that Alina and her siblings were to sit through the morning after she had snuck downstairs to see her father’s newest acquisition was not one that would have interested her much on a normal day, let alone with the images of a tiger prowling through her little head. Apparently Vadim was not very interested either, he was kicking his feet beneath his desk and staring out of the window - though what out there there was to be more intriguing Alina could not be sure - but Zoya was typically more studious, her head bent over her slate on the desk in front of Alina as she inscribed whatever the tutor was telling them about the times of Saints. Of course most of these were tales they knew but the finer details were lost on young minds, or they still needed to expand their horizons beyond the Saints they prayed to every day to make sure they remembered to honour them all. 

“And then of course we go on,” the tutor was saying as he moved his cane down the timeline he was pointing it at, “towards the Heretical Period. This was a time during which people would start to claim that they had magical powers from the Saints, that they had been chosen by them. In Old Ravkan these people were called Grisha, derived from the name of Sankt Grigori because… Zoya?”

Zoya jumped almost imperceptibly at the sound of her name, but you never would have known it unless you were studying her as closely as Alina had been because when she lifted her chin and announced her answer the confidence in her voice rang like a bell that could be heard for miles around. Eva, sitting next to Zoya, had her attentions turned towards Alexei and was pulling faces at him every time the tutor turned his back, followed by unsubtle glances back towards Alina. She settled deeper into her chair.

“The Grisha believed Sankt Grigori to be one of them,” said Zoya, “What they called a Grisha Healer, rather than a Saint,”

“Correct,” 

The tutor continued talking, whilst Zoya preened like a peacock that had just seen its reflection for the first time. Her chalk scratched on her slate and Alina screwed up her nose almost involuntarily at the unpleasant noise.

Alina sat alone at a smaller desk behind the one that her sisters shared, staring at her blank slate and half-listening to the tutor whilst her mind wandered on. She had been attending lessons since she turned seven and always it was the same; after this the music tutor would arrive, and after him would come the drawing tutor so that Alina could be prescribed the dull task of writing and rewriting her alphabet over and over again whilst the others took their drawing lesson in earnest. It was the drawing lesson that intrigued her more than any other, but she was told she must wait until she was ten. The years seemed to lay themselves out in front of her like a never ending road beneath a clear sky, and every time she tried to run down it she would trip, or someone would grab hold of her and force her back to her slow, plodding pace. The consistent trot of a horse stuck behind another, when all Alina wanted to do was spur the mare onwards and chase the wind into the distant horizon. 

“And what,” the tutor was saying loudly, probably for the second time judging by the impatience sneaking into his tone, forcing Alina out of her head and back into the classroom, “did the heretical sorcerer claim to be asking of Sankta Vasilka so that he could steal her secrets?”

Vadim was blinking as he pulled himself away from his fascinating window; Zoya twisted her lips together as though a thought she did not enjoy had crossed the forefront of mind; Eva drew slightly away from where she had been busy whispering something in her elder sister’s ear. 

Her hand in marriage, Alina thought. 

She turned over the paper in front of her and on its smooth, pale back drew a long horizon line. According to the drawing tutor’s lesson on perspective that she’d been eavesdropping on last week, instead of practising her letters, the world was formed of different layers and depths that could all be constructed by lines in the way that they overlapped and intersected. Alina had been desperate to try it out ever since. Now she sketched a tower onto her horizon line, a set of stone steps at its base before a winding path. 

“Eva?” the tutor tried.

“Yes?”

“How did the sorcerer trick his way into Sankta Vasilka’s tower?” he repeated, his lip twisting slightly, “If you so please,”

He said he was lonely, and he wanted only to speak with her. Alina thought again, as she sketched a window into the top of her tower. This, she realised, was where some of the difficulty with perspective came in. She had to adapt the shape of the window so it would make sense to the eye. 

“Is it perhaps…?” Eva began, with no intention of finishing, cocking her head to one side as she made a great show of thinking about the question.

“Alexei? Zoya?”

They both shook their heads. 

“He claimed that he was lonely and wanted to marry her,” the tutor sighed, “We went over this just recently. Can anyone tell me why this was what granted him access to the tower, to see Sankta Vasilka?”

There was a pause. Eva pushed a stray piece of hair behind her ear; Vadim played with his sleeve. 

Her father thought nobody would ever want her. She was too strange, too solitary. Alina began to try and form the structure of a girl above the window, her arms outstretched with woven wings strapped across her shoulders.

“Anybody?”

Alina recalled every word of the story that the tutor had told them last week. That was how her mind worked; things clung to it like thick footprints dried into mud, never to be entirely erased. Sometimes she felt overstuffed, overfilled, like all the things inside of her were throbbing and rising and going to overthrow her like a girl cast from the window of a tall, tall tower with no wings to guide her onwards. When this happened Alina would find herself getting dizzy, overwhelmed with all the things inside her that she could not bring out again, and Ana Kuya would send her to bed with the curtains drawn tightly and medicine Alina didn’t have a name for stirred into her tea. Alina would sleep, and when she woke her head would feel like a cupboard that had been tidied and reorganised - still full, but easier to keep under control. 

Suddenly afraid, or something close to it, as she tried to begin pencilling the shapes of the sorcerer at the window and of Sankta Vasilka’s father below, Alina pushed her drawing beneath the lid of her desk with discomfort curling in her stomach. Her head hurt. The room melted somewhat away from her as she pulled her hands up to her eyes, trying to find that darkness that Ana would create in the bedroom for her to sleep, trying to stop her eyes from aching, wondering whether - if she could not see - nothing else could crawl inside her brain and take up the last few tiny pieces of space until suddenly all of it burst out of her in an uncontrollable overflow. It didn’t seem to be working very well. She could hear the tutor talking, hear the shape of the words marriage, threaten, fall, now threat again, and then - 

“Is she alright?” 

He was looking at Alina. 

“She’s fine,” Zoya’s voice was cool, precise, clipped, “Mama says this is just what she does for attention. If we ignore her, she says, then she’ll stop,”

“Is that so?” the tutor sounded uncertain, “Should we call for the nurse?”

Alina pulled her hands slowly away from her face, met by such terrible brightness that for a moment she could see nothing at all. Her eyes adjusted slowly, bringing the peering faces of the tutor and her siblings into view, and then, behind them, Alina was the first to see the shape of her father pacing through the door. 

Eva immediately sat up straighter, like someone had pulled on a string that ran up her spine, and Alexei applied himself industriously to his slate. Vadim raised his hand, and when the tutor - with a slight blush in his cheeks and a slight tension in his shoulders - called upon him he kept his tone quite forcibly neutral, as though his eyes did not keep straying towards the Grand Duke. Gregor came to oversee their lessons with not unusual frequency, but with no schedule or specificity that any of them could divine, and now he wandered slowly between their tables and peered down at what they were working on. He placed a hand fondly onto Vadim’s head, nodded at Zoya, patted Eva’s shoulder, walked past Alina’s desk with slow, deliberate steps. She made sure that her sketch was out of sight. A moment passed in silence as Gregor continued to pace, before he stopped at the window and nodded towards the tutor. 

“Continue,” he said, in his low voice, “Please,”

The tutor nodded, turning his attention back to his students and saying: 

“Eva,” 

Alina was intrigued by this choice. Did the tutor know that he had successfully chosen the Duke’s favourite? Was he purposefully going to give her an easy question?

“Could you tell us, please, how the stories of Sankta Ursula and Sankta Vasilka are linked?”

Eva pulled on her sleeve to adjust it, cupped her chin in her palm. She glanced at Gregor, who was watching her from across the room, and as Alina watched a plan suddenly burst into her head. She leant forwards, as though simply reaching for her stylus, and whispered into Eva’s hair as she did so:

“They escaped heretics; the sorcerer, and the worshippers of Djel,” 

Eva cocked her head in surprise. Something that might have been annoyance or might have been a warning for caution flashed through Zoya’s eyes as she looked briefly over her shoulder. 

“The sorcerer was a heretic…” Eva said, as though putting great thought into her words, “Was he Grisha? And the Fjerdans that attacked Sankta Ursuala were heretics as well, because they worship the false god… Dell?” 

“Very good, Eva,” the tutor said with considerable relief, watching Gregor’s proud nod from the corner of his eye, “The name of the false god is pronounced Djel. There is no more important story for understanding the dangers that we still face from the heathen North than Sankta Ursula’s, and as you can see-” his cane thumped back into the timeline behind him on the wall, “She was one of the most recent Saints. How do we know that this makes sense in her story?”

The lesson went on. Alina quickly wrote as she was supposed to, recording the prayers that Sankta Ursula made to all the Saints that came before her, and tried not to wonder why Ursula was a Saint and not a Grisha. What was the difference? What made one who claimed to be blessed by the Saints blasphemous, and yet another one divine? 

Only when she was sure she had picked the perfect moment did she lean back into her sisters’ desk and whisper:

“Papa has a tiger. It was brought here overnight,”

Zoya turned towards her, as though to make some response, and then seemed to think better of it. Just as Alina was sure her plan had failed and Gregor was about to leave, Eva called out: 

“Papa!”

He stopped, one hand on the door, and turned slowly back to face them. 

“I heard a rumour…” Eva began, drawing her words out long and stringing them together as she leaned forwards with her famed, charming little smile, lifting her chin up towards her papa, “That-”

“That there is a tiger here,” Zoya finished, as though tired of how long it was taking Eva to speak, “Is it true?”

Gregor was silent for a moment, and then he smiled. 

“Did you hear that?” he asked, looking at the tutor, “My daughters know everything that goes on in this dvorets, don’t you girls?”

He wagged a finger at them somewhat playfully. 

“You are just like your Mama, both of you,”

“Oh, can we see it Papa?” Eva clasped her hands together, “Please?”

“Perhaps I shall take you all,” he smiled, “If your tutor tells me you have done well in your lessons today,”

*

Alina forgot about the piece of paper half hidden in her desk, carrying its sketch of Sankta Vasilka and her wings, and it was not until some time later that she thought of it again. It was discovered, not that she will ever know, by the religion tutor that same day as he paced the empty classroom to tidy slates and chalk and styluses. She’ll never know that, upon finding the page and plucking it between his fingers, the tutor was so surprised to find a study in perspective and the recognisable shape of Sankta Vasilka’s tower that he looked about him as though he thought he might be the subject of some kind of strange trick. How could this have possibly come from the child that sat at this desk, the child that was so quiet he practically forgot that she was there? The image was so compelling that he felt quite bowled over by it. 

Later, with the paper tucked into his jacket, he passed the drawing tutor. The paper slipped from one hand to another. 

The drawing tutor was hardly expecting much when he received this sketch. But as he ran his eyes over it, as he was drawn from horizon to treeline to tower window to winding pathway, as he studied the lightness in the outlined figure, the way she genuinely seemed about to fly straight forth out of the page, the sizes and angles of windows and wings and stairs, the gradation that brought the eye from foreground to background and back again, any other thought he might have had for the charming man in front of him tumbled straight out of his head. 

“Who did this?” he asked, turning it over and then back to face up again, “Surely not Zoya? She is more skilled than Vadim, but-”

“It was Alina,” 

The drawing tutor had to think for a moment before he ventured: 

“The tiny little creature who sits at the back?”

“Yes, her. I thought that you should know,”

The religion tutor gave him a sharp nod and began to pace away down the corridor. Half paying attention to the receding figure and half still trapped in the world of this sketch, the drawing tutor only afterwards realised that he had once again missed his chance to ask the religion tutor to accompany him into town for the evening. 

*

The five eldest children of Gregor and Milana Starkov would remember their nocturnal walk to their father’s menagerie for the rest of their lives and though more than one of them would be admittedly short, the gravity of this for them, as small as they were at the time, still stands. The journey, for with such small legs and knowing so little of the home they lived in to the children this walk felt like it had the gravity of a journey, took them through so many new and wondrous rooms, with stars painted on the ceilings and chandeliers and panelled walls, and down so, so many stairs that Alina’s mind was lost in and amongst it all. How big this dvorets truly was, she could not get over, nor how well her father knew it. 

It was a strange feeling to step into the menagerie in their nightclothes, gowns, and slippers, as though they were crossing a threshold that they could not return from - and one that perhaps they should not have touched. Alina felt her skin prickle as they passed the first few cages; the yellow eyes of a wolf roving over her, the snout of a bear snuffling against the stone floor. They passed a tank of water, but nothing disturbed its surface. Alina imagined a mermaid inside it, her human fingers pressed against the glass, her gills twitching and her tail ticking back and forth behind her scaly head. When they reached the end of the row her father stopped and looked on with some pride: here were the lions. 

There were two of them, a male and a female, pacing in a circle and glaring at each other across the cage. Every fourth step - Alina counted them - the male yowled. After what felt like far too long, their father moved on and his children shuffled after him. 

The final cage, beyond it only the outer wall of the dvorets, was lit across the front by the light of a sconce, but left its back recesses in darkness. A slab of meat lay on the floor, untouched. There was no sign of the tiger. A long pause hung in the air as all six of them craned their necks, strained their eyes - but none so much as little Alina. Please, she thought, desperately, I won’t be able to come again.

“Is it sleeping?” asked Alexei. 

“Maybe,”  

“Wake up!” called Eva, leaning towards the bars of the cage, “Wake up, pussycat, come on!”

Their father smiled down at her, putting a hand on her head. 

“What a lazy pussycat this is,” he said eventually, “Not coming out to make friends,”

Eva wrapped both her little hands around Gregor’s large one. 

“May we see the lions again?” she asked, “They were my favourite,”

“An excellent idea. They are much more interesting than a sleepy tiger - let us go,”

As he began to lead his children back down towards the lion cage, it proved almost too easy for his youngest daughter to pause, to take a step back from the group, and to slip unnoticed back towards the tiger. The darkness folded around Alina like a cloak as she tiptoed back to the bars of the cage, her sibling’s chatter fading into the distance. 

Please. Please. Please.

Alina gazed into the depthless black, her mind wandering even now to how she might draw it, how perspective was supposed to capture something when the lines were hidden by the dark. Whether it was because she’d become distracted or because she was looking the wrong way or for another reason entirely she didn’t know, but Alina did not see the tiger until the very moment it was almost upon her. 

[ravencromwell]

All righty, let me see if I can address these somewhat in order:@pinkcupboardwitch YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSS. I dunno if any of you have encountered Naomi Novik's Scholomance trilogy—it is very! Much my template for conceiving Makt, as a magic haven horror show where people are thrust into a building which will kill them because the outside is so, so much worse. One of the key parts of the mythology there is that to produce magic, you have to expend *effort* preferably doing something you're not fond of (hence the main character, a terrible! Fiber artist knitting or crocheting her little heart out only to rip it up and start again because every attempt produces magic.) Along those lines: Makt as a world where not only did you *choose* how you hurt, but the more painful a tattoo was, the more control it gave you over the magic—think those tiny scars in the corners of Talya's eyes which must have been *shudders* oof. (Also, re your tags: fuck yes Holl hates the twins cuddling for warmth, and it's all deeply fucked up becase it's also one of the few moments of gentleness. And so he hates both the act--the intimacy they have earned absolutely no fucking right to--and the fact that there's a physical and emotional response to it beyond the hatred (glad of the heat; the not being alone to relive his mistakes in constant vivid color; glad there's not pain. Just a whole fucked-up soup, that then brings up all these memories of people he would rather be doing this with.)

@muffinworry

OH MY GOD Danes blood-drinking as transfusion thank you *makes room on the tiny boat* I've thought this for ages, and inflicted a lengthy message thread on poor Pink about how the blackening of veins are clearly the creation of gates through which magic can flood a body. And we see with Vitari that once the magic fills up the body, people just sorta scorch from the inside into a pile of ash when they've reached all they can hold. But we also know! That the one thing pure chaotic magic seems to fear is Antari blood, because it's what Osaron fears. So just yesssssssss to the Danes slowly burning themselves alive, and being scared shitless because they know what's coming, and Holland's blood is the only thing slowing it down—not even _stopping it just slowing it down. Which then makes trying to open the rift o' hell into Arnes make so! Much sense because maybe if their world is flooded with magic Makt's will become less cancerous. And so, it achieves two goals: putting their names in the history books as the ones who absolutely! Saved Makt, no matter what anyone whispers about them being psychotic bastards; the Danes, forever in glory and prolongs their lives, or at least ensures they die less agonizingly embarrassingly as people stumbling around, dependent on the care of those who hate them, cut off from so much of the sensory enjoyment of the world. Like I feel they'd hate not so much the dying as the ignominy!

Yes to, regarding Makt as being richly communal. Going back to Scholomance for a minute: there's such! A rich network of trades and favor-for-favor; it's very mercenary in some ways, and of course there are people excluded for various reasons. But just! That idea that of course I'll help you, literally if for no other reason than I may be in a bind tomorrow and need the favor returned. That as a Makt sensibility makes so, so much sense—not only makes sense but would be the only way they hadn't just descended into some Lord of The Flies shit and wiped their population out centuries ago.

@dr-dendritic-trees

A. I have absolutely! No idea why you would consider any of this annoying, but pls consider this your open standing forever invite to come talk to me about Makt and childhood diseases and childhood mortality anytime anywhere. I don't have the scientific knowledge to contribute meaningfully, but I shall flail my hands as I soak up yours. And oh my god yesssssss of fucking course there are vitamin shortages because the very coldness of Makt's climate straight-up limits what can be grown. No citrus to ward off scurvy, for instance everyone should be fucking losing their teeth. This's driven me batshit! As a historian who's just like agriculture moves on east-west latitudes because there are so many warm-weather crops you can't _grow in the cold!

[sidenote, but my personal hobby-horse: Vor's cigars oh my fucking god those things must come from some remote island community that's found a more harmonious balance with their magic—more akin to the Arnesians treating it as a kind of equal and so having slightly better growing seasons because of a magically warmed climate. And he must pay out the fucking nose! For them. I've been screaming for months there is no way he gets them in London tobacco doesn't fucking grow in cold weather I'm from prime tobacco-growing country.]

But back to the vitamin stuff: rickets, because of the weakness of sunlight, right? There's so much I'm missing, but I've dredged the end of my science. Filing *everything* on childhood illnesses away like an angst goblin yes thank you.

And absolutely there was child mortality—"the only blood he had left" is Holland's reference to Alox. God they must've lost sibs (I think Muffinworry even refers to this in Snake Charmer, and I know @bluecichlid is also a member of the "dead children in Makt" for maternal health reasons club.)

Re poverty in Arnes: oh god yes. Like, if you don't have any magic, or very minimal magic, your life must be fucking abysmal because everything runs! On the stuff. *whispers* work-houses that, for room and board of their limited magic workers, make those luxury goods everyone else thrives on. A Rhy, who wasn't a Maresh, given his limited ability with fire, making the palm-lights everyone gleefully buys to light the Night Market and then just throws away.

some scattered disability and White London thoughts:

Schwab missed a hundred thousand opportunities for disability rep; this is a bleak, apocalyptic landscape where one of the prevalent currencies is blood, and both children and adults are frequently attacked for their power.

Sign language. Look. Most magicians need to speak to focus their power, though Schwab makes clear it's more a way to keep up concentration than a necessity (take Lila's tiger, tiger, burning bright. So I wanna see that taken to its logical conclusion: tongues removed because many. many people think they! are the source of power, or at least where immense magic will nest.

Therefore: A thriving culture of sign language, where everyone is at least semi-fluent.

Holland, watching Talya's hands trace the old stories in gorgeous, fluid arcs with her hands as her face takes on a million expressions. Later, finishing them beneath the blankets, fingers tracing words intohis skin in the dark.

Holland stands out as much because his Antariness has allowed him to avoid disability as for the power itself.

Way the fuck more prosthetics particularly prosthetic hands considering how so many people carve element-control runes directly on their skin. Take away your hands, and some enemies would think they could take away your ability to fight.

Lethally sharp hooks for hands, with the runes carved directly into the metal and the most ruthless fighters absolutely willing ready and able to gouge out your eyes with their prosthetics.

Consequently: prosthetic care. Eventually, you have to take your hand/hands off; moisturize the stumps etc. Who you choose to be that vulnerable with says a thousand things about your character. (and the moments when you don't particularly *choose* it but you need to anyway because you've had it on too long and the skin is blistering; infection in Makt would be deadly.

The irritations of amputations. I know from some other characters I've researched for: things like washing your hair with only one functioning hand: an absolute bitch.

Anemia. In AGOS, part of what Ojka says Osaron's powers does is "warm her blood". Everyone in that city must be A. constantly cold; and not cold like a coat can fix. Cold from poor circulation and generally "weak" blood. People who have an affinity with bone magic (Athos, Vortalis, Holland himself) would have a significant advantage because everyone else is moving just slightly sluggishly, always dragging at the weight of exhaustion. It's part of what would make Talya's dancing so fucking _impressive, that she moves like that even despite the headaches, dizziness, etc.

Holland as Antari: essentially a fucking human heated blanket to anyone who isn't afraid to be so close to y'know the extremely dangerous magician.

God, there's so. so much more, but my brain is swiss cheese. But I at least wanted to start the ball rolling, because I feel like this's a corner of fandom that's just _bursting with possibilities.

[tuiyla]

Well, duh, of course! Agree. You know that part of the Twilight montage where Bella starts screaming? In Glee, That would be the section where Santana is about to take her lesbian dramatics to the maximum and blast songs like Wonderwall while she cries about how awful everything is, how she feels like she’s dying, except she doesn’t get to it, because ding ding ding, incoming text from Brittany asking to go get ice cream with her, all is well for the next few days until Brittany doesn’t smile at her again, and the cycle continues.

And yes, affectionately mocking Santana is perhaps my favorite thing to do, because babygirl literally counted her crushes smiles, she was down bad and I think that is the most accurate representation ever 😂😂😂

It feels like bullying but thankfully she's fictional and we love her, duh, so it's okay 😌 Feel free to affectionately mock Santana in my inbox any time lmao

Wonderwall would be so good, I'm loving that we're pulling out the classics for her. Consider: at her angstiest and when she's pissed about Bartie, she goes for her canon favourite song and sings an angry montage of You Oughta Know. She would have sounded so good it's actually upsetting she never got to cover it.

Love that it's a cycle, too, haha. Like she needs that smile or a text or something every day because she's a closeted insecure lesbian. I mean yeah that's tragic too but anyway it's more fun to affectionately make fun of her.

"And maybe you're gonna be the one that sav-- 😭😭 oh a text 🥰"

[itsjustmyfantasyroom]

School Girl Attitude part 5

Masterlist

Warnings: Thigh riding smut.

WC: 1382

Enjoy x

“Wow-you two scrub up nice” Rafael looked between you and Sonny smiling “Mi querida, beautiful as always” Rafael lent over kissing your cheek, then shook Sonny’s hand.

It was the night of the NYDP’s annual Gala. You and Sonny walking in hand and hand. You had a lilac v neck floor length satin dress with a belt around your waist, your hair in lose curls around you, a sliver head band in your hair and light make-up. Sonny was in a black tux with a black bow tie.

“You look handsome Rafi” you nudged his arm.

“Carisi, how did the finals go?” Rafael looked up at him.

“Alright I think, now I just have to get ready for the Bar exam” Sonny looked down at you with a grin.

“You’ll do fine babe” you squeeze Sonny’s hand.

“Shall we?” Rafael nodded towards the doors. You link your arm with Rafael’s and pulled Sonny to walk inside.

Just inside the door was a setting plan. You all looked at the list and seen that you were sitting with Amanda and Fin on one table and Sonny, Rafael and Liv on another.

“That sucks” you sighed looking between them both.

Just then Amanda, Liv and Fin walked in greeting you all. You all heading to your seats. As you sat down at in your seat next to Amanda and looked over to see Sonny looking directly at you from the next table over. You gave him a small smile and he winked back to you with a smirk.

The night went quickly with a couple of drinks, dinner and dancing. Fin and Liv were off talking to some other officers they knew, Amanda was on the phone with her baby sitter, Rafael was talking to some other ADA’s when your phone went off in your clutch,

Sonny: You look so beautiful tonight babe. You take my breath away.

Y/N: You look so handsome Dominick.

You bit your bottom lip and sent another one straight after;

Y/N: Can’t wait to get you out of that tux.

You looked up and saw Sonny with a wide smile on his face looking at the screen.

Sonny: I can’t wait to unzip that dress, I know you have no bra on

Y/N: What are you going to do once you unzip the dress Dominick?

You felt you panties dampen and looked up again at Sonny who was typing fast on his phone smirking. You looked down when your phone vibrated again.

Sonny: I’ am going to take your nipple into my mouth and suck on it till it’s hard.

Sonny: Then I’ am going kiss down to your panties and pull them off with my teeth, kissing back up your thigh, I know how wet that makes you.

Your cheeks went bright red, picking up your glass of water to have a drink to try and claim yourself down. You hadn’t even realised Sonny was making his way over to you till you felt his lips next to you ear,

“Dance with me babe?”

You looked at him with smile and stood up off your chair. Sonny put his hand on the small of your back and led you to the dance floor. As you walked to the spare space on the floor, Sonny wrapped one arm around your waist and interlocked his fingers with your other, you resting your free hand on shoulder. Sonny lent down slightly resting his cheek on yours as you both swayed to the music.

“I see I made you blush” Sonny said into your ear, you giggled and nodded “I can’t wait get you home, I’ am going to fuck you so good you won’t be able to walk tomorrow”

****

“Sonny, dinner should he here in 15 minute’s” you lent over the back on the couch handing him a beer “Come on babe, put the books down just for a bit, have a drink, you have been at it all day”

It was the weekend before the bar exam, you knew Sonny was ready but he was second guessing himself. Rafael had run over questions the night before with him, Sonny not getting any wrong. But he insisted on running over commercial law one more time. It was his least favourite subject and one he struggled with.

“I need to be ready I don’t want to fail and have to retake it ya know”

“I know, how about after dinner we play we game?” you winked at him.

After dinner you both sat back down on the couch,

“So what game do you wanna play? I need to get back to studying” Sonny took a sip of his beer.

“You know your stuff Sonny, but you’re not confident in commercial law so- I’ll ask you a question if you guess it right I’ll take one piece of clothing off, if you get it wrong you have to take a piece off. The one with the most clothing on wins and picks what they want the other person to do”

“O-ok” Sonny cleared this throat.

---

“Sonny you said you didn’t know your stuff” You frowned down at him as you pushed your panties down leaving you completely naked.

“I thought I didn’t” Sonny looked you up and down taking you all in. Sonny had only got one question wrong. He was sitting bear chested with his jeans, socks and boxers still on.

“Well I guess you win” You rolled your eyes, resting your hands on your hips.

“Guess I did” Sonny licked his lips “Sit here” Sonny tapped his left thigh “Just on this one” You did as he asked and straddle his left thigh. You wrapped your arms around his neck while his hands rested on your hips, kissing around his ear down his neck and back up again.

“What do you want me to do Dominick?” you whispered to him.

Sonny was still the good catholic boy, but he was expressing different things he wanted you guys to try more often. And he knew how much it turned you on when he spoke Italian, which he tried to do often.

“Voglio che mi fotti la coscia” (I want you to fuck my thigh)

A slight moan leaving your lips. Sonny’s grabbed your hips and started to move them back and forth. The friction over your clit from Sonny’s jeans was delicious. Sonny could feel how wet you were through his jeans that you were making damp. Now you had a pace Sonny was happy with he moved his arms up your back resting them on your shoulder blades pulling your chest into his. You both breathing in each other’s breath’s.

“Più veloce” (Faster) Sonny said to you through hood eye lids. You moaned taking your pace up a notch grinding onto his thigh more. You could feel your gut knotting, your skin started to burn all over. Sonny was in awe of you. He had never seen anything so hot, he knew you were close when your jaw went slack and he got even harder if that was possible. Your tell tail sign you were about to come when you closed your eyes,

“Mi fai impazzire. Ti amo tanto Y/N” (you make me crazy. I love you so much)

“Dominick” you screamed throwing your head back your hands threading into his hair till your hips movements slowed, you tried to catch your breath.

“Sonny” your chest so heaving heavily moving your hands from his hair to his shoulders “What did you just say?”

“I meant it” Sonny’s cheeks went bring red.

“Then say it again- please” you moved to straddle his lap rather than just this thigh.

“Ti amo tanto- I love you so much Y/N”

Your lips crashed onto his. He opened his mouth to allow your tongue into his. Your tongues fighting with each other. Sonny moved his hands to your ass and stood you holding you up. You wrapped your legs around his middle as he walked you both into his bedroom not breaking the kiss. As he got to the bed he laid you down, he still between yours legs. He pulled back and rested his forehead on yours, running his thumb over your cheek.

“I love you so much Sonny. Make love to me.”

Tags: @detective-giggles​ @the-baby-bookworm​ @thatesqcrush​ @permanentlydizzy​ @averyhotchner​ @infiniteoddball​ @fandom-princess-forevermore​

[storyofmychoices]

A Challenge

[Mal Volari x Daenarya Masterlist]

Characters: Mal Volari, Daenarya (F!MC, human)

Book: Blades of Light and Shadow (set during Chapter 13)

Word Count: +/- 700 Prompt: @choicesmonthlychallenge​ maze ☆  ☆  ☆  ☆   ☆   ☆   ☆

A quest for you, my dear adventurer. Tomorrow ticks closer, but this day is not yet done. Come find me; should you be up to the challenge, Your Magnificence.

A confident smirk pulled at the corner of his lips. He could never turn down a challenge nor an invitation from her. He continued reading the note in his hands that the young page had just delivered.

Go North, then East, but turn sharply South. Let the green walls surround until the flowing waters sing for you, for there, I will be found. But, alas, be swift. Should the sun set first, this treasure you shall lose.

Mal tucked the note safely in the pouch on his belt. He darted out of the palace, making haste as he headed toward the luxurious gardens. He groaned to himself, his gaze shifting between the three paths at the start of the hedge maze. He and Daenarya had walked through the gardens upon their arrival. She had even talked about the maze and the history of it that she had heard from the Prince, and yet, with no incentive toward reward, he let the conversation slip away. But now, she waited for him, a treasure like no other. He had to think fast and solve the puzzle before him. 

Think. He told himself, reflecting back on her first clue. Go North. 

His eyes swept across the sky, the sun was resting low on the horizon behind him. He chose the path immediately to his left, heading North. She hadn’t given him all of the directions, but he hoped the ones she had given would be enough to set him on the correct path. 

He felt the sun sinking behind him as he ran deeper into the perfectly pruned labyrinth. Even if he had to cut his way through the hedges and bushes to get to the center, he would find her no matter the cost. 

Right. Left. Right. Right. Left. Turn after turn, he wandered hoping he grew nearer his prize. A few wrong turns toward dead ends hindered his progress. His growls of frustration grew with each failed discovery. 

“Took you long enough.” She peered over the top of the lore tablet she had been reading. The sun had all but vanished leaving the garden lanterns to illuminate the flowing fountain behind her. “I was beginning to wonder if—”

He stalked toward her, taking her hand in his own and pulling her immediately to her feet. Her words were cut short by the unexpected gesture as he caught her in his arms. “I will always find you, my Kit, my Daeny.” 

Her forehead fell against his chest, as she attempted to hide the growing smile of delight that spread across her warming cheeks at his word. 

He curled a finger beneath her chin, lifting her face once more toward him. His darkened gaze met her as a low rumble of desire vibrated on his lips. 

“What are you doing?”

“Collecting my treasure.” The heat of his words washed over her at his closeness. He pulled gently at her bottom lip, taking his time to appreciate the subtle shift in her breathing. His tongue parted her lips slowly and teasingly, before darting in her mouth quickly earning him a soft gasp that was lost in their embrace. His calloused fingers threaded through her soft, chocolate hair, urging her head back and deepening their kiss. 

Daenarya’s eyes closed, giving herself over to him. Her body tingled under the growing fervor of his kisses; goosebumps erupted on her skin in reply. She circled her arms around his neck, begging him closer. A fire ignited in her as her own hunger for him increased, her tongue battling for control of their kiss. 

Mal growled into her mouth, his grip on her hair tightened. He inched her forward until her back was pressed against the rough foliage of the hedges, pinning her there where she couldn’t escape. With one hand in her hair and the other on her hips, he once again took command of their movements. 

Time stood still, though the last light of twilight faded away and darkness descended around them. 

Their impassioned kisses slowed giving way to a slow waltz of their tongues moving together, sharing one breath. It could have been minutes or hours, it didn’t quite matter to either of them. They lost themselves in one another. So much could change tomorrow, but tonight, at that moment, there was nothing more either of them needed.

☆  ☆  ☆  ☆   ☆   ☆   ☆

A/N: I never type things directly on Tumblr but this time I did… I spent an hour writing their kiss and it was perfect. Then Tumblr crashed and I lost it… and I don’t remember what I wrote exactly. This version is close but not the same and I know it’s not as good, but unfortunately, I just don’t have the time to figure it out. 😞

Perma tags: @lilyoffandoms​ ; @raleighcarrera​ ; @mfackenthal​ ; @the-soot-sprite​ ; @virtuallytakenby​​ ; @zeniamiii​ ; @kaavyaethanramsey​; ; @xjustin-ethansgirliex​ ; @caseyvalentineramsey​; @trappedinfandoms​; @anotherbeingsworld​ ;  @tyrils-star​​​ ; @nikki-2406​​

Blades Tags: @princess-geek​​​​​​​ ; @brightpinkpeppercorn​ ; @missameliep​ ; @mvalentine​; @walkerswhiskeygirl​ ; @nyastarlight​ ; @edgiestwinter​

[whitewolfandthefox]

The Call of the Wild

Credit to @riviawitch3r for the idea: “Someone pls write me an au where magic ppl can become animals. Geralt is a white wolf obvi, Ciri is clearly a lion, Yen is prolly like a birb (golden eagle or maybe raven?) or maybe, like a black fox idk I’m less sure abt her but I just really need this au.” They were also an AMAZING beta! Thanks darling!

A/N. Please be kind! This is my very first fanfiction. The story does not follow canon, although some events that happened in the show may appear or have some effects on the plotline here. There will be several chapters, comment or drop me an ask if you are interested in being tagged!

Series Masterlist

Word count: 3.8K

Warnings: mentions of blood, loss of consciousness, nightmares

Chapter 1: The Wolf

Humming to yourself, you bent down to pick the herbs you needed to make your potion. Standing up, you put the small petals in your basket before turning to look for the next plant you needed. It was then that you saw the animal standing on the other side of the clearing. You froze in fear, staring at the giant white wolf that suddenly appeared as if out of thin air, as it looked back at you with golden eyes. Do I run? It hasn’t moved yet. 

Carefully, you set down your basket and gathered your skirts, preparing to dash for a tree, anywhere to get away from the wolf. Before you could move, the wolf groaned and stiffly lay down. As it did, you caught a glimpse of its side, coated in a dark red. The wolf put its head between its paws and groaned again. You took half a step forward, before catching yourself, unsure of the beast’s intentions.

Torn, you glanced towards your basket of herbs and then back to the wolf. When it made no other move, you slowly stepped over to pick it up, watching the still animal the whole time. When the wolf made no movement, other than its eyes following you the few steps across the clearing, you made your decision. Carefully approaching the wolf, you crooned in a low, soft voice. “I just want to take a look at your side. Will you allow me to do that? I mean you no harm.”

The wolf raised its head slightly to look at you, slowly blinking its golden eyes. You froze, waiting to see what it would do next. You swore you saw the wolf nod before it set its head back down between its paws, shifting so that it lay on its other side, releasing another pained whine. 

Shaking yourself out of the stupor that had fallen over you, you moved quickly to the wolf’s side, sinking to your knees next to it. The wolf was even larger up close. As you examined its side, a sinking feeling appeared in your stomach. The wolf had been clawed, four long slashes running from its shoulder down its side almost to its back legs. The feeling of despair worsened, the cuts were very deep and still weeping blood freely. You scrambled for your basket of supplies, reaching for the coagulant potion you had made the other day. 

“This will hurt,” you warned the wolf, before pouring the potion over its side. The wolf stiffened and turned its head to snap half heartedly at your hand. You snatched your fingers back to your chest, cradling your hand and glaring at the wolf. You shook your finger at the wolf in exasperation.

“You are the one who came to me,” you scolded, “behave.”

Why am I talking to the wolf as if it could understand me? In fact, why am I even helping it? It is definitely not a normal wolf, it is much too big. 

The wolf huffed, before looking off into the woods. Glancing into your basket again, you pulled another potion out and looked hesitantly at the wolf. “Can you drink this? It will help with the pain.”

The white beast lifted its head, nudging your hand with its snout. Taking that as a gesture of affirmation, you uncorked the bottle and tipped a few drops into the wolf’s maw. After waiting a few minutes for the potion to take effect, you pulled out a cloth and a flask of water and began to clean the edges of the wound. Once finished with your task, you rummaged in your basket for a needle and thread to stitch the wounds with. 

As the needle entered the wolf’s side, it threw its head back, its muzzle formed into a silent snarl. You paused, running your hand through its fur, trying to soothe the beast. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, “but it must be done. I have to suture your wounds or they will not heal.”

Slowly, the wolf relaxed and you took this as your cue to continue stitching the slashes. You completed the stitches, and stopped, debating the best way to bandage the wolf’s body. As you did this, the animal tiredly lifted its head, as if wondering why you had paused. You glanced over and met it’s golden eyes, now having gone cloudy through a haze of exhaustion and pain. “I must wrap the stitches so they don’t get infected, but I’m not sure of the best way to do so,” you told the wolf. 

With a sigh, the white figure on the ground heaved itself to a standing position, whining softly in the back of its throat at the motion. Frantically, you tried to support some of its weight, worried that the stitches would pull and your work would be for naught. As the wolf finished getting to its feet, and after you reassured yourself that none of the stitches had pulled out during the movement, you busied yourself with wrapping its chest and belly with the bandages from your basket. Once that was done, you collected your things and pulled yourself to your feet. Turning to look at the wolf that stood motionless beside you, you spoke to it. “Well, that is all I can do for you now. Come, you can sleep in front of my hearth tonight so that I may check your stitches tomorrow.” 

Not waiting for a reply, you turned and set off on the deer trail that would take you back to your home. You lived a little ways out of town, in a small house with an enclosed yard where you grew your herbs and brewed your potions. Villagers often came out to see you, looking for an elixir or for healing, and you never turned anyone away. I guess that would be why I helped the wolf, I can’t bear to see anyone or anything in pain. I shall just have to hope it does not get hungry through the night. 

Glancing down at the creature that walked by your side, it was even more apparent that this was no ordinary wolf. Its head stood almost to your rib cage, quite tall for that species, even though you were shorter than many women. No, I don’t sense any ill intentions from this animal, although I am still not sure what it is. Unable to help yourself, you reached down and stroked the wolf’s head, marvelling at the softness of the white fur. It grumbled and looked up at you, as if in exasperation.

Reaching your yard, you opened the small gate, letting the wolf in in front of you and closing the gate as you walked through. Reaching into your basket, you pulled out the key to your door and let the two of you into the house. Placing your basket on the table, you turned to your hearth to start a fire, the night had begun to fall and the air to cool. After you had done this, you pulled the blanket off your couch and laid it on the stone in front of the fire. “Well then, you may sleep here tonight. Try to get some rest and I will check on you tomorrow morning.”

As the wolf settled onto the blanket with a groan, you glanced one last time at the bandages to check for blood. Seeing none, you walked down the hall to your bedroom to prepare for the night. After changing into your nightclothes, you flopped backwards onto your bed and crawled under the covers. As you slowly drifted off to sleep, your mind continued to wander back to the strange wolf with the golden eyes, and wondering what had happened to injure it so. 

As you fell asleep, strange thoughts and sounds whirled through your head, all centered on the animal asleep in your house.

Geralt limped through the forest, following the smell of herbs and magic. As he approached a small clearing, he could see a woman kneeling in the bushes, a basket filled with herbs by her side. He paused again smelling the air, having followed the distinctive scent of his kind to this area. As he lingered in the bushes, the woman across the clearing stood up, freezing in place when she turned and saw him. She set down her basket and gathered her skirts, her whole body tensing as if to run. The smell, the source is from around here somewhere. Groaning, Geralt lay down and placed his head between his front paws, hoping to show that he was not a threat. 

The woman paused at this motion, taking half a step towards him before hesitating and glancing over at her basket, stepping towards it. Geralt remained motionless, following her only with his eyes. Seeming to gather her courage, the stranger picked up her basket before approaching him. “I just want to take a look at your side. Will you allow me to do that? I mean you no harm.” she crooned. 

Geralt slowly lifted his head to glance over at her, slowly blinking, before nodding his head and putting his head back on the ground and rolling slightly onto his uninjured side, letting out a groan at the motion. Now that the woman was closer, Geralt realized that the scent was coming from her. Intrigued by this discovery, Geralt almost missed the woman warning him, “this will hurt” before pouring a liquid over his wounds. He stiffened as pain washed over him, beginning at his side. Turning his head, he gently snapped at her hand in warning. The woman snatched her hand back before shaking a finger at him, sternly telling him, “you are the one who came to me, behave.”

Geralt huffed in amusement, before turning his head to glance into the woods. It was getting dark, and he needed to find somewhere to shelter while his wounds healed. His attention was brought back to the stranger next to him as she rummaged in her basket and pulled out another vial before asking, “Can you drink this? It will help with the pain.”

Geralt nudged at the hand holding the vial in reply, allowing her to pour some of the potion into his maw. He placed his head back down on the ground, watching as the woman revealed a cloth and flask, leaning over him to clean the slashes that decorated his side. Once the blood was gone, she again reached into her basket before pulling out a needle and thread. As she poked at his skin to begin stitching the lips of the wound together, a flash of pain raced through his body, causing him to stiffen and throw his great head back, muzzle forming into a snarl as he desperately held back any noise. 

“I’m sorry, but it must be done. I have to suture your wounds or they will not heal.” the woman whispered, as she ran her hand through the fur on his side. Geralt slowly relaxed as the stroking soothed him and helped clear the pain. Geralt tried his best to stay still, only flinching slightly as the needle pulled his skin. After a while, the poking stopped, and Geralt opened his eyes to see the woman staring at him with a roll of bandages in her hand. “I must wrap the stitches so they don’t get infected, but I’m not sure of the best way to do so,” Understanding what she wanted, he sighed before heaving himself to his feet, whining lowly in the back of his throat as the movement sent a burning through him. The woman frantically reached for his massive shoulders before fussing over the wound in his side.

Satisfied with what she saw, the woman began to wrap the bandages around his chest, Geralt standing patiently as she did so. Once done, the woman gathered her supplies and stood, glancing back down at Geralt standing next to her before speaking, “Well, that is all I can do for you now. Come, you can sleep in front of my hearth tonight so that I may check your stitches tomorrow.”

Surprised at the offer, Geralt hurried to catch up with her as the woman crossed the clearing, heading for a small trail hidden at the side of the clearing. As the two of them walked, the woman glanced down at Geralt before brushing her hand over her head. The motion was a surprise, but not unwelcome. Geralt grumbled at himself for enjoying and allowing the gesture. 

After travelling for several minutes, a small house set in a stand of trees appeared. The woman walked over to the gate, opening it before allowing Geralt into the yard in front of her. As she closed the gate behind them, Geralt paused to take in the yard. It was small, but clearly well cared for. There were several patches of turned dirt, free of any weeds, as well as several hanging baskets and puts overflowing with various plants. Inhaling, Geralt could still make out that distinctive smell of the woman, although it was now masked by the scents of the plants in the yard, ones that he associated with healing.

Catching up to the woman as she unlocked her door, Geralt followed her inside and watched as she placed her basket on the table before kneeling in front of the hearth to start a fire. While she did so, Geralt took the opportunity to examine the house. It was small but looked like it was well lived in. Vials, empty and full, covered shelves and counters, interspersed with various herbs and tools. She looks like a healer, but smells like a witch. 

There was a door that led to a room that had a table and chairs, maybe a kitchen? There was a small hallway with several doors that branched off from the main room. The woman caught Geralt’s attention again as she pulled a blanket off of the small couch in the room and arranged it on the stones in front of the fire that was now roaring in the hearth. She stood up and looked at him, saying “Well then, you may sleep here tonight. Try to get some rest and I will check on you tomorrow morning.”

Geralt limped over to the blanket, groaning as he stiffly lay down, favouring his injured side. The woman leaned over him once more to check his bandages before disappearing down the hallway. Geralt could hear movement in another room before the house fell silent. Closing his eyes, he listened to the sounds of the woods outside the house before drifting off to sleep.

It was still dark outside when Geralt was woken by something. He remained motionless, trying to identify what sound had filtered through his dreams. Focusing inward, he searched for the well of power within himself, pausing once he found it before breaking through the barriers and allowing its power to surge through him. A wave of heat washed over him before Geralt found himself sitting amongst the blankets, returned to his human form. Glancing down at his bare chest, he saw that the stitches holding the four slashes running down his left side together had held throughout the night. 

The sound that had woken him came again, a small cry that sounded from down the hallway in the direction the woman had gone. Getting to his feet, Geralt put one hand on the wall as the room spun around him. Cursing the arachas that had injured him earlier, he waited for the lightheadedness to pass before wrapping the blanket around his shoulders and making his way slowly down the hallway. As he got closer, the muffled sounds of sobbing and thrashing became clearer. Leaning against the wall, Geralt hobbled closer to the door that hid the mysterious woman. He knocked on the door, hoping the sound would disrupt whatever night terror held the girl in its grip.

When the cries only grew louder, Geralt opened the door and took a step inside, only to be hit by a magical aura. He looked towards the bed in the room, taking in Y/H/C locks spread across the pillow from tossing throughout the night. The sheets were tangled in her legs, skin pale, cheeks flushed, tear tracks staining her face. Geralt pushed against the magic, trying to break through to the woman’s side. As he fought, he could feel the stitches in his side ripping, warm blood starting to spill down his side. As he reached the bed, the woman’s eyes flew open with a scream and she scrambled up the bed to lean against the headboard. 

Not wanting to frighten her anymore, Geralt froze in place. He could feel himself slowly weakening further as his wounds screamed at him in pain, but he didn’t dare move in case he broke the spell that had descended on the room. The woman curled in on herself, desperately trying to control her breathing but unable to. As she slowly grew paler, Geralt came to a decision and stepped forward in an attempt to calm her down.

Heart beating frantically, you cowered against the top of your bed, images from you dreams flashing through your mind. A dark castle, filled with pain and death. A badger, backed snarling into a corner. A man’s face shrouded in darkness. A white wolf with glowing golden eyes snarling at a shadowy figure, an injured lion cub behind it, snapping at the hand that emerged from the shadows. 

Gasping for breath, you hunched in on yourself, quickly growing lightheaded from the lack of oxygen. A movement from the corner of your eye had you spinning to see a white haired figure standing off to the side of your bed. As you focused on the man who was slowly inching towards your bed, you could feel your breath accelerating again. “Don’t, don’t come any closer.” you gasped out. 

“I am not here to hurt you, little one. You helped me and I am here to help you.” the man said in a low voice. As he spoke, you felt a spark within, something calling out to this strange man in your room. A sense of familiarity wrapped around you, soothing you. The man was bare chested, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He slowly stepped forward, his hands raised in front of him in the universal gesture of peace. You pushed yourself further backwards on the bed, trying to get away from the stranger in your bedroom before you noticed his eyes. Specifically, the colour of them, a shade of vibrant gold that brought forward the memories of the evening previously. “You are the wolf, from last night.” you managed to get out.

He nodded slowly, “I am,” he responded. “You need to breathe, little one, you are dangerously close to losing consciousness.”

As he spoke, you became aware of the feeling of lightheadedness, the blackness creeping into the edges of your vision. As you focused on trying to control your breathing, the man came closer, sitting on the edge of your bed and watching you with those piercing golden eyes. “Look at me,” he coaxed, “follow my breathing. Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth.”

You breathed deeply, trying to copy the rhythm that the man on your bed was setting. Slowly, you got your breathing under control and felt the dizziness fade away. “Thank you,” you breathed. Glancing up at him, you introduced yourself.

“Geralt” was all you got in return. Nodding to yourself, you slowly began to expand your senses out, taking stock of what had happened. Thinking back on your dreams, you shuddered, before pushing the memories away. As you slowly came back to yourself, you also became aware of the sharp scent of copper filling the room. Remembering the events of the night before, you reached for the man’s arm, ignoring the slight recoil that accompanied your actions. Tugging him so that you could see his left side, you gasped when you saw the bandages stained dark with red.

“You are bleeding,” you admonished, “let me see.” You stood from your bed and grabbed your dressing gown, putting your arms through the sleeves as you crossed to the other side of your mattress. As you got closer, you could see that the bandages were saturated and the blood was beginning to run down his side. You pulled him gently off the bed, sliding under his right arm when he stumbled and threatened to fall, taking most of his weight. Quickly, you led him to your work room, pushing the man onto the bed before rushing to the other side to grab your supplies.

You returned to Geralt, using a small dagger to slice the bandages off his torso, peeling them back and blanching at the sight. There were several places where the stitches had ripped out of the skin, and the whole area was puffy, weeping blood and pus. “What did this to you?” you demanded.

“An arachas,” Geralt replied, twitching when you prodded at the topmost claw mark.

“So there is venom in the wound yet,” you murmured to yourself. Your healing knowledge was vast, and the arachas were particularly venomous. “How are you still alive?”

“I am a witcher; their venom does not affect me as it does a normal human.” He groaned as you used your dagger to slice the rest of the stitches and make a small incision, a small bowl in your other hand to catch the pus and blood as you drained it from the wound. Glancing up, you could see Geralt’s locked jaw and pale skin, eyes hooded against the pain.

“A witcher,” you breathed, you had heard of their mutations that defended them in battle, “but the venom is still in your system. What potion do you need?”

When you received no reply, you glanced up from where you were draining the last of the slashes on his chest, seeing his eyes starting to flutter shut, his chest rising and falling with laboured breathing. “Geralt,” you demanded sharply, shaking his arm to gain his attention. Seeing that you had it, you asked again, “The potion, what do you take to counteract the venom?”

“Insectoid oil” he got out through gritted teeth. Frantically, you ran across the room, searching for the potion he had specified. Hearing movement, you glanced behind you to see the witcher attempting to stand from the bed where you had left him, swaying on his feet. Abandoning your search, you rushed back towards him even as his eyes fell shut and he collapsed towards the floor. 

The last thing that he heard before the world went dark was a cry of his name, “Geralt!”

Tag list so I can actually try this out and make sure it works, sorry if you’ve already read it! @riviawitch3r @ayamenimthiriel @uncoolcloudyhead

Some people who I think might be interested: @queenxxxsupreme @dreamwritesimagines @jensensjaredsandmishaslover @witchernonsense @intricate-oeuvre @rhabakoli

[darksidekelz]

Last 20

Credit to @writingwife-83

Thanks for tagging me, @hanuko​

Guidelines: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20,  just list them all.) Choose your favourite opening line, tag some friends!

I may have skipped a few of the more … content warn-y ones.

1. Living in a Lightless World (TFP) -  The scenario was a familiar one.  A hard, unyielding table beneath him, the sickening sound of Autobot voices drifting in the surrounding space, powerful restraints around his wrists, his chest – cables deactivated, as well as his audio transmitters.  Soundwave was helpless, again at the Autobots’ mercy.  But this time, he didn’t care.

2. I Know What You Did (G1) -  Praxus was a surprisingly good city for business.  Sure, it had always carried the image of pristine totalitarianism – the home of the Enforcers, of the most uptight mechs on the face of Cybertron.  And yes, everyone had laughed when Swindle had voiced his intentions to open shop there.  'No one will buy from you.’  'You’ll be arrested in a week.’  Well, the laugh was on them!

3. All My Decepticons (Transformers) -  Our show begins in a lovely little suburban neighborhood.  The sky is clear, and a slight breeze rustles the leaves in the trees.  We zoom in on a house, picturesque and welcoming, like something out of The Brady Bunch, only, instead of being scaled to humans, it is scaled to giant robots.  Why?  Because how else are the giant robot inhabitants going to fit inside?

4. Call Me Master (TFP) - It hurt to see him like this.  Soundwave had always come across as untouchable - like a benevolent deity who had, through some miracle of fate, chosen to grace Megatron with his undying loyalty and devotion.  

5. Hope for the Hopeless (TFA) -  A flash of metal, a distorted scream, the biting sting of claws in his plating.  Deadlock was fighting for his life, and nothing else mattered. 

6. Fear Itself (Red vs Blue) -  Felix had been expecting a little more fanfare when he’d stepped through the gate - a small army of people he’d wronged in his life, for starters.  That useless pirate had claimed to have been confronted by his own victims when he’d been shoved through earlier. Judging by the whistling abyss that greeted him, however, the gate had something different in store this time.

7. A Single Thread (G1) -  It had been a long and arduous road, but finally, Swindle’s work was starting to pay off.  He smiled at the message he held in his hands:

8. Sentinel Prime and the Quest for Booty (TFA) -  Sentinel Prime was kind of a big deal.  He led the Elite Guard, second in power only to the Magnus himself.  His presence inspired awe amongst the peons beneath him.  He was handsome, powerful, a master of strategy, and a beacon of charisma.  There was not a bot alive that came close to rivaling his glory.  And yet, he had one small problem.

9. Mercy for the Damned (MTMTE) - Primus, spare my spark. 

Pain came first – the pain of his body being systematically torn to shreds from the inside out, through a means and manner that defied the laws of nature.  

10. Dodgeball (Beast Wars) -  Megatron loved being the center of attention.  He loved watching the time tick down on the big clock 9, 8, 7, counting the seconds to their victory.  It was close enough to taste, intoxicating.  He could see Optimus, several yards ahead of him, wide open.  This was his time to shine, the moment that would go down in history.  There was no time to savor it.  It was do or die.

Megatron threw the ball.

11. Shall We Dance? (G1) -  It had been a year, now, since Cybertron last witnessed bloodshed.  After eons of fighting, anyone would be ready to call it quits, even Galvatron, it seemed.  In the aftermath of the hate plague, and the subsequent return of Optimus Prime, a peace treaty had been hastily drafted, and much to the surprise of everyone involved, it had been obeyed. 

12. Remembering Altihex (G1) -  There had been no battle for Altihex - no blaze of glory, no honorable sacrifices, no heroic speeches to go down in the history books - it was just gone, taken in the night as its citizens slept in their beds, blissfully unaware of their own impending demise.       

13. Reaching for the Sun (G1) - “It’s not enough.”  

With tense shoulders and narrowed optics, Onslaught sifted through the mass of information that Blast Off had handed him, divided between five different data pads, all confirming his every fear.  

14. Exceeds Expectations (IDW 1) - “Were you able to find it?” Perceptor glanced up from his data pad, cold blue eyes scrutinizing Prowl, trying to uncover his every uncouth motivation and secret.  As smart as Perceptor was, he was hopelessly outmatched in this respect.

15. Irresponsible Infatuation (IDW 1) -  Prowl was a sensible mech, sometimes the only sensible mech, a fact which he was all too aware of.  He could scheme with the best of them, plan for every contingency, and he wasn’t afraid to let his spark interfere with what needed to be done for victory.  

16. Living in a Box (G1) -  Okay.  This ain’t so bad.  I mean, I’m absent one body – I can’t see or hear, feel or taste or touch or smell.  It’s like my worst nightmare come to life, and y’know?  Can’t say what I was ever scared for.  

17. I’ll Follow You Forever (TFP) -  Step left, stoop low, lean away, cross-counter, go for the throat.  Soundwave’s opponent wasn’t a big mech, but he was broad, heavy, and well-armored – though the last wasn’t uncommon for a gladiator.  The ring wasn’t kind to fragile mechs – even Soundwave had piled on the armor as soon as he could afford it.  But even so, the extra protection didn’t change the fact that his light build was ill-suited for his chosen profession.  

18. Sacrifice (Armada) - The job was a means to an end. That was what Sideways told himself day after day.  When he woke up in the morning, dreading the upcoming drudgery, working his poor frame to the core, ungrateful customers – the creepers, the swindlers, the complainers.  And likewise, before the fell into a deep recharge at night, broken both body and soul.  

19. Maybe Tomorrow Will Be Better (MTMTE) - Some days were worse than others.

Drift wasn’t a happy mech; he wasn’t exactly unique in that regard.  Most mechs had baggage – four million years of war would do that.  Drift knew this.  But that did exactly nothing to make him feel better.

20. Guilty Conscience (IDW 1)-  Wing had always had a little rebellious streak.  It had gotten him into trouble more times than he could count.  And yet, though it condemned him on a weekly basis, it was also his second most valuable trait, after his compassion.  

I sure did forget I’d written some of these. Bummed I didn’t make it far enough back to get any of my big Shockblurr stuff up here, ‘cuz I still really like those ones. Also, I like the lone non-TF fic sitting in there (we ignore the OW one).

Feel free to do this if you want. I am too anxious a bean to tag.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Karen Renford and Carlotta Grant: Box Boy Kauri

This isn’t exactly holiday-themed, but this is Kauri meeting Karen Renford and Owen’s mother Carlotta Grant. Continues directly after the last Kauri piece. 

CW: Discussed/referenced/remembered noncon/dubcon, dehumanization, Owen engages in a lot of gaslighting/emotional abuse so stay safe on that

Tagging: @maybeawhumpblog, @pepperonyscience, @haro-whumps, @18-toe-beans, @burtlederp, @finder-of-rings, @spiffythespook (I referenced Henry, let me know if I need to change anything!)

Kauri is already standing at Position One near the door as they wait for Karen Renford’s arrival, eyes on the floor. He’s wearing a new sweater Owen had to run out for, and Owen was so nice to go out on Christmas Eve to get him a new cashmere sweater after he had wrecked the one he was supposed to wear with the whiskey that had spilled on him the night before-

He spilled the whiskey, he threw the glass at me, it’s not my fault

What an owner does with a human pet after the three-month return period is up is their own prerogative

Kauri, why the fuck would you wear fucking cashmere just to get it ruined like this? Jesus, did you get your blood on this? Do you have any idea how crazy traffic is going to be tomorrow trying to get you a new one? You’re fucking lucky I care enough about you to do this, I should make you go in front of Ms. Renford in a fucking T-shirt.

“All right,” Owen says softly when the buzzer at the door goes off. Kauri jumps at the sound, his hands folded behind his back, heart pounding. He had hoped, when he woke up in a new place, to never ever see Ms. Renford or anyone from training ever again. 

Owen rubs at his shoulder, and it’s a comfort and it feels so good, and Kauri leans slightly into the touch, closes his eyes when Owen kisses into his hair. “You’ll get sent to your room before too long, Kor-Bore, my mom doesn’t like you. Well, things like you. But Ms. Renford is here to meet with her and she wanted to get a look at you first.”

“Y-Yes, Mr. Owen.” Kauri’s voice trembles, and Owen must hear it, because he catches Kauri under the chin with his fingers and turns Kauri’s face to look up at him. Owen’s eyes search his face, and what they see there must be what he’s hoping for, because he smiles. 

Kauri smiles back, automatically.

“It’s okay, Kauri. No one’s taking you away from me, not today.”

Kauri breathes out a slow sigh of relief. His hands are shaky, his pulse is rabbit-fast in his throat. He’s never seen a rabbit except that he has, he thinks. He can remember its tiny heartbeat that seemed more a hum than separate sounds at all. His own heart feels like that. “You promise, Mr. Owen?”

“I mean it. I paid way too much money for you just to let you get refurbished just for fucking up a couple of times. You’re good, Kauri. You’re very good.”

Tears prick at Kauri’s eyes - last night had been terrifying and unsettling and had hurt more than anything else ever had with Owen. Owen had been cruel and his hands had been iron on Kauri’s hips, he’d left bruises that hadn’t faded fast enough. There were still marks today, and that had never happened before.

But still, even so… even so, he was good.

Keira rolled past them on the ground, beeping softly. Cleaning complete. Returning to docking station. Accept, Kauri?

“I wonder why it always talks to you,” Owen says, thoughtfully. “I’m the one that owns it. Return to docking station, Roomba.”

Directive Owen accepted. Return to docking station. Keira rolls back away to her little place under the couch, and Kauri watches her go with a slight smile.

“It’s because I talk to her-... to it more, Mr. Owen. The chip makes it learn who talks to it and respond to them. And I, um, I talk to it a lot.”

“Hm. Makes sense. Well, whatever, as long as it’s out of the way while Karen and Mom are here, that’s what matters. Well.” Owen squares his shoulders and takes a breath, and Kauri realizes with dim surprise that Owen is nervous, too - not of Ms. Renford, but of his mother. “Let’s get this over with, Kor-Bore.”

“Yes, Mr. Owen.” Kauri hesitates, then moves one hand out to slowly take Owen’s, giving it a squeeze. “You, um. You’re good, too, Mr. Owen. I love you and you’re very good.”

Owen stares at him like he’s grown three heads, and then laughs, rubbing at the back of his neck and pulling away from Kauri’s grip. “Thanks, Kor-Bore, but I don’t need praise. I’m not a pet, like you, don’t be stupid.”

Kauri’s eyes drop back to the floor and he folds his hands behind his back. He isn’t sure what he had expected Owen’s reply to be, but… some dim part of him feels hurt.

When Owen opens the door, Kauri locks his knees to stay standing, fixing his gaze on a single spot on the hardwood floors, a little swirling bit that he likes to pretend is a galaxy written in a tree. He wrote a poem about trees, once, the lives written in the cells of a tree’s trunk and a human body. There was a line, a line he’d had stuck in his head since this morning, when he’d woken up suddenly aware that he had been in college and wrote poetry.

The tree’s rings say famine, flood, or fire We write those years on ourselves in our cells and What we learn to be afraid of Do you fear the lack of love, its overabundance, Or the way love will burn you alive and leave nothing but ashes behind?

He wrote that, once. Didn’t he? In the Facility they said you’d get false memories, things that weren’t real, because of the training. Had to let it all go. Not your life now, they said, your life ended when you signed the contract, so that a new one could start.

Karen Renford walks in the door and Kauri’s thoughts all scatter at the sight of her thin, angled black heels with the red sole underneath. 

Kauri used to stare and think her shoes looked like she’d stepped in blood as she walked down the hallway at the Facility, every boy in his hallway standing at attention, a handler next to them ready to force a straighter spine, a lowered gaze.

“Ms. Renford, good to have you here. We’ve been working for two days to get ready for you.” Owen’s voice is warm, welcoming, and Kauri watches the black heels step further inside, coming to a stop just in front of him.

“645898, what an absolute pleasure to see you again.” Her voice is low and melodic, a trap of warmth in a cold cold body.

“N-Nice to see you, Director Renford,” Kauri whispers, fighting the urge to back away from her. His heart beats even faster, and he’s nearly dizzy with the rush of oxygen being pushed to his fingertips faster than it’s meant to go.

“I call him Kauri, here,” Owen interjects, and steps to Kauri’s side. It’s a natural movement, possessive of his property, and Kauri is reassured by the warmth of Owen beside him - a desperate sharp reassurance that cuts him as deeply as glass. 

Please don’t let her take me away from you

I love you like I’m supposed to

I haven’t told you that I’m broken

“I don’t utilize the pets’ names,” Karen says, sounding vaguely amused. “It’s better if they understand that they are always numbers to me.” She snaps her fingers and Kauri’s head jerks up with instant obedience, his blue eyes locking on hers.

She looks exactly the same.

645898, your handler has been putting in complaints. I’ve authorized deprivation for you.

The silver hair threading through the rich chestnut brown bob doesn’t read as signs of age but as frost that refuses to melt. Her dark eyes are sharp and narrowed slightly as she looks him over, lifting fingers to his chin.

Let’s see how 645898 does after this, shall we?

She is wearing what she is always wearing, so far as he knows - a pantsuit that seems like it was sewn simply for her, in a rich dark brown that sets off her hair and makes her pale skin seem nearly milky, a silk shell underneath that peeks up and out.

No permanent marks only refers to their bodies, Everly. 645898’s mind is yours to play with, as long as the end result of satisfactory to the prospective.

She is not the only monster in his nightmares, but she is in enough of them.

Her nails are long, and sharp enough to cut his skin. She has made him bleed with her fingernails before, and Kauri knows to hold himself perfectly still, a statue-man, marble boy, as she tilts his chin up and back. He feels Owen tense slightly next to him, and wishes he could rely on Owen to actually protect him here, but… he doesn’t think he can.

“What’s this, then?” She murmurs, a hint of amusement in her voice.

Kauri feels the blood rush to his face, knowing what she sees even though he can’t look in the mirror to check on it himself. His neck feels tender this morning, and he washed dried blood from it when he woke up in bed, saw more little spots of blood on the sheets when they pulled them off the bed for cleaning. The blue cashmere sweater he’s wearing - the exact same shade as his eyes - doesn’t hide the bruises he’s sure are there from Owen’s teeth, the places his skin tore open.

And Owen didn’t put any bandages on him.

“Sorry about that.” Owen shrugs, casually, unbothered and unashamed. Karen’s fingernails prick into the soft skin under Kauri’s chin and he swallows, hard, against the certainty that she will cut him there, make him bleed onto another sweater, and then Owen will put him back in the box to punish him, because it will be his fault for making Ms. Renford want to make him bleed. “Things got… rough last night.”

“Well, you paid for the product and it’s past the return period,” Karen says, with a lilt to her voice like she thinks she’s telling a joke. “What happens to it after that is up to you.” She drops his chin, but before Kauri can even hope to relax, she snaps her fingers again.

His eyes go right back to hers, wide and nervous blue on the slightly narrowed dark brown or black, he’s never been sure what color they actually are. There’s a twinkle of good humor there, but Karen Renford’s humor has never boded well for Kauri.

Oh, 645898 doesn’t like that, hm? Well. I suppose a few more hours of exposure might help it learn.

“Good, pet. Let’s try one more thing. 645898, respect.”

Kauri drops instantly to his knees into Position Two, hands on his thighs, eyes on the floor. When the sharp fingernails graze through his curls, scratch lightly against the top of his head, he bites his lower lip, feeling at the tender heat of the place he’d bitten it open last night, the low ache of the marks Owen had left dragging nails down his back.

NUMBERS. You have a visitor. Respect!

645898, you were given an order.

No. I’m not a fucking number and you can’t make me fucking kneel!

You’re causing trouble today? When my boss is visiting the newbies, that’s the day you decide to be a shit. Well, fine. We can take care of that.

Not so long, Everly! You’ll fuck its nervous system up again!

Renford doesn’t care if they’re still twitching; get her drunk and she’d probably admit she likes it.

I would pay good money to see that ice queen drunk.

“Good. I like to see them retaining the information even after they leave. 645898 looks to be in excellent working order. You said in your email you had some concerns?” She snaps again and Kauri leaps back to his feet, back into Position One, his eyes back on her face. Every obedient movement is instant, instinctive, made without pause for thought.

Pause for thought is pause for disobedience, and disobedience to Karen Renford’s command will not be tolerated.

“Nothing big, and we, uh.” Owen glances over at him, and Kauri sees a hint of true, genuine worry for him. “We actually worked all of that out. Can I get you something to drink while we wait for my mom?”

He would fall at Owen’s feet or hide behind him now if he could from sheer gratitude (Owen does love me, he does, he cares, he bought me and he cares about me and he’ll keep me safe from her) but he can’t, he can’t. He holds Position One as Owen steps away, gesturing Karen to follow him.

When her eyes break from their careful study of him, Kauri lets out a breath all at once, swaying slightly on his feet, relieved just to be out from under the eyes that he has seen staring down at him when they put the soft plastic thing in his mouth between his teeth, the circles on his skin with the wires that came out. He can remember the sound of his own screaming, muffled from the mouthguard, and Karen Renford never so much as blinked.

She steps away and walks past him, and Kauri shivers at the way the air seems colder as she moves into his space and back out of it.

“I thought you said you’d be bringing, uh, what’s his name?” Owen’s voice was perfectly charming and polite, and Kauri stole a glance over his shoulder. Ms. Renford did not look back at him, and so Kauri finally let Position One drop.

“Henry. I did originally intend to, but he requested to stay home with my retired Boys for this trip. He’s working on some particularly challenging coursework, and you know he’s very nearly ready to take his final exams. He’ll be eighteen in less than a year, and he’s very serious about his studies.” There was a hint of that humor back in her voice, the amusement that never meant good things for anyone, so far as Kauri knew. “He believes he would like to study mathematics and statistics in college.”

“You let him think about that?” Owen sounded genuinely surprised. “But in your email you said… well. That sort of thing won’t matter, will it?”

“It won’t. But he’s a darling boy, absolutely everything I ever hoped for, and I’d hate to hurt his ambitions before I absolutely must. What really matters is taking someone from such a troubled and tragic background and giving him perfect stability. My retired Boys are very kind to him. I’ve no doubt all his discipline is being spoiled while I’m gone, but-” She waved one hand, a hint of amused kids-say-the-darndest-things laughter in her voice. “That’s a retired Boy for you. They always dote on the soon-to-bes. I’ll take gin on the rocks, please.”

“Of course, Ms. Renford. Kauri, grab the door when my mom arrives, will you? She should be here soon.”

“Yes, Mr. Owen.” Kauri hurried to reply, to make sure Ms. Renford knew what a good and well-behaved pet he was. So she wouldn’t look at him anymore, maybe ever again. If he was just good, he wouldn’t get sent back for refurbishment, and if he was never sent back she’d never have to see him.

You are nearly complete. Will I have any reason to lay eyes on you again, 645898?

No, ma’am, not at all, n-never again.

Good. Because I do not enjoy seeing pets malfunction and return to this Facility. Next time, we would not be so gentle.

Yes, ma’am. I understand, ma’am. You won’t see me again.

Excellent. You are a very special custom order, 645898. Don’t. Disappoint. The. Prospective.

Kauri raises one hand to the tender spot on his neck, rubbing the pads of his fingers over the scabbing spots where Owen had broken the skin. They felt rougher, a little jagged by comparison to the rest of his skin, soft with the oils, the baths and showers he took.

He likes to think he keeps Owen happy.

He has to.

If he doesn’t, she’ll take him back.

Kauri shivers, but Owen told him to let his mother in when she arrives so he doesn’t dare leave his spot by the door. Instead, he crosses his arms in front of himself, running his hands back and forth over his sweater sleeves, the softness of the cashmere, trying to think of if there were other lines of poetry he remembered writing, even though he wasn’t supposed to ever know he’d written poetry before he signed the contract.

Kauri is not supposed to know anything about who he used to be, but the memories break through, and sometimes it doesn’t hurt like it’s supposed to if he tries too hard to think. He wasn’t bought to think, he wasn’t made to think, but some part of him remembers that he used to live all the time inside of his head, and when he focuses, the lines come again, sudden as a gasp, and the poem is there.

I was studying English and Creative Writing, Kauri thinks with a sudden blink of wide eyes. I wrote poetry and stories and I wanted to be a writer one day.

Then there’s a stab of pain behind his eyes, but it’s not fast enough to damp down the rest of the lines that float through him, in his own voice, reading in front of a class of other undergrads, the TA sitting against the desk in the corner.

The lines of our rings started the same, identical Down to the twisting curves of our genes Have they changed so much? Did her famine And flood and fire Burn brighter, bury deeper, grow emptier skin Than mine?

He can smell the room - the scent of old books and papers, his favorite smell in the world once upon a time, a smell like a used bookstore he used to go to with Keira. She liked listening to him read his but she didn’t write any, and he had been a freshman in college and his name is-

ERASED

Kauri blinks awake, crumpled on his side on the entryway’s floor, his heart pounding off-beat, feeling dazed and dizzy and with a pounding headache, knees nearly curled to his chest. 

He can still hear Owen and Karen Renford talking and tries to scramble hurriedly to his feet so they won’t realize what happened, that he was trying to remember again.

As he gets onto his hands and knees, Kauri realizes with sheer panic that he’s staring at a pair of brown leather loafers standing in the open doorway. Those loafers are attached to legs in dark jeans attached to a slim textured green sweater attached to-

“M-Mrs. Grant?” Kauri asks, his voice shaking, as he meets the exact same green eyes Owen has, the exact same sandy blonde hair, in a perfectly styled short trim cut.

“Senator Grant,” The woman replies, in a clipped voice, eyeing him as he pushes himself back onto his feet. “Were you sleeping in the doorway?”

“I was, um…” Kauri took a deep breath, the words come automatically and with a hint of the insistence in his mind that if he doesn’t remember the memorized responses, there will only be hell to pay. “‘The process of training is intensive and can have residual effects including sudden but brief loss of consciousness when resetting-’”

“Wonderful. I don’t care.” Mrs. Grant rolled her eyes, glancing around the inside of the condo. “I told him I didn’t want to see it, but what boys truly listen to their mothers when they think they’re grown and don’t need one any longer, hm?”

“I-I’m sorry, Mrs.-... Senator Grant. Would you, would you like me to tell Mr. Owen you’re here?”

She laughs, a harsh, barking sound, and Kauri flinches. Owen never laughs like that, except when he’s drunk, and then he laughs exactly like that. “Mister Owen? Good Lord, what an ego my boy has on him these days. No, you wretched little thing. I won’t have a pet announcing my presence. Look at you, though. I suppose I can’t say his money wasn’t well spent.”

“Ma’am?” Kauri blinks, trying to keep his head down and still look at her sideways, as he feels her eyes run from the top of his head down to his bare feet peeking out from under the loose black pants he has on, up over the blue sweater that matches his eyes, the white-gold collar with sapphires around his neck.

Owen’s mother reaches out, twisting a black curl between her fingers with fascination, then yanking hard on it until Kauri flinches at the sharp stab of pain in his scalp. “Is this what he would have done, if that little whore hadn’t left him in the lurch? Would he have wanted him tame as a mouse?”

Vince.

She’s talking about the Vince that Owen had made him pretend to be last night, Kauri knows that with a sudden perfect certainty. The name that Owen had hissed and spat and called out again and again with terrible, wounded affection, rather than Kauri’s own.

Kauri isn’t my name, it’s the name he gave me, there used to be another name

No don’t think don’t erase don’t think about your name

He catches himself just as the white begins to drift in at the edges of his vision, pushes it back and away. The fingers twisting in his curl let it go, pulling once more so it bounced back into place, before dropping to graze along the neckline of his sweater, over the scabbed marks from Owen’s teeth, the growing bruise. “Did he do this to you, little pet?”

Kauri swallows, but he is supposed to always be honest, and Owen hasn’t told him to lie about this. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Poor thing. Did you know this was what you were here for, when you woke up?” The hair like Owen’s, the eyes like this, attached to a face and a person who isn’t like Owen at all. Owen has warmth in him alongside the coldness, Owen curls around him at night sometimes, gives him the touch he can’t live without any longer-

Trained so I can’t live without it

“I un, understood the requirements my prospective had l-listed on the custom order form-”

“Fine, fine. I don’t really care what you knew. But I wonder…” She smirks, but there isn’t any affection there. Owen curls up with him on the couch to watch the videos on his laptop or movies and Kauri understands, looking into Carlotta Grant’s green eyes, that this is a woman who has never cuddled a single human being in her life. “Does he make you feel good, little pet? Or is it all about him?”

Kauri’s face flushes bright red in an instant, eyes dropping back to the floor. Shame floods him in a rush, nearly knocks him off his feet. He knows exactly what she’s asking, and even though he’s never supposed to, suddenly Kauri fucking hates what Owen does with him.

His silence - the blood-red burn on his face - isn’t good enough for her. “I asked you a question, little pet.”

He is trained to answer any question. He is trained to be honest. She has asked him a question, and the honest answer is-

“H-He makes me feel g-g-good, too, ma’am.” Kauri stumbles over the words, and something twists inside of him, something ugly and dark that training was supposed to eradicate. The dark parts of who he used to be were supposed to be gone, but they’re not.

She laughs at him.

Kauri doesn’t flinch this time, grinding his teeth together, even when she pinches the bruise on his neck. She looks him over once more, and something in her expression changes at his resolute stillness. She seems to see the stubbornness and determination in his eyes, and he thinks maybe… just maybe… she’s impressed.

“Mom?” Owen’s head pops around the wall, and he smiles brightly, moving quickly up to his mother and giving her a tight hug. She held him back, but with an air that suggested she’d rather not. “Kauri, you didn’t tell me she was here.”

“I-I’m sorry, Mr. Owen, I-”

“Don’t fuss at the thing, Owen,” Carlotta Grant says with casual disdain. “I can’t believe you really had them find one that looks so much like him.”

“Total coincidence, Mom,” Owen says, but then smiles, a little shamefaced, at the slightly hostile stare his mother gives him. “Okay, okay. Not a coincidence. But-”

“I know what it’s here for. If it keeps you from doing anything supremely stupid like before, that’s fine. Keep it out of the news, that’s all I care about. Is Karen here already?”

“Yeah, she’s all set up with a drink in the kitchen. Would you like me to get you one, too?” Owen’s voice is softer, with his mother, and he sounds eager-to-please, a tone Kauri has never heard except when he speaks to her on the phone.

“Yes. Vodka martini, two olives. You still keep those on hand, I assume?”

“Yeah, sure I do. Kauri loves them.”

Kauri is surprised to hear that - he doesn’t like olives at all - but Owen is always telling people he likes things he doesn’t like, and so he just keeps his eyes on the floor and nods.

“Lovely.” Carlotta Grant’s voice is dry. “I’ll meet with Karen now, before your other guests arrive. Will you be locking the little pet up? I’d hate to have it wandering around pretending to be a person and ruining your lovely little dinner party.”

“Of course. Kauri, go back in the bedroom and just chill there, okay? I’ll get you if I need you.”

“Yes, Mr. Owen. Can I-... can I take Keira, please?”

Carlotta Grant’s eyes shift to her son. “Keira, Owen?”

Owen rolls his eyes. “Keira’s the name he gave the stupid fucking Roomba-”

“Language, darling.”

“Sorry. Keira’s what he calls the Roomba. He talks to it like it’s his fuh-... his puppy.”

She laughs again, quiet and dry this time. “Poor thing. What a life to live, talking to appliances and sleeping with you. Well, that’s how it falls out for the pets, isn’t it? Honestly, I think Karen Renford is the only person I’ve met who doesn’t end up in this situation with them…”

“What situation, Mom?” Owen asks the question with pure innocence in his voice, and the two of them meet eyes and laugh, ugly sounds, and Kauri blushes to the roots of his hair again, angry and embarrassed for reasons he can’t explain.

“Go on, Kor-Bore. Back in the bedroom. You don’t need the Roomba.” Owen waves at him, and he and his mother walk towards the kitchen without a single second more of thought about Kauri. He hears Carlotta Grant and Karen Renford greet each other with the distant, empty friendliness of two women who do not like each other at all.

Kauri stands next to the still-open door and for one wild second thinks, I could run.

The pulse of pain behind his eyes at the thought is instantaneous and he hisses, wincing against it. Then he closes the door, locks it, and walks with silent steps back down the hallway to Owen’s bedroom. He closes that door behind himself, too, walks across the room, and climbs up into the bed. 

New clean sheets don’t show a moment of last night’s roughness, they don’t tell the story of something terribly wrong.

They don’t tell him who Vince is, or how he hurt Owen, or why Kauri must be here in his place. They do not tell him about Owen being drunk and how he got the claw marks on his back and the bruise in his neck.

They don’t whisper about Owen’s drunken apologies afterward, the way he held Kauri and petted over his bruises and the marks and cried I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it wasn’t what I wanted into his neck until Owen passed out heavy and too warm behind him.

They don’t tell Kauri anything at all about how he knew the apologies weren’t actually for him.

He curls his knees up to his chest, arms around them, and stares at the sunlight streaming golden in the late-afternoon sky through the floor-to-ceiling window. There had been something he remembered, before he fell on the floor, but now he has lost it. Was there something he remembered?

Love will burn you alive and leave nothing but ashes behind.

Maybe he was just thinking about Owen, but Kauri can’t remember why that line is stuck in his head. He must have heard it in one of Owen’s movies, and it came back because he was thinking about last night.

Kauri should have been so sad for Owen - he was trained to love him and he did, he loved him so much and he was so lucky his owner wanted love and not just fear and pain.

So lucky.

Owen was so sad. Kauri should feel so bad for him, for being sad. 

The only way he had left to rebel was to remember Owen’s sadness and not feel anything at all.

[captainmarvels]

where I lay down

Summary: Steve has one year left to get you to talk to him, and he doesn’t realize how much he loves the game until you let him win.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader

Steve Appreciation Week Day 7 Prompt: Song lyrics - “Living love in slow motion” - 18 by One Direction

Word Count: 2032

A/N: My final entry for Steve Appreciation Week! I loved writing for one of my favorite characters, and thank you to everyone who read my pieces! Hope y’all enjoy this last one x

It was the first day of senior year, and the last thing on Steve’s mind was love.

This year was his last at Hawkins before moving on to bigger and brighter things - hopefully outside of Indiana - and he wasn’t going to let anything distract him from the ultimate dream: graduation.

Glancing down at the note in his hand, he made his way to his first class of the day - English Lit. 

Name tags were on each desk, and Steve wandered around the room trying to find his. Finally finding it on a desk in the back, close to the windows, he dropped his books on top of the laminate and sat down.

Glancing to his right, he saw a familiar face sitting next to him.

“Funny finding you here,” He whispered, his eyes concentrating on the writing across the chalkboard.

You snorted, saying nothing. 

“We’re doing this again?” He looked over at you, grinning cheekily as you kept looking straight ahead, avoiding his gaze. 

Ever since freshman year, you and Steve shared one class together, without fail. And somehow, you always ended up sitting next to each other, at one point or another. 

Every single time, Steve would try to provoke a response out of you, but you refused to give in. 

You knew “King” Steve, and you weren’t really up for his distracting antics during class. Thus, you never responded to his questions or whispered commentary during class discussions. 

Steve had made it a goal of his to get you to answer him at least once before graduation, and he was reminded of that as he settled back into his seat as the final bell rang.

Game on.

Just before the bell was supposed to ring, Steve slipped you a note, his gaze concentrated on the teacher’s lecture. Eyebrows raised in confusion, you flipped the scrap piece of paper open, keeping a straight face as you read his chicken scratch handwriting.

Shall we make a bet out of this ‘not answering me’ charade of yours? 

If I get so much as a LAUGH out of you, you have to come to one of my house parties. I need you to have a life out of school, dude. Deal?

As the bell started to ring, you scrawled your answer on the back of the paper, tossing it on Steve’s desk without a second glance. 

He picked it up and read your reply, a wide smile dawning on his lips as he made his way out of the room, tucking the piece of paper in his pocket.

Game on, Harrington.

Steve made sure to get to class ten minutes before the bell, giving himself an ample amount of time to try and get a reaction out of you before class began.

And every day, without fail, you managed to keep a straight face and wired shut lips, your eyes not even sneaking a glance at the ever-frustrated Steve falling back in his seat in defeat. 

“How long can you keep this up?” He whispered to you, his eyes watching the teacher as they paced back and forth in the front of the room. He glanced over, and saw you were diligently doing your work, your eyes following the glide of your hand across the paper.

Shaking his head, he turned back to his own worksheet, an unstoppable smile spreading across his lips as he got to writing.

It was February now, and Steve still had no luck when it came to you. 

Friday was Valentine’s Day, and that’s when an idea struck Steve.

Valentines.

Enlisting Dustin’s help, the two of them spent the whole night bringing Steve’s idea to life. All that was left was making sure it got you to laugh.

The clock struck 7:45, and the first warning bell rang out in the halls. Making his way to the classroom, Steve pulled out the green envelope that had your name written across it.

Setting it on your desk, he dropped his books on his desk and headed out to the bathroom. 

You walked in, handing in your homework to your teacher before moving on to your desk. Noticing the green envelope from afar, you glanced around the room, looking to see where Steve was.

Not here. Weird.

Placing your books on the desk, you pulled out the card nestled inside the envelope. You glanced up to see if Steve had walked in, but still, nothing.

On the front of the card was a pink dinosaur, smiling while surrounded by a bunch of doodled hearts. Opening it up, you found another version of the dinosaur holding a sign. It read “I’m en-Raptored by you!”. 

You bit your tongue back as you smiled at the Valentine’s card, shaking your head as you slipped it back inside the envelope.

Right then, Steve walked back into the room, and spotted the green stationary in your hand. He dashed across the room, almost tripping over his own two feet trying to get to his desk. 

You looked over at him, smiling dissipating as he met your gaze.

“Please tell me you didn’t open it yet,” he said, eyes wide as he waited for you to answer.

You said nothing as you merely opened up one of your books, and slipped the envelope in.

“Seriously? Nothing?” He groaned in frustration, the ringing bell drowning out his anguish as you turned back to face the board, trying your best to fight back the smile threatening to take over.

So close.

Graduation was only a couple weeks away, and Steve was getting nowhere with you.

Every day, he showed up to class with a few jokes up his sleeve, and yet, nothing. 

At one point he questioned if you had a heart and a soul, which still earned him no response.

As he grew more and more desperate, you began to wonder if it was time to end his torment.

After all, it had been four years. Graduation was only weeks away, and you figured maybe it was time to make good use of Steve’s bet.

Another Friday morning, and Steve was about thirty seconds away from giving up.

But just one more time. It’s all or nothing, Steve thought to himself as he saw you walk in. Sitting up straighter in his seat, he ran a hand through his hair, focusing his gaze on the chalkboard as you took your seat next to him.

“Never seen you come in so close to the bell - you pick up some new friends at the bookstore last night?”

“No, but I’m sure you could do with some.” As Steve’s jaw dropped at hearing you fire back at him, you didn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing your facial expressions as he laughed, shaking his head.

“I thought I’d be dead before I heard you talk to me!” 

“When’s the party, Harrington? I need to get this over with,” You were focused on your planner, but you could feel Steve staring at you.

“You being serious? You’ll actually do it?”

You glanced over at him and nodded, smiling as you heard him congratulate himself on succeeding. 

“My place, 9:30pm, tomorrow night. Solid?” 

“Yeah.”

The last thing on Steve’s mind as graduation loomed overhead was love.

And yet here he was, anxiously waiting on the edge of his seat for you to show up at the party.

The music was blaring, people were drinking, and all he could think about was how elated he was that he’d finally gotten something out of you. A smile and a sarcastic remark, all in one.

How lucky was he.

After all this time, and he’d finally won. Steve was still a little hazy as to why this made him feel so… content, but he pushed away the thought as he downed the last of his drink.

As he set down his cup, he heard the doorbell ring. 

Everything around him seemed to freeze in motion as he made his way to the door, his heartbeat loud in his ears.

On the other side of the door, he found you with a twelve pack of beer in one hand, a bag of chips in the other, and a flower tucked behind your ear.

“I come bearing gifts for King Steve,” You said loudly, gently shoving the twelve pack into Steve’s grasp as you walked into the foyer. 

“You know me so well!” He said, rushing to catch up to you as you threaded your way through the loud crowd of drunken classmates.

Propping yourself up on the kitchen island, you watched as Steve put away the beer in a cooler, his cheeks flushed red from the rising temperature of the growing crowd.

“C’mere,” He shouted over the loud music, taking your hand in his.

You didn’t protest, following him up the stairs, his grip tight as he tried not to lose you.

He pulled you into his bedroom, and for a moment, you almost started to panic.

“Harrington, what’re we doing-” 

“Here,” He pointed to the window opposite you. “Figured if we were finally gonna talk, we might as well do it where we can hear each other,”

Steve opened the window and stuck his leg out, gathering balance before sticking his hand out to you. 

“You scared of sitting on the roof or what?” You shook your head now, and took his hand.

Leaning right up against the ledge of his window, you finally sat down next to Steve, and handed him the bag of chips you had been holding this whole time.

“Is this my prize for winning the bet?” He asked, grinning when you rolled your eyes.

“Your prize for winning was me coming to this party, Harrington. The chips are my way of coping with the fact that I’m actually here now,” 

As the two of you each took a handful out of the bag and looked up at the starry night sky, your mind couldn’t help but wonder why Steve was so adamant about talking to you.

After all, it wasn’t like you’d ever said or done anything that could’ve piqued his interest.

Dropping the last chip in his mouth, Steve dusted off his hands on the sides of his jeans.

“You wanna know something?” he asked, his eyes still star gazing. 

“Sure,” You replied, poking a finger at the remaining chips in your palm.

“I can’t believe it took me almost seven months to get a smile out of you,” he chuckled softly, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he dropped his gaze from the sky. “I don’t even know why I cared so much,” he whispered, running a hand through his hair. 

“Because you just had to win, Steve,” You mumbled, laughing gently as you hugged your knees to your chest, resting your head on top. 

“It’s… it can’t be just that though, can it?” Steve sighed, brushing back a stray piece of hair off his cheek. 

“Well, what else could it be?”

You looked over at him, and he looked at you, and for a brief moment, everything around you; the sounds of drunk teenagers, insects, and blaring music ceased to exist as you looked at one another. 

As if you were mesmerized by each other. 

Without hesitation, you both leaned in, your eyes still focused on one another’s; Steve’s breath mixing with yours as your foreheads met, barely touching. 

“Living love in slow motion, are we?” You whispered breathlessly, your lips brushing against Steve’s as he laughed.

“Let me kiss you already,” He retorted, not letting you answer him as he finally pressed his lips against yours, his hands suddenly pressed to your cheeks, your hand resting on his chest.

You break away first, cheeks flushed with heat as you tried to catch your breath.

“By the way… you won in February. I… I just didn’t say anything because I thought you’d get bored of me,” You shrugged your shoulders, dropping your gaze from Steve’s as he just tilted his head.

“I could never get bored of you, sweetheart,” He said, cupping your cheek gingerly as he leaned in and gave you another kiss. “After all, the night is still wide open.”

can’t tag everyone as i’m in a rush but here’s a few: 

@jurassicbarnes @mercedesbarnes @thorsxodinson @messybitchjuice @bittergoldilocks @ahoyfandoms @spidey-pal @harringtonsbaseballbat @schwankyblock @okaybutsteveharrington @nancethebadass @madeinthemidnightmemories @sadhwstudent @fragcc @bifrostythor 

[damienthepious]

im. heck. this is long. tuesday???!? aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa. forgive typos i’m RUSHING to get this up before i have to leave for work.

Scattered On My Shore (Chapter 14)

[Ch 1] [Ch 2] [Ch 3] [Ch 4] [Ch 5] [Ch 6] [Ch 7] [Ch 8] [Ch 9] [Ch 10] [Ch 11] [Ch 12] [Ch 13] [ao3] [Ch 15] [Ch 16] [Ch 17] [Ch 18] [Ch 19]

Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla, Sir Damien/Rilla

Characters: Rilla, Lord Arum, Sir Damien

Additional Tags: Second Citadel, Lizard Kissin’ Tuesday, Pre-Relationship, (for the three of them. it’s established r/d), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Injury, Injury Recovery, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, (this will also be), Enemies to Lovers, (for damien and arum eventually lol)

Fic Summary: Strange things wash up out of the lake near Rilla’s hut, on occasion. But this monster… this monster is certainly the strangest.

Chapter Summary: A homecoming.

Chapter Notes: These dang things just keep getting longer, don't they? Also I'm emotional. I'm so fucking emotional. Chapter specific warnings for an explicit threat of violence, not carried through with.

~

Arum insists on coming out to the front room for breakfast the next morning. Saving his strength is all well and good, but if Arum need be confined to that little bed for the entire time between now and their departure, he will certainly not make it that far. Amaryllis was right, that day he attempted escape. At least the view out there is different, and- well. He is comfortable in the room with the cot, by now, but it is far less clinical in Amaryllis' living space. It makes him feel less of a patient and more… more of a guest. Which he should not care about, of course.

Amaryllis relents rather quickly on the subject, provided that he agree to pick a spot and stick to it, until the evening. She is overly concerned with him, not quite paranoid but certainly delving into the territory of what Arum is comfortable referring to as fretting. She scowls when he calls it that, which is gratifying, but it also appears to make her more conscious of how delicate she is being with him, and she rolls her eyes at herself before she helps to lift him to his feet, shuffling slowly out to the table.

Amaryllis and Sir Damien keep their hands clasped between them throughout their breakfast together. Seems inconvenient, Arum thinks, pulling his eyes away from the easy way their fingers interlace. They do not have an overabundance of limbs to work with. Surely they should not impede themselves for such a- a pointless gesture.

They are-

Arum cannot say what, precisely, it is, but he feels as if something is strange between the pair of them. Or- or perhaps that something had been strange, and has now settled. They are sitting closer, and something about their proximity feels… easier. Sir Damien, in particular, seems more calm, though Amaryllis still has a layer of nervous energy to her.

Of course, Amaryllis is not particularly patient. She does not hold the tension inside of her for long, after they have finished eating.

"So," Amaryllis says, and Arum frowns instantly. "So… Damien is gonna be- coming with us for the trip."

Arum jerks his head to look at the knight, and Damien nods slightly.

"Wh-why?" Arum barks.

"Because… because I want to," Damien says quietly, and then he- smiles, soft and odd, and Arum remembers Damien's hand on his chin, despite himself, "and because I do not think it would be safe for only the pair of you to take that trip. Too many potential dangers, on both sides. I am certain that Rilla has discussed- ah, potential ways to disguise you, so that you will be in less danger from… knights."

Damien's voice has gone soft as well, and Arum can see some strange pain on his face, though Arum cannot say precisely what that indicates. How much separation can this creature feel from his own order?

"But of course that does not mean there will not still be some risk, if…" Damien pauses again. "I would feel better, being there. And… I have my part in this, as well."

"Your part ," Arum echoes. "What do you mean, your part in this?"

Damien pauses for a long moment, clearly considering his words.

"I want to see you home and safe as well, Arum. I have… committed this far. I will follow through."

"Committed?" Arum says. "I hardly think this counts as a commitment. You- you have allowed Amaryllis to- you have denied your duty in slaying me-"

Arum cuts himself off with a wince, then glances toward Amaryllis and away again. Damien does not rise to this statement, does not comment or deny.

It is clear, from the mild confusion on Amaryllis' face, that Damien has not told her the precise shape of what passed between the two of them, the previous day. What Arum nearly pushed Sir Damien to do.

"You…" Arum trails off. "Fine. If you should like to come, I do not see what it will hurt. I shall be curious to see how deep your treachery runs."

"Arum," Rilla warns.

Arum winces again, then sighs and looks away. "It is not as if I could stop you, anyway."

Damien tilts his head. Arum can see it, in his periphery.

"If it would… truly cause you distress, I would… I would worry rather deeply, but I would stay-"

"I said I could not stop you," Arum repeats in a sharp voice. "It is not as if you distress me, songbird, I simply- I do not understand."

"Yes," Damien says softly. "Well. That is… fair. It is a… somewhat complicated situation, is it not? But- but I will take this journey with you, if you allow me."

"I said I could not stop you, honeysuckle,” Arum growls, and judging by Amaryllis’ breath of laughter his tone must be unconvincing. “If that is your choice, that is your choice."

Damien's mouth curls slightly, a smile vague but pleasant, and Arum can't stand to keep his eyes on the pair of them together, though they keep drawing back, regardless.

"Very well. I will accompany you, then."

Arum huffs, wrinkling his snout. "I am surprised that your Citadel can spare you. I thought you creatures were rather strictly kept."

Damien purses his lips, then sighs. "We are… currently in something of a lull, I suppose. There was a thread our Investigator General intended to pull, but… well… when pulled, the pattern simply unraveled. There was a rash of monster attacks with similar stratagems, but they've dissipated like mist over the last… during the last few…" he trails off, his tone going blank. "The… the last few weeks."

Arum feels the twinge in his frill, knows perfectly well he is giving himself away, but Damien does not turn his eyes towards him, accusatory or otherwise.

The pause draws long, and Amaryllis is clearly hovering on the edge of words herself.

"Well?" Arum snaps, eventually. "Are you going to ask or aren't you? Go ahead, then. I told you I made weapons against your kind. What, precisely, were these consistent stratagems you were attempting to ferret out?"

"Arum," Rilla says gently, but Arum scowls more deeply as Sir Damien meets his eyes.

“Well, Sir Damien?”

Damien holds his gaze, for a quiet moment. "There were a number of creatures, in short time, utilizing powers of manipulation. Encouraging conflict, stoking self doubt, provoking pain. Assaulting the mind first, in order to more effectively destroy the body."

"Yes," Arum says in a hiss. "Yes, I am certain I created the creatures of which you speak. I cannot imagine any other could have managed to replicate my work."

"The mushrooms," Rilla murmurs, her brow furrowed. "It was- pain. Illusions of things we- things we were afraid of, things that hurt us."

Arum wishes he could burn the grubs a second time. The look on Amaryllis' face is unbearable, but then she looks up at him, raking her eyes over his face, her expression oddly desperate.

"Yes," he hisses again.

"I…" Damien's face goes mournful as Arum snaps his attention back to the knight. "I cannot say that no harm was done by the creatures, that none were killed. I cannot alleviate your guilt in that way-" Arum scoffs, but he cannot deny, not with the way Damien is looking at him. "But… but I can say that none are doing harm any longer."

Arum looks away, too uncomfortable to pretend otherwise. "If you say so."

"Regardless," Damien continues in a low, measured voice. "As to whether or not I may be spared by the Citadel- while the Investigator General searches for a new loose thread to worry over, the ranks await more specific direction, and-" Damien gives a very small laugh, and the corner of Rilla's mouth pulls into an answering smile. "And I very, very rarely use the time I am granted, for leave. More often than not, I am too worried over the prospect of leaving my fellow knights without assistance. So… none were troubled, that I wished to take my allotted time now, to assist my Rilla."

It is more of an answer than Arum expected. In truth, he had merely been trying to rile the knight again. He huffs out another breath, claws drumming on the table.

"Okay," Rilla says, drawing the word out into more syllables than it requires. "Okay. Uh, that seems settled enough for me, I think. This has been awkward enough for one morning. So, Arum, I, uh-"

She pauses, and Damien squeezes her hand, and Arum hears her breath come steadier, again. She sighs.

"So, I was thinking, we should leave either tomorrow or the day after." She pauses again. "Maybe the day after. You're standing better, and Damien's offered his horse, so- you'll ride, and we'll walk. It'll take longer, but even if we had three horses it probably wouldn't be safe for you to ride at speed anyway, you could jostle something open, or-" She bites her lip. "So. You on the horse, me and Damien walking, and- it'll be slow. What is it, two weeks to your swamp?"

"Something… something to that effect, yes. Though-" he clenches his teeth. "When we are close- we only need reach the border, I think, and we will not need to travel by foot any longer."

"The border. Okay. Okay, and, um, with the route we planned the other day, we should be…" her lips twitch into a smile. "We can do this. We can get you home, and then- ah… I've- I've made up a bunch of extra-"

Her voice- cracks a little, and some pain crosses her face. Arum blinks. He does not understand why she would be…

"For- um. For after I- for after we-" she pauses, inhaling sharply. "I made up a bunch of extra salves, and painkillers, and- and a replacement wrap, so your horn will- so your horn will keep together, and a new cast that should last until your wrist is healed and- so you won't have to worry… when I'm gone."

Arum stares at her, at the odd twisting of her almost-smile. "Ah."

I'm gonna miss him, is the only thing.

Amaryllis' voice on the recorder had been so keening and strange, and it had pulled on Arum's heart like his own yearning for the Keep and- and he could not help but believe her. She is … she is going to miss him. She will feel his absence. Such a terribly strange feeling-

And Arum had been honest, when he told her that he would miss her in return. Though, of course, Arum knows that had not been the whole of it. It is not the whole of it, but he will feel her absence, as well.

"Very…" he swallows. "Very forward thinking of you," he manages. "I… I had no fears, of course. And all I require is home, regardless. Seems a shame, I think, to make you waste an entire month ferrying me back and then needing to return. Certainly your other patients will be missing you, with your skill."

"Yeah, well, I may be the best doctor in the Citadel, but I'm not the only doctor in the Citadel. They'll manage." She smiles again, a little less certainly, and Damien squeezes her hand again.

"Do you feel ready enough for the trip, Lord Arum?" Damien asks.

Arum hates the way his own heart turns, slowly, like a key in a lock, every time Sir Damien calls him that. It is ridiculous. It is his name , it does not make sense , but- the way his tone curls around Lord, the way Arum seems to sit at the back of his mouth. Lord Arum. Respectful formality from a knight. It is … strange, that is all. It is still strange.

"I am… as ready as I shall be," he murmurs. "I cannot afford further delay. My swamp, my home, it… it has been…"

"Without its Lord," Damien finishes, gently.

"Yes. My swamp… and my Keep."

Rilla startles slightly, but Arum… Arum does not know why he has bothered to continue concealing the Keep's existence anyway, and Sir Damien has made it… abundantly clear, that his stance has changed. This stiff-spined little human has shifted his footing, has gained a new vantage, as incomprehensible as that seems.

Damien purses his lips, his face going questioning. "Have you… mentioned a Keep before?" He asks. "Or- no. I think- I think you have only nearly mentioned a Keep before."

"Perceptive," Arum grumbles, his tone hovering between irritated and impressed. "Yes. My home, my Keep." He pauses. "I have already explained it to Amaryllis, I do not- I do not feel-"

"You need not explain anything to me, Lord Arum. Home is…" he presses a hand over his heart. Arum hears his breath catch. "All creatures should be blessed with shelter, with home. It is…" he pauses again. "I am certain you will be glad to be returned to yours. We shall do all we can, to make that come to pass for you."

"Yes, well…" Arum glances aside, uncomfortable. "The sooner the better." He clasps his claws in front of himself, then glances towards Amaryllis. "The… the day after tomorrow, you said, Amaryllis. If you think I shall require the extra day."

Amaryllis nods, and Arum does not know what they will do in the interim. He had not been planning, truly, to make it this far. And now he has today, and tomorrow, to worry and wonder about this upcoming trip. To worry and wonder, about the softness of Sir Damien's hand on his chin. About the leaping of his own heart, at the gentleness with which the knight had lifted it. About the prospect of Amaryllis missing him. About all these strange and bitter hungers that have begun to curl within him.

Arum's eyes have found Amaryllis and Sir Damien's clasped hands again, tracking the way that Damien's thumb is brushing soft over the back of it, a slow, comforting rhythm, as Amaryllis' hand squeezes his. Arum's tongue flicks compulsively, and he buries the urge to-

He does not even know. He is not close enough to reach their hands, and what would he do even if he was? Even if he- if he reached out and wrapped his hand around both of their own (his hand is large enough to do so, his fingers longer than theirs, their stubby little mammal things with their blunt nails and their soft brown skin) (Arum knows the softness both of their hands, now), even if he were to do so-

Certainly they would not welcome his intrusion. Certainly not. They are both so eager to see him gone from their lives. And Arum is eager as well, of course, to return to his Keep, to return to his life. He is eager to close the door on this bizarre little chapter-

A lie. Too deep to stand.

He is not eager to close the door on this chapter. He is not ready. Two days. Two days- only two more days in this strange little hut, in this short-ceilinged human construction, full of herb smell and strange baubles and dangerous plants and skillful wordsmithing and a heretical, compassionate little doctor, and her knight.

Arum has never had a place outside of the Keep before, where he felt himself truly safe. Arum's mind is still… halved in a strange way, he still feels the absence of the Keep's thoughts at his edges, still feels where the Keep is meant to fit, where song should shift into… meaning, and affection, and shared memory, and home.

But if Arum could still feel the Keep here, he would be entirely unable to pretend, anymore, that he does not wish there was some way he could stay.

~

Arum intends to finish the translation, before they leave. It will not be difficult, all things considered. The tome is short, the material arranged in no particular order but with consistent notation for the entries, and he is familiar enough with a decent amount of the species listed that it speeds the process considerably. He needs not even attempt to scrawl the information out in his slightly more stilted attempt at human script, now that Amaryllis is in the room with him again. She simply sets her recorder beside him and he speaks as he works, occasionally drifting into conversation rather than translation, or narrowing his eyes at a particular peculiarity of the dialect, the drifting etymology of distance.

When he turns the page and sees the Moonlit Hermit, he freezes. After a moment, he drifts his claws down the page, tracing the single narrow line that depicts the flower's stem.

So small a thing, to cause so much trouble.

"The Moonlit Hermit," he murmurs, and Amaryllis drops a roll of bandages, the white ribboning off as it unrolls across her floor.

He raises an eyebrow as she scrambles to retrieve the roll, laughing awkwardly, and when she straightens she won't meet his eyes for a long moment.

"Amaryllis?"

"Just- forgot that one was in there too."

He tilts his head. "Why does it matter? What is the Hermit to you, then?" he asks, because if the Universe insists on piercing him through to make a point-

"My- my parents were researching it. It was a big part of their research, actually- the Hermit, what it could do- the potential it had-"

Arum frowns, automatically, remembering the particular results he had pulled from the potential of the Hermit in his possession.

"I've- I've been trying to… to find one," she says, her voice gone small, and Arum forces himself not to stare at her, at the longing on her face. He looks to the book, instead.

"I am afraid there is very little on the subject in this particular volume, Amaryllis," he says, gently, and she sighs.

"That… yeah, I kind of expected that. I couldn't read it, but- I could tell the entry was short. Shorter than most of the other ones, at least."

"It mentions the unnatural fragility of the stem," he murmurs, tracing his claw along the lettering. "Five pale petals, the glow of moonless night, the utter incongruity… hm," he traces the shape of the drawing on the paper again, remembering. "Volumes of this sort so rarely bother to note the sounds. It chimes, as well, at contact or in use. It is not the most beautiful song I have ever heard, but… it suits. Cool, and delicate."

He realizes, after a pause, that Amaryllis is staring at him. He pulls his eyes from the book, wary at her uncertain gaze.

"What?"

"You… you've heard it? You've- you've seen one. Arum- Arum, you've seen a Moonlit Hermit?" She sets her medical bag aside, her packing entirely forgotten. "Arum, please, you have to tell me where I can- how- I have to see it. I have to- to-"

His heart sinks, the hope in her voice too unfortunate to stand. "If it still existed, Amaryllis… I would certainly think it fair payment for the service you have provided me, but- it was destroyed." He pauses, sighs. "I destroyed it."

"You-" she looks too stunned to be properly furious, but Arum suspects that will come soon enough. " What?"

"Those who attacked me," he says softly, "desired to take it for themselves. To use it. Just as I had been using it, of course, to create weapons against your kind." He pauses, exhales. "I wish I could say, Amaryllis, that it had been a choice made of morality, but- I did not yet know you. I- there are many things I did not yet know, when I…" he traces the shape of the petals again, one, two, three, four, five, and his lip curls in an almost smile. "I ensured that our meeting occurred in daylight, as insurance. It was easy enough, when I realized I had been betrayed, to lift so fragile a thing into the light."

"Arum-"

"Spite. I destroyed the Hermit in spite, Amaryllis, because I knew they intended to kill me, and I did not want to give them the satisfaction of beating me, as well. Of taking what I rightfully found. I threw myself into the river for the sake of that same spite. I would rather drown than let them slit my throat, so…"

She is touching his shoulder, now. He does not look at her.

"I do not regret my actions. The Hermit could have… would have done some good, in your hands, of that I am certain, but… I am glad it was destroyed, rather than be misused again. Rather than being twisted to further bloodshed."

Her hand on his shoulder lifts, and she almost touches his face. Almost. He keeps his eyes safely away.

After a breath, she drops the hand, and turns, and returns to her packing. Arum feels his stomach twisting, regret and shame, fear, desire, all of it colliding together within him like a collapsing building, but still he does not look. He breathes and breathes until he is certain that his voice will not shake, and then he turns the page, and resumes his translation.

~

It feels as if Arum simply blinks, and two full days have passed. Sir Damien wakes before dawn, and Arum, his nerves sharp and heightened, wakes at his careful noise, at the click of the door behind him as he goes outside to run through his routine.

Amaryllis wakes not long after, throwing together a quick sort of breakfast and quietly going through a checklist of their supplies before she comes to, in theory, wake him.

She smiles, clearly unsurprised when she finds him already awake, already digging his claws into the sheets, and the smile stays as she helps him to his feet.

She wraps him in layers. A simple strategy, but simplicity is more reliable than the delicacy of complication, in Arum's experience. He keeps the cape on beneath the rest, and she smiles when she is done wrapping the rest around him. He can see the crooked shape of it through the sheer scarf covering his face.

And then, for the first time since he woke in Amaryllis’ hut, he steps outside.

Arum does not want to look back, to acknowledge the finality of walking away from this hut, of stepping up into the saddle and riding away from this shelter, riding back towards his true home.

He does not wish to look back.

Rather- he wishes that he did not want to.

He turns despite himself as Amaryllis adjusts the robes that hide his scales, ensuring that his tail is hidden as he curls it around his own ankle. He does not mean to, but he turns, and-

It looks so much smaller, from the outside. Squat and friendly and warm, with flowering vines curling familiar across trellises and a clean little herb garden and the mossy stump where Damien likes to sit and compose when he is finished with his exercises, and the curtained window Arum knows the shape of so terribly well, from the other side.

So many days. So very long, he has spent in such a small, strange space. And now-

He cannot imagine that he will ever see it again.

Arum is almost grateful for the ridiculous layers. At least neither of the humans can see the way his face twists, as his heart lurches with the grief of parting.

~

They travel light; there’s not much they need to take with them. Rilla keeps her medical bag, of course, in case of emergencies or in case the traveling impedes Arum’s recovery in some way, along with her bag of extra supplies she's gonna leave with him when they get him back home. Damien pretty much just has his armor, his bow, and his usual traveling supplies: bedroll, rations, canteen, et cetera. Arum has nothing to bring, obviously. Nothing except for his mended cape, which is wrapped secure around his shoulders beneath the rest of his mild disguise. Rilla covered him in strategic layers, scarves and shawls and large loose pants that collectively obscure his form and face as he sits sideways in the saddle of Damien’s horse, who only required minimal acclimating to adjust to the weight of a monster. Currently, Arum looks enough like an excessively ill person swaddled like an infant, or like a particularly old-fashioned noble, and hopefully they won’t need to do much by the way of explanation on the less-traveled roads they intend to use.

It’s slow going, of course. Anything more than the lightest movement could be a risk for Arum; jostling around on top of a horse isn’t exactly healthy for healing stab and slash wounds, obviously.

Every time they pass another group, Damien looks like he’s about to be sick, face twisting in a completely unconvincing smile and his voice going high and reedy if he tries to greet them. Rilla does most of the talking, for a change, and Arum sits tense and stiff and dignified astride the horse, and occasionally nods through his scarves at whomever happens to be passing by.

Nights are more difficult. They need to wander far from the road to set up camp, and they need to obscure the fire on one side to make it more difficult to see from where they came, to avoid other eyes, and they wait until it is safely dark every night before Arum can remove his layers of disguise and sigh in the open air again. He always keeps his cape safely draped around his shoulders after the rest has been left in a pile nearby, a claw curled along the edge of the fabric as he settles close and warm by the fire.

He’s tired , Rilla can tell. The travel on top of his recovery, and the constant strain of worry that comes from the threat of discovery- it’s no wonder, really. She wishes she could make this easier for him, wishes she could just snap her fingers and have him home to his Keep, but- this is the best she can do, for now. She’ll get him home, long way around or no.

~

"Sir Damien."

They are preparing to resume their travel in the morning, Damien packing the last of their supplies back up from their makeshift camp while Rilla tends to Damien's horse, and Arum is wrapped already in his layers as they wait for Rilla to return, to help Arum back into the saddle for the day. Damien glances down at the obscured monster, lips pursing nervously, but he does not think the monster is looking back at him. It is difficult to tell, with the layers, but Damien thinks that Arum is looking towards Rilla again.

"Yes, Lord Arum?"

He continues to stare for a moment, and then Arum glances away. His voice comes even quieter, then. "We are still close to your Citadel, little knight," he murmurs. "There is still time between us and my home, and many opportunities for this expedition to fall apart."

"Pessimism will not help the situation, Lord Arum," Damien says mildly.

"Perhaps not. But pragmatism-" he pauses, sighs. "If the worst is to happen, if I am discovered along this mad little journey… Amaryllis must not be seen as guilty for helping a monster. I refuse to have her suffer for this absurd kindness."

Damien pauses, his heart doing a swooping little flip, and he looks at Arum again in disbelief. "What-"

"If we are discovered, they must believe that I forced her to treat me, forced her to escort me home. They must believe that she was made to do it, that I threatened or coerced or- she must not be seen a traitor for my sake. Do you understand me, Sir Damien?"

Damien presses a hand over his heart, presses as hard as the thudding pressing out. He forces his breath to come steady enough for words, just for one sentence. "Rilla would not be happy, with that particular deception," he rasps, looking at his fiance through the rosy morning light.

"That," Arum says with a growl, "is precisely why I am asking you, and not the doctor herself. I trust that you will protect her. I know that you will."

Damien wishes so dearly that he could see the monster's face, just now. That he could see the look in his violet eyes.

"Honeysuckle," Arum says quietly, roughly. "Tell me that I am correct."

"This- this is not like the other day, is it? This is not more of the same, again, more of you trying to- to-"

"This is not an act of self destruction, honeysuckle." Arum stares up at him, or at least, Damien assumes that is the direction the monster is aiming his eyes. "But she must be safe."

Damien inhales, exhales, inhales.

"Rilla would never forgive me, if I caused you to be hurt in her stead. You must know that, Lord Arum."

The monster clenches his hands, his head ducking just slightly. "It is more important that she be alive, to forgive you or not." He turns his head a little further away, then, his voice going even quieter. "Of course she will forgive you, little fool. She loves you."

Damien's throat goes tight and hot and uncomfortable, his heart thrumming and thrumming, and the words boil within him but he cannot say-

Do you think I do not know that you love her as well? Can you not see that she loves you in return?

His lips part, he is going to say something too foolish for their unspoken understanding to survive, but-

Rilla is returning.

Arum's shoulders go stiff, and before she is in hearing distance he mutters, "I must trust that you will do what is right, Sir Damien."

Damien breathes slow, summoning tranquility as best he can, listening to the drumming of his own heart, and he knows that he will. He will do what is right, even if that is not the same as what Arum has asked of him.

~

Rilla is fairly bored on the road. She can't read effectively while walking, and they only have the one horse. She can only glean so much amusement out of cataloging the wildlife as they pass it by, but Damien knows her far too well to let her boredom sit. He starts reciting as they travel, spinning stories, sharing newer compositions, weaving tales in the air between them, accompanied by jungle noises and the hum of insects.

Rilla sings, as well, when Damien's poor voice needs a rest, and she pretends not to notice when she starts a song and Arum stiffens in recognition. Pretends even harder not to notice when he hums along, when he harmonizes in his low, careful voice. She pretends, poorly, not to grin in delight, the smile tipping her singing voice even brighter.

If she didn't feel like she was riding off to break her own stupid, stupid heart, this would be the most fun she's had on a trip in ages.

~

Unnatural quiet in the jungle dark, and Sir Damien comes awake with the fingers of one hand already gripped on his bow, a strange and familiar rushing in his ears.

He remembers where he is without strain. He can feel the dirt beneath him through the bedroll, can feel Rilla close beside him, can hear her breathing light.

He can hear little else besides. A stillness hangs in the night air, and Damien feels it. He feels attack waiting, can taste tension on the air. He can almost hear the source. Almost.

Damien breathes slow. Panic is a faraway thing, just now. A faraway thing that cannot possibly touch him. The rushing in his ears has gone slowly rhythmic, and Damien waits, Damien waits, Damien waits for the precise moment. For the strike. For his parry.

His heart. Rilla's breath. The rustle of leaf and soil. The padding, just low, of paws. Damien tenses, poised and prepared and waiting, waiting for just the right moment-

"If you take one… single… step… closer," says a low, guttural, growling voice, and Sir Damien realizes after a startled breath that he recognizes it. He recognizes the voice, because it belongs to Lord Arum, though it has been pitched dangerous as it echoes strange and placeless among the trees. "If you take just one more step… I will make a meal of your entrails while you still live."

There is a pause, a stillness deeper, even, than the one which came before it.

"Do not test me," Arum continues, dark and certain. "These creatures are not yours to hunt."

Another pause. Slowly, slowly, the sense of danger recedes. The night noises of the jungle resume in its absence, the whine of insects and the rustle of small creatures, and Damien knows they are safe again.

Damien has never heard Lord Arum sound quite like that, before. Dark. Dangerous. Protective. And Damien does not feel an ounce of fear, at that voice, though his heart is thudding hot.

Not yours to hunt.

Not yours, he said. Does that mean, then, that Arum considers them his?

Another long pause draws out in the darkness as Damien tries to shake the memory of Arum's voice, as he feels the gooseflesh shiver across his skin, and then there is a noise, shifting close by.

"You are awake, aren't you, honeysuckle?"

Arum's voice no longer sounds strange. It no longer echoes oddly, and the venom is gone from it, leaving the monster sounding only soft, murmuring through the black of night.

"Yes," Damien whispers.

"I did not intend to wake you," Arum hisses.

"You did not," Damien says, just as low. "I… I felt that something was wrong. I woke before you… scared the creature away. Will it return, do you think?"

"Certainly not," Arum drawls, gently. "We are close to my territory now, little songbird, and I know the sorts of scavengers that prowl my borders. I know a coward when I smell one," he hisses. "She expected an easy meal. That, we most certainly are not. She will not try again."

"How…" Damien needs to pause, to swallow. "How did you know I was awake?"

"Your breathing shifted… your heartbeat. I can hear them both from here."

It is difficult, for Damien, not to feel exposed, knowing that. He is certain that his heart is still beating hard. Harder, now.

"And… and did you slip into the trees, to frighten the creature away? I will be compelled to tell Rilla if you exerted yourself while she slept-"

"I did not budge an inch, honeysuckle. Don't be foolish."

Damien blinks, for all the good it does him. The bare hint of stars between the canopy above flickers, just for a moment. "But- but your voice, Arum," he murmurs, and when Arum chuckles low Damien can feel heat pooling odd in his stomach. "You sounded as if…"

"As if I could be anywhere," Arum murmurs , and his voice echoes again, placeless, but close and worrying. "Yes … I told you, honeysuckle, that I had some skill, some tricks up my sleeves…"

Even more worrying than Arum's voice itself: the way the low heat of it makes the answering heat in Damien's stomach pulse.

"A-Arum," Damien whispers, and he releases his grip on his bow, reaching into the dark instead, grasping in the direction that Arum's voice had seemed to come from, for those few words where he had sounded ordinary again. "Where… where are you?"

There is a brief pause, a more gentle laugh in the dark.

"I am close enough to pluck you, still, little honeysuckle," he says in a rumble that rolls down Damien's spine, and he cannot help the way his breath catches, his eyes darting in the darkness as he tries to pin Arum's place. "Have no fear." Another laugh, even warmer. "Unless… unless my proximity is what worries you, of course."

"Arum," Damien breathes, reaching his hand our further.

"I'm here," Arum hisses. "I forget the limitations of your senses. I can see you, blue as you are in the starlight. Can you truly not see me?"

"I…" Damien swallows roughly, feeling Rilla warm beside him, feeling the coolness of the dirt beneath him, knowing that this monster is somewhere, so close by, watching him through the dark. Damien shakes his head, testing.

"How interesting," Arum murmurs, and his voice is still bouncing strange, as if it could be coming from the whole of the jungle itself.

A pause drags out, then, and Damien grasps, feeling across the scattered leaves, towards where Arum's bedroll should be.

Arum's hand intercepts his own, and when the monster laughs soft again, he sounds only close, only ordinary again. "I told you, honeysuckle. I am here."

"Arum," Damien whispers, the texture of scales so strange against his palm, and Arum pulls his hand closer, touching it to- to his cheek, Damien imagines, and he can feel the rumbling of his throat and the rumbling of his voice as he speaks again.

"I did not budge an inch," he hisses again, and Damien can feel him speaking, even as his voice echoes in the canopy above.

Damien can barely focus on the fascination he feels at that, though, because the reality of Arum's face in his hand, again- the reality of the monster laying so close beside them in the dark- it is twisting so- so-

So pleasantly, within him. Damien's mouth has gone dry.

"Go back to sleep, honeysuckle," Arum murmurs, his voice gone quiet and normal again, and he squeezes Damien's hand as he moves it away from his face again. "Go back to sleep. We are safe, I assure you."

Damien believes him instantly. Damien believed him the first time, when he insisted the other monster would not return. He knows that they are safe, that the three of them together are more dangerous than anything the wilds could possibly assail them with.

"Are you certain?" he asks again, regardless, because his heart is racing and he knows that Arum can hear it, and certainly he requires this excuse for the pounding rhythm, and for the way he has not pulled his hand away from Arum's.

Arum has not pulled his hand away, either.

"We are safe," Arum repeats in a hiss. "I promise. Go back to sleep, Damien."

Damien squeezes his eyes shut, despite the dark, hoping that Arum is no longer looking at his face, that he cannot see Damien's expression in the dark.

Damien pretends that he has forgotten their hands, clasped together. He steadies his own breathing, pretends not to feel his own heat permeating Arum's hand, and-

And Arum does not pull his hand away, either.

Arum does not pull his hand away. Not before Damien falls back asleep in truth, at least.

~

The rumors are true, apparently.

They can see it in the distance when they round the crest of a hill, a gap in the canopy of trees above the road giving them a decent look towards the swamp in the distance that is apparently Arum’s home.

The swamp that is also, apparently, creeping outward.

They can see outcroppings of new-grown swamp greenery that stands out among the wider jungle, pushing past the usual border between the two, and even at this distance Rilla can see the speckling of purple from the blooms that give the swamp its name as well, and from this perspective the growth looks like curling fingers, reaching out.

Searching, Rilla thinks. A desperate hand, combing through the jungle to look for the missing ruler currently bundled up on the horse behind her. She glances back towards him, and even hidden behind the layers of cloth she can see the tension in his frame, can feel the impatient energy radiating from him.

“Almost there,” she says, and he tilts his head down towards her with a sharp breath. “Not much farther, now.”

He nods, and she sees him hesitate for only a moment before his eagerness gets the better of him.

“If one of those- those outgrowths is close enough, we should aim for it. We may be afforded a shortcut. Save further time,” he hisses quietly, and that’s pretty confusing but Rilla nods in response. He knows this place better than she does, after all.

Damien holds his own tongue for a moment before he points out one in particular, a vivid purple growth curling out, and quietly suggests a path they could take in that direction, a smaller road that should take them close.

Arum grows more and more agitated as they make their approach, and they all notice at the same moment that the outgrowths aren't the only strange thing about the swamp's border, nor are they the only new growth. She understands belatedly why the border was so easy to see from a distance-

There is a wall. The foliage on the edge is tightly packed, unnaturally so, the trees interwoven with newer saplings and quick vines, an enormous wicker boundary spotted with bright splotches of poisonous plants (Rilla can tell, even at this distance). Arum picks up a low growl, compulsive and continuous, and Rilla clenches her hands tight but she doesn't warn him against the noise. She doubts any other humans would be coming this close while the swamp is doing… whatever this is, and honestly, she can't blame him for the distress.

He's practically snarling to himself by the time they reach the border, his tail thrashing noticeably beneath his layers, and Rilla's stomach gives a sympathetic twist as Damien carefully, carefully helps Arum lower himself from the saddle.

"Okay," Rilla says. "Obviously this is… less than ideal."

"An understatement, Amaryllis. Look at- look at this! What- what could it possibly-" he gestures sharply towards the wall, then hisses in pain and draws the limb back to himself.

Damien makes a worried noise, an arm still supporting the monster as he fidgets, growling low, and then he eyes the wall with a considering look. "Hm. Perhaps I will close the borders entirely," Damien murmurs, and Rilla doesn't understand his words or his tone until he looks to Arum again. "I think you said that, when I asked what you intended to do when you returned home. It seems that others had similar thoughts, in your absence, Lord Arum."

Arum scoffs, then gently pushes himself from Damien's grip, standing straighter on his own, stiff and strained. "Foolishness. Ridiculous," he mutters as he starts to pull the layers off, unwinding scarves from his neck. "All this will do is draw undue attention-"

The sound of wings above compels Damien to draw his bow instantly, and his eyes dart to the foliage above more quickly than Rilla can follow, fixing on the source, the wide wingspan and gleaming threat of talons as they descend, and Damien's stance tightens, drawing the string more taut-

"Wait- stop-"

At Arum's choking cry Damien's poise falters, his aim going wide, the arrow finding purchase in the wicker wall instead of the quickly dropping- thing-

Arum tears the hood from his head, tears the last of the layers off beside his cape, his frill flaring and a grin curving his mouth, and he makes a strange warbling call, clear and loud and near to birdsong, and the wings above startle, fluttering sharp, and then there is an answering cry before the shape descends even faster.

"Arum-"

"Lord A-"

Arum nearly falls as the feathered shape collides with him, but he is laughing, now, as he makes more of those strange noises, and Rilla finally manages to parse exactly what the hell just happened, because there is an enormous heron shuffling from one taloned foot to the other on top of Arum's shoulders, shoving its beaked face into Arum's horns and squawking in a way that sounds both irritable and excited.

"Yes- foolish thing," Arum breaks into another laugh, and then into another strange warble as he lifts a hand to gently push the beaked face from pecking at the edge of his frill. "Obviously. Of course I did. Of course I did, you little- did you doubt? No-" he trills again, bright, and the heron ruffles up and makes a chuffing noise. "Of course I did," Arum says again, gentler, tapping the bird softly beneath the beak, and then he seems to remember Rilla and Damien, still watching.

Rilla's breathing hasn't entirely slowed from the shock, yet, but she's smiling now as she watches him, and Damien has come close beside her, stowing his bow again and pressing a hand over his mouth to bury his own smile, and Arum's frill ruffles by his neck at their observation.

"Er-"

"A friend?" Rilla asks, an eyebrow raising.

"One of my- my subjects, I suppose you could say," Arum murmurs, and he can't seem to help the smile as the bird presses its head into his horns again, trilling sternly. "Yes, I know. Hush." He gives the bird an equally stern look despite the laugh he gives, and then he lifts an arm for the creature to step to. "I know," he says quietly. "But you are frightening the horse, and I would rather not be kicked, little creature. I am nearly mended once, I would not like to suffer recovery a second time. Find your flock, spread the word if you must."

The bird squawks irritably, aiming its beak towards the humans for a moment before it turns back to Arum and flaps its wings at him.

"I said find your flock," he says in a low, fond growl. "Go on, you ridiculous thing. You need not worry for me. Go on."

The bird shifts from foot to foot on Arum's arm, chattering lightly, and then it pecks at the tip of Arum's snout and flaps before it lifts off, flying back up into the canopy again, singing something loud and joyous as it goes.

Arum sighs, his shoulders sagging as the weight of the creature is gone from him, but he clearly can't bury his smile. Damien takes Rilla's hand, and then they both come close to Arum, and Rilla lifts her other hand to touch the monster's elbow.

"Seemed excited to see you," she says, her tone only barely teasing, and his smile is so entirely warm, and Rilla and Damien's hands tighten together, each squeezing at the same moment.

"Yes, well," he makes a rattling noise low in his chest, still smiling. "I imagine they will all be quite ready for the swamp to return to normal."

"What do we do, then, about the wall?" Damien asks, gently, and Arum's smile flickers off.

He frowns, eyeing the woven greenery, and then he grumbles, "Bring me closer. It should still answer… it should still… still be able to hear."

Rilla doesn't exactly understand what that means, but- she figures he knows what to do in this situation better than she does, anyway, so she helps him. After a step or two Damien steps up on his other side, supporting him further.

"Thank you," Arum murmurs when they are close enough, and then he very gently pulls away from their hands. He lifts his own hand, and just barely touches the tangle of foliage, and then he swallows, chest rumbling. "Keep?"

Rilla barely manages to stop herself from reaching for him again. He sounds so- so desperate, and the urge to help him is-

"Keep. Can you hear me?" He pauses, and Rilla can see that he's trying not to cringe as he runs his hand along the vines. "Keep, I'm here, I- I need you to let me in."

Nothing changes, for a long moment. Beside her, Damien reaches a hand out, gripping Rilla's hand tight again, his nerves mirroring her own.

"Keep," he says again, keening clear in his voice. "Keep, please-"

Arum stumbles back as vines burst from the ground, new and accompanied by harmonious song, overtaking the wall and forming an archway that fills with magic, with- with a door, leading somewhere quite different from the swamp they could see past the wall.

Arum chokes a breath, warbles in further harmony with the song, and on shaking legs he bolts through the archway.

The Keep winds its vines around him so quickly that he is in the air before his feet even touch the floor of his home, before he has time to even breathe a syllable. It sings bright and clear and joyful, and it slots its mind soft against his again, precisely as their minds are meant to fit, in tune again so instantly that the vines don’t even come close to accidentally brushing any of the healing wounds that might still suffer from the pressure, and Arum can’t help the way he chokes, the way his throat goes tight and his eyes go hot, because-

He has missed his Keep so, so unbearably much.

He was never meant to be away for this long. His limbs are shaking with the relief of it even as he clings to its supportive vines, as he brushes his palms over the new bursts of flowers it is gleefully blooming around him. He’s so tightly enmeshed, so thoroughly cocooned, he wouldn’t have even noticed Amaryllis and Damien following through the portal if he could not feel the precise moment the Keep notices them.

The Keep notices them, and it is filled instantly with terror.

The humans are wound tight in vines nearly as quickly as Arum himself was, though these new vines are substantially less friendly as they pin Amaryllis and Damien against the wall with a discordant trill.

Arum feels the wash of terror pulse through with confusion, fury, protectiveness, and the vines around the humans continue to tighten. Arum’s heart skips, and he scrambles, reaching a hand through the bramble around him towards his- his- whatever, precisely, they are to him.

“Stop-” he snarls, the full force of his denial pushing out into his home, compelling the Keep to pause. The vines cease tightening, though they do not release. “Don’t hurt- don’t hurt them. They did not harm me, Keep, of that I can assure you,” he says in a breathless rush. “They did not harm me. They- they-”

The Keep stills, feeling his thoughts, and the grip it has upon the humans is already loosening. Arum needs not say more; the Keep understands him. It understands, and it loves him, and he needs not say a single word more.

He will say it anyway. It is true.

“They brought me back to you,” he says, his voice ragged and too full, and the both of them stare at him as they are lowered gently back to the floor. “They brought me home.”

[->]

[1-1snailxd-art]

The Shield to your Sword

Masterlist 

Overview

Fandom: Sanders Sides

Type: Alternate Universe - Fantasy and Magic 

Rating: Mature (just to be safe - there will be injuries and death throughout the general story) 

Warnings: injury, blood, physical abuse, emotional abuse, character death, curses, swearing (please message me if more need to be added)  

Relationships: Prinxiety (Roman & Virgil) 

Fandom Characters: Prince Roman Aelin, Virgil Fidencio, Logan Rae Lason, Deceit (Snake Eyes), Patton *spoiler*, Remus *spoiler* 

Summary: Roman is the arrogant, but naïve, Prince of Azmar; a kingdom in the land of Sanderz. Virgil is an orphan the Queen took in as a companion for Roman, and they have been a pair ever since. Though he thinks the world of his closest friend, Roman will discover there is much Virgil has kept from him over the years. The truth is a tough pill to swallow, but Roman is going to have to swallow it if he is to save those he holds dear and protect his people from an invading kingdom.

Ao3 link (just in case mobile is being unfair and messing up my paragraphs) 

Tag Support Team

Thank you so much to these individuals who took an interest in my fantasy concept. The sample you read will be in a later chapter. I decided to build Roman and the realm up a bit more prior to presenting that scene, rather than flashing back. 

@small-reptile-cake @daflangstlairde @quoth-the-sparrow @it-me-the-phi @soul-of-a-vixen @the-real-wholesome-bitch @phe-purple-parade-ts

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Chapter 1 - Prince’s Paradise

The morning light slipped between the parts in Prince Roman’s curtains as the winds changed direction. Sunlight reflected off Roman’s mirror; shining directly onto his eyelids and blinding him as he blinked at the disruption to his rest. With a groan, Roman sat up; running his fingers through his naturally auburn hair and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Peering around his room, he noted that fresh clothes had already been laid out for him, along with a glass of water and an apple.

Smiling to himself, Roman grabbed the apple and moved to open his curtains, revealing his view of his mother’s  garden, and the edge of the training area. Taking a seat on the sill, he looked out at what he believed to be paradise. Happy citizens, healthy stock, plenty of crops and a strong, armed force; what more could a Prince ask for?

Setting the apple core on his side table, Roman headed to his bathroom. Stripping down, the prince ran his hands over the heat and water runes, feeling his soul magic run from his fingertips and activate the magic to start his shower. He bathed briefly, simply to warm his muscles and freshen his hair for the day ahead; waving his hand across the runes again, the water flow ceased immediately.  

Magic was a common thing in the lands of Sanderz. The natural magic of the land had been harnessed generations prior, as individuals became aware of their own soul magic and used ancient runes to control both magic types. As the years progressed, more and more developed an awareness of magic and the art of using runes evolved. In modern times, runes were in common use by those with and without an awareness of magic.

Some saw their magical abilities as a blessing, but for Roman it was just his birthright. Nothing to be thankful for, just a power to flaunt as he pleased. Walking the castle halls, he summoned his sword from the tattoo on his wrist; swinging and twirling the blade to a beat only he could hear. His white uniform a clear contrast against the brick walls and his black pants. Many had said that his style choice was foolish, but Roman loved the idea of parading in the crimson blood of his enemies after a battle.

 His footsteps echoed loudly in the private dining room as he danced his way inside.

“Good morning, Prince Roman.”

Roman spun, sword vanishing from his hand as he faced the young maid standing in the corner.

“Good morning, Iris!” He gave the girl a pleasant smile, but she quickly bowed her head as she did every time Roman spoke.

“Shall I fetch you your breakfast?”

“That would be wonderful. Oh, Iris, have you seen Virgil this morning?”

“Apologies, I have not. I shall send for him at once.” Iris quickly headed for the door.

“Uh, no-no.” Roman’s words fell on deaf ears as Iris left the room with her mission in mind. “I do hope Virgil doesn’t mind me calling for him.”

 **********************

 Virgil had finally achieved a deep sleep after completing a late night on guard duty. Though he was technically a ward of the Queen, Virgil still took on work so he could share his earnings with those less fortunate than him. Not to mention, he liked the added security of being self-sufficient should he suddenly be cast out of the castle.

He would have happily slept until lessons that afternoon, but Iris roughly shook him awake.

“Virgil… Virgil, please wake up.”

“Wha-what is -oing on?” He grumbled through a yawn; slowly sitting up.

“Prince Roman has requested your presence for breakfast.”

“Oh, has he now. Tell him I’m busy.” With that, Virgil pulled the blankets over his head and laid back down.

“No, Virgil, please.” Iris begged, shaking Virgil with more force now. “I can’t defy the Prince, I can’t.”

The fear in Iris’s voice woke Virgil up as he realised what he had just asked the young maid to do. If word got to the King that they had defied the Prince, they would both be punished. Sitting up, Virgil looked into Iris’s tearful and terrified eyes; apologising as he pulled her into a secure hug.

“I know. I’m sorry, Iris. I’m coming. It’s okay. I’m coming.”

 While Iris left to fetch breakfast, Virgil was quick to change into fresh clothes; a loose long-sleeved purple shirt, black vest and pants. Grabbing a leather bag containing his training gear, Virgil left his chambers and headed up to the dining room to meet Roman.

  **********************

 Virgil’s footsteps were silent in the halls as he approached the dining room to find Roman admiring himself in a mirror. Leaning against the doorframe, Virgil watched as the Prince picked at a loose gold thread on his uniforms decorative design.

“Oh, you wish to challenge me, do you?” Roman asked his reflection, and Virgil stifled a laugh. “I am afraid you are out of luck, for this shall not be a challenge for me!”

Roman summoned his sword, slashing at the mirror as he pretended to fight his ‘foe’; before turning and catching Virgil’s smiling form in the doorway.

Straightening immediately, Roman retracted his sword and tried to hide his embarrassment. “Virgil! Good to see you. Ho-how long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to make the wakeup call worth it, Princey.” The prince’s face reddened as Virgil walked over to the table, unable to remove the grin that lit up his face.

“Um, yes, well…” Roman was at a loss for words and Virgil revelled in every second of it.

“You know, if you use all your magic playing games with yourself, you’ll have nothing left for actual practice later.”

“Me? Run out of magic? Ha! That is impossible.”

Virgil rolled his eyes, “you’ve got skill, Roman, but even you have limits.”

“Says you.”

“Says facts.”

“Facts shm-acts, I know what I’m capable of and I-“

 Virgil was thankful that Roman’s rambling was cut short as Iris returned with a plate and bowl in hand.

“Your breakfast, Prince Roman.” Iris placed the loaded plate before Roman, and the bowl of porridge in front of Virgil. “Is there anything else you require?”

“No thank you, Iris. That is all.”

With a quick bow of her head, Iris scurried out of the room. Roman eyed his plate of sausages, bacon, eggs, tomato, mushroom and a fresh bread roll. Once Virgil was sure the room was clear, he reached over and grabbed the bacon from Roman’s plate.

“Hey!” Roman pouted as the other smirked and licked the smoked meat. “That was my breakfast.”

“And this is my payment.” Virgil glanced sideways at his friend, “you did wake me after a night shift on guard duty.”

Mouth full of tomato, Roman paused mid bite as he suddenly remembered Virgil asking not to be woken that morning. Forcing himself to swallow, he gave his friend an apologetic look.

“I’m sorry. I completely forgot.”

“Thank you, Captain Obvious.” Again, Virgil checked the room was clear, before reaching for the honey on the table and sweetening his meal. “Just please, Ro, no wake-up calls tomorrow. I need a little more than 3hours sleep if I’m going to protect your arse.”

“My ‘arse’ does not need protecting, but I will keep that in mind. I don’t want to be seen hanging around with Sir Racoon Eyes.”

“Nice. Very original. Now eat your breakfast.”

 The pair continued to eat in silence; Virgil easily cleaning his bowl before Roman. Cautious eyes scanned the room before Virgil snuck any more of Roman’s leftovers. This banter was common between the pair, though he was always careful. Roman may have accepted and appreciated Virgil’s antics, but that didn’t make them appropriate in the eyes of the King or his knights.

 With full bellies, the pair leaned back in their chairs and shared a bemused grin, which quickly soured as a question came to Virgil’s mind.

“Has there been any word on your Mother’s condition?”

Roman looked down at his lap, fidgeting with the gold band on his middle finger.

 The Queen had been unwell for the past 5 years. Plagued by frequent chest infections from an old war wound. Virgil hadn’t seen her in months, thanks to the King’s increasing distrust towards him. Unless the Queen herself called on him, Virgil was not permitted to access to her chambers. Even when Roman had asked him to accompany them, he was quick to find an excuse to avoid the possibility of crossing paths with the King. Despite everything, Virgil still worried for his surrogate mother and it hurt that he couldn’t see her more often.

 “She is as can be expected for the spring.” Roman admitted, “I try not to go to her room too much. All the pollen, you know.”

Virgil nodded, quietly wishing he hadn’t brought it up as he watched the sadness take over Roman’s usually happy features.

“We should probably get out of here,” Virgil finally offered, “I’m sure Iris is just itching to return and clean the room up.”

As if hearing her cue, Iris entered the room.

“I hope everything was to your liking, Prince Roman.” Eyes never rising higher than the table, she quickly collected the dishes.

Sadness dissipating, Roman was back to his usual self. “It was indeed. Bacon was a little light,” he gave Virgil a sideways grin, “but I enjoyed it none the less.”

“Oh. Um. I’m sorry.” Iris quickly left the room faster than a mouse that had run across a heat rune.

As soon as Iris was gone, Virgil punched Roman’s shoulder.

“Ow! What was that for?” Rubbing his shoulder, Roman looked at Virgil in confusion.

“You can’t say shit like that to her.”

“Chill out, Virge.” he mused, rising from the table, “It just means more bacon tomorrow and I can willingly share it with you.”

 Virgil internally fumed as he followed Roman out of the room. The Prince truly was blind to the power he held over those around him and how that one little statement could force a cook to be banished from the castle, or even incarcerated for not ‘meeting the needs of the royal family’. Walking through the halls, Virgil just hoped Roman’s comment wasn’t blown out of proportion or fell onto the wrong ears. Iris may have been timid and useless in Roman’s presence, but she was far from foolish; that’s what Virgil believed to be true anyway. He had to believe. The last thing he wanted was to have a family’s misfortune on his conscience.

  **********************

 The sun had reached its midpoint, as Virgil lent against a tree with his eyes shut and did his best to tune out Roman’s grunts as he continued to lift weights. The pair had spent a few hours completing solo weapons training and strength development. Normally, Virgil was more than happy to put his endurance to the test, but his early morning call meant he wasn’t in the mood for Roman’s antics.

 "Come spar with me, Virgil," Roman called, throwing a weighted stone aside and causing the ground to vibrate slightly.

"I'm not in the mood, Princey." Virgil called back, not even acknowledging Roman with a glance.

"Oh, come on." Whined Roman, sauntering over to cast a shadow over his friend. "You've been laying there forever."

"Don't be so dramatic, and if you hadn't of woken me I wouldn't be so tired right now."

"And I'm being dramatic," Roman playfully kicked Virgil's boot. " Come on. One quick spar."

"Roman, no."

"Come ooooooon."

"Let it go, Princ-"

 "I believe your Prince gave you a request."

 Virgil's eyes shot open at the sound of the King's commanding voice, and he wished he had a giant camouflage rune so he could disappear into the tree behind him. He knew instantly that he was in trouble, the tone alone was terrifying, but the fire in his eyes communicated his anger tenfold.

"Father!" Roman was beaming, oblivious to the tension in the air. "It is good to see you outside. Would you like to spar with me?"

"No thank you, Roman." The King’s gaze barely shifted from Virgil as he spoke. "But I would be interested to observe a duel between yourself and young Virgil."

"Wonderful, come on Virgil." Roman extended a hand to help the other up and they had enough sense to not refuse this time. "That's more like it. I'll just get my practice runes on."

"No, Roman." The King held up a hand and shook his head. "I could watch a spar any time I chose. I wish to see a duel of the Furnder style."

Virgil's blood chilled in his veins at the mention of the term. He had hoped, as had Roman, that the King only wished to watch them spar with blunted weapons. Instead he wanted a duel. Bloodshed. At least Furnder style meant first to bleed loses, but the activity was not something Virgil wished to partake in with Roman.

 "Oh, a, ah, Furnder duel." Roman sounded surprisingly nervous. "I don't want- I mean, I’m sure - um…”

“Grab your straps, Prince Roman.” Virgil kept his voice level and void of emotion. “The King has made a request and we should honour it.”

“Oh, well, okay then.” All concern was gone from his voice after hearing Virgil accept the duel.

 Virgil reached into his pack, retrieving leather guards that covered the tops of his hands and wrapped around his forearms. The leather was embossed with runes Virgil had crafted; he could summon various arrow tips and shafts in an instant by allowing his soul magic to activate different runes. He slipped a leather vest on, before setting to tighten his straps and activating metal runes to strengthen his leather protections and clothes.

Roman retrieved a red sash of royal emblems and runes, equipping the seemingly loose fabric across his shoulder and lopping a thick belt around his middle. He too pulled on guards for his forearms and activated protections; the sash stiffening along with his usual uniform. 

 Fully equipped, the pair strode to the face each other in the centre of the training grounds; the King keeping a trained eye on them as they moved. The wind seemed to die out, allowing an eerie feeling to settle over the usually lively field. Virgil’s stomach twisted as he processed his situation - On one hand, he would have to fight Roman as wholeheartedly as possible, so as to not offend Roman and the King. On the other hand, should he actually cause Roman harm, the King would be sure to punish him greatly. There was no way out of the situation, only careful fighting and a hope that he could avoid both of those evils.

 “Virgil Fidencio. Prince Roman Aelin of Azmar. You have agreed to partake in a Furnder duel.” The King’s voice seemed distant to Virgil; though there was no wind to disrupt it from reaching his ear. “You shall honour the laws of Lord Furnder. The duel is over once blood is drawn from either participant; fatal blows are unnecessary but not dishonourable. Your actions are your own. All advances will cease when blood is drawn; are you both in agreeance?”

“Aye, sire.” The young men called in unison, eyes meeting; one fearful but determined, the other excited to demonstrate his skill.

“Arms at the ready!”

Virgil and Roman summoned their weapons simultaneously; the sun instantly reflecting off Roman’s sword and meeting Virgil’s eyes. Bow firmly gripped in his right-hand, Virgil felt the tips of his fingers on his left-hand tingle as he primed his soul magic to craft arrows.

“Have honour!”

Roman widened his stance, keeping his sword low and eyes fixed on his opponent. They had sparred many times with blunt weapons and were just beginning to receive missions outside of the castle walls. The young Prince was ready to prove that he was worthy, not just in age, but in skill.

“Begin!”

 Reflexes lightning fast, Virgil summoned an arrow and sent it at Roman.

“Shield up” Virgil mentally commanded.

A red shield appeared as Roman raised his right arm, knocking the arrow aside as he advanced. With a slide of his right index finger, a semi-translucent shield formed in front of Virgil’s bow. The sword met the shield with a jarring force, but Virgil held strong and pushed the sword aside.

“Guard your centre,” Virgil begged as he kicked forward.

His foot hit shield as Roman summoned it again; preparing to swing his sword back. A smile quirked Virgil’s lips as Roman instinctively braced to push him back. Using the added momentum, Virgil pushed off the shield to flip backwards and away from Roman’s sword; pulling an arrow into position the moment he was grounded.

“Be prepared for anything,” Virgil felt his wrist warm as he released one arrow and summoned another with a burning tip; taking backwards steps on the diagonal to keep his distance from Roman.

The arrows struck Roman’s shield, the fire arrow making an explosion on impact that caused his vision to blur. Regardless, Roman exchanged his sword for a throwing knife and charged forward. Even with his sight impeded, Virgil still had to summon his shield to protect himself as Roman hurled the knife towards him. As the prince re-summoned his sword, Virgil thought he saw his out.

 Dropping his shield, Virgil pulled another arrow as Roman quickly closed the gap between them.

“Shield up.”

His fingers moved naturally to release the arrow just as Virgil’s keen eyes noted Roman’s relaxed guard arm. In a split-second reaction, he formed and released additional arrows in an attempt to divert or destroy the first.

Roman’s mind was tunnel focused as his sword crossed his body in preparation to swing at Virgil. By the time his eyes focused, two arrows collided in front of his face in a cloud of smoke and he swung blindly into the space before him. The smoke concealed them from the King’s watchful eye, and the boys were trapped in grey darkness.

A feeling of smooth resistance was enough for Roman to recognise that his blade had struck true. Activating a whirlwind rune, he quickly cleared the smoke to find Virgil crouching while aiming a freshly strung arrow at him; blood oozing from a deep gash on his left arm.

 Clapping had Roman’s chest exploding with pride.

“What a brilliant display, Roman.”

Roman beamed down at Virgil at the King’s words; retracting his sword and deactivating his runes. Virgil did the same before lowering his head in shame, unable to reciprocate Roman’s euphoria as his eyes caught the fine trail of blood that ran down his right cheek.

“There is no shame in losing, Virgil.” Roman assured, still oblivious to his injury from sheer adrenaline. “It was a fine duel, wasn’t it, Father?”

Any evidence of a smile was immediately removed from the King’s face as Roman turned towards him.

“Your face was scathed.” Virgil felt the King’s presence, despite never raising his head.

Roman reached up with cautious fingers, suddenly aware of the sting as his fingers traced the cut up his cheek and to his ear.

“Huh, you managed to strike me, Virgil,” the sound of Roman’s laugh only had Virgil feeling twice as terrified for his future. “I’m impressed. Though this makes it difficult to determine the true champion. Would it be fair to call us even, Father?”

“Go see the physician, Roman,” was the King’s blunt reply, and Virgil felt the bile rising in the back of his throat as royal boots stepped into his peripheral vision.

“Father, it is just a scratch and Virgil-“

“The physician, Roman. I wish to speak with Virgil in private.”

“But he’s -“

“I’m fine,” Roman looked down to meet Virgil’s deep brown eyes. “Prince Roman. Go see to your health.”

 Virgil hated having to speak so formally to his friend, but it was required in the King’s presence. Even as children, Virgil was always expected to treat Roman in a more formal manner, despite the Queen’s kind words that the boys were equals. Watching Roman walk away now, more than anything in the world, Virgil wished the Queen’s words were true. As soon as Roman was out of view, Virgil again lowered his head and kneeled before the unkind King.

**********************

End Note:

Thank you for reading and I really hoped you enjoyed it. Please don’t hesitate to pass on any feedback or questions you have about the story. Thanks again to my lovely Tag Support Team. You are the reason I decided to writing this story.

Side Note: updates will come as I am able. I work full time and have one other WIP. I will try and balance my updates between both...unless there is more interest in one over the other. 

💜���� Snail

**********************

Chapter 2   — Masterlist 

What else have I done:

The Perfect Ring (oneshot - analogical proposal)

You Promised (oneshot - prinxiety angst/injury/near death)

Sides of a Hero (Completed Fic - sides are fusions of impulses and aspects of Thomas. Virgil has a depressing past that he is forced to face thanks to Deceit and Rage. Was canon compliant at the time of completion)

Libraries are for Meetings (ongoing WIP - Human/University au with Royality and developing Analogical. Slow burn and heavily focused on a grieving group of friends that Virgil slowly becomes a part of to better himself.) 

Check out my other blog for random fandom reblogs and stuff @snail-giggles​

[xathia-89]

Our Little Girl Part 5

Tagging @plumpblueberry because she’s thirsty for this. 

Sasha had been at the mercy of Giles’ teasing all day.

They hadn’t needed to hide and make sure they weren’t seen, Leo’s threats were then bolstered by Sid’s lawyer contacting ‘Slimeball’ Jones to explain that Crawford Industries could sue, and then Sasha could on a personal level. Word spread fast among reporters, but it didn’t stop the occasional social media photo snap.

The clothing shop they’d been in had asked for a selfie with some of the merchandise for promotion purposes. They hadn’t been expecting Giles to go through exactly what was meant by the ‘promotion’, and it was whittled down to a post on social media with a ‘guess who popped in today?!’ to try and promote the image of the company. Sasha agreed before Giles could say anymore, and had her arm looped around Giles’ waist and the sales assistant who had been with them the whole time. It was all smiles, and the shop staff gave Giles knowing looks as Sasha then did a personal selfie with the young woman as her boyfriend paid up the tab.

Her long locks were held up in a thick ponytail, jeans and an oversized t-shirt that she’d stolen from Sid’s closet when neither male was looking, of course, Sasha looked too at home as Giles was watching her flick through the TV channels. She was waiting for her boyfriends to be ready, they had the staff cordon off enough of the bar and already arranged for food to be made to cover the twins’ tastes.

“Are you getting changed, princess?” Giles nuzzled into her hair from behind, unable to hold back from feeling that she was truly there with him.

“No, I wanted to drag you both down to my comfort zone,” Sasha giggled, her fingers threading through his violet locks.

“I wouldn’t last five minutes with your brothers if you don’t change,” Sid growled from the doorway. Sasha smirked, not moving from her spot on the sofa and continuing to shower Giles in her affection and touch even with Sid quickly approaching. “Sasha,” his voice was gravelly and low, his fingers resting on her thighs and digging the seams of her jeans into her skin. “If you don’t change, you aren’t cumming for the next week,” he growled, making Giles part from the female with a knowing smirk.

“Fine,” she pouted, sliding her fingers down Giles’ arms, pausing their descent to play with the slightly damp ends of Sid’s dark blue locks. “Only because you plan to fuck me senseless next time I wear it,” she smirked and went to stand up.

She gasped, flush against the bartender as he was kissing her hard. He was dominating her before letting her go, that sexy smirk that had her hooked from the first time she saw it in the bar.

“You two need to be illegal,” she complained, pouting as the two men were chuckling at her retreating form. Tonight was nothing formal, mostly the collection of Sasha’s personal items and her brothers trying to scare the two men into treating her like a princess, which Sasha knew too well as she came back out in a top that Giles had picked out specifically for her. Her lips were curved which told the manager that she’d picked it on purpose too before already strolling towards the door. “My brothers won’t wait to come and gatecrash!”

True to her word, the staff behind the bar were all looking very tense with Leo leaning against the bar and trying to flirt with anyone that moved. Alyn was standing next to him and looking incredibly stiff. Though the faintest of blushes of embarrassment could be seen if you looked close enough before Sasha had her arms hooked around both her brothers and brought them down to her level. It was an endearing scene as the staff were watching as much as the two men. Giles’ cough broke the spell woven before he smiled slightly at everyone present.

“Shall we go and sit down? I’m sure it will be more comfortable,” he gestured towards the large cordoned off area.

“Sir, are the rumours true then?” One of the older bartenders had grabbed Giles by the crook of his elbow. “We’ve had all sorts come in and ask questions-”

“All will be revealed at tomorrow’s staff meeting,” he frowned, immediately lifting the hand off his sleeve. “And make sure we don’t get inundated with being photographed tonight please.”

Alyn was his usual surly self, frowning almost constantly while Leo took it upon himself to torment Giles out of the stiff image he presented. Sasha was laughing, and Sid was nearly always joining in with Leo’s teasing. Then the plates were all cleared away, and Leo settled into a more formal posture.

“I’ve been shown the photos that led to Uncle Aubin dismissing Sasha,” he opened. “In some of them, it’s easy to pass it off as coincidence given the industry and proximity of both clubs, but then there are others where kissing and hugging are present. Which can’t be passed off,” Leo explained, playing with an empty shot glass. “We all know who took the photos, but we can’t prove it just yet to prosecute him for anything. And you know what the public are like, they want to know everything about someone’s life because they have money.”

“Part of me wants to thank him, but he forced our hand to get to this,” Giles was tilting his head with a frown, already beginning to think about who was on their membership list that could possibly help.

“So, what’s the plan then?” Alyn was usually straight to the point, bringing focus to the fact that they weren’t here to plan to catch a slimeball.

“She moves in with us. We’re looking for a bigger place for a permanent fixing, but our penthouse is large enough for the time being,” Giles noticed that Sasha had dropped her head a little, blushing at the fact.

“Let’s not insult them by asking for specifics of things,” Leo laughed. “Just know that we have more than enough experience at chasing off boyfriends and we did it very successfully as teenagers-”

“Not that successfully,” Sid smirked, leaning forward with an interruption. “I came back, and it just took me a few years.”

“What?” Sid was grinning broadly at the sound of four voices of surprise and all the focus on him.

“Lloyd Grandieur-” he began.

“Fucker! I TOLD you!” Leo slammed his hand on the table and starting laughing. “I said you were familiar,” he grinned broadly.

Sasha was glaring at the bartender, a brief fling as kids and under the name, his adoptive parents had chosen to keep him safe from his real ones. Now he had the muscle and money to own his name instead of cowering behind a shield.

“Well then, you got a taste of what twelve year old us could do,” Leo corrected himself, smirking broadly as Sasha resigned herself to being surrounded by men trying to chest beat for the evening.

[trashcanmarvelfan]

Best. Job. Ever. 8/12

Summary: Reader gets a job on the set of Spider-Man: Far from Home for the 3 weeks they are shooting in New York City as what she thinks is a production assistant, but a twist of fate has her reassigned as Tom Holland’s personal assistant. As she & Tom grow close during filming, will their budding friendship turn to more or will they go their separate ways after filming concludes?

Warnings: Language, but that’s pretty much it? This is basically a PG-13 rom-com. (Legal) alcohol use as well but since it’s legal do I really need to tag it?

Word Count: 2114 for chapter 8.

Author’s Note: As this was written WAY before Spider-Man: Far from Home was released (actually before Avengers: Endgame was as well) I’ve kept plot details and which scene was being shot on what day extremely vague. Also, I’m American but tried to write Tom as British as possible, although I do think he’d try to stay(ish) in character and use as much American slang as he could while he’s still playing Peter.

Chapter-Specific Author’s Note: I hope this part was worth the wait... ;)

Requests are always open!

Cross-posted at AO3.

The next morning, Y/N woke up and checked her email.  Waiting in her inbox was Tom’s schedule for the final week of filming.

She pulled up Tom’s text thread. Got your schedule for next week. Ik you’re hanging out with Harrison today and we're going out tonight, so we can just go over it tomorrow or whatever.

Tom texted back almost immediately. Sounds great. Maybe we can do it tomorrow evening after Haz leaves? I was also thinking we could all have brunch in the morning so we can give him a proper send-off.

Ok, that’s fine, and brunch also sounds good. LMK the details tonight.

Y/N decided since she wasn’t meeting up with the guys until much later in the day and since she had been in NYC for almost 2 weeks and still hadn’t really gone sightseeing that she needed to get out and do something, so she took a shower and got dressed in some comfortable clothes she could go exploring in, grabbed her wallet, and headed downstairs.

She asked at the concierge desk for tour recommendations that she could do and wound up deciding to book a bus tour that passed by some shops she wanted to go to. She walked down to a little cafe’ for coffee then boarded her bus.

One of the stops was near the Strand Bookstore, so she decided to disembark there and check it out.

She took one step inside and froze. There were books everywhere she could see - books of every shape, size, and genre.  I’ve died and gone to heaven.

She spent most of the morning exploring the shop, finally choosing a few books to purchase before realizing how late it was and running back to the bus stop to continue her tour.

After eventually making a full loop around New York City, Y/N got off at the stop closest to the hotel and rushed back to shower and change for the evening.

She checked out her outfit in the full-length mirror in her hall. I guess this is it, she thought.

Laura had helped her pick out an outfit via Skype, delighted that Y/N had packed the pink satin camisole top she had bought Y/N for her birthday, and insisting that it was the perfect top to pair with black leggings and a pair of comfortable, low-heeled shoes that Y/N had bought earlier that day.  Y/N had gone with simple accessories, choosing a rose gold bracelet and teardrop necklace, and kept her makeup light lest she sweat it off under the club lights.

A knock came on the door.

She opened the door and Tom’s jaw dropped. “Y/N, you look absolutely stunning,” he breathed.

“Thanks,” Y/N replied shyly. “Ready to go? Where’s Harrison?”

“Oh, err, he said he'd meet us downstairs,” Tom replied.

“Oh, ok, that’s cool.”

Tom offered his arm. “Shall we?”

They exited the elevator in the lobby where Harrison was waiting. “Y/N, you look fabulous,” he said.

“Thanks,” Y/N replied.

“The Uber is a couple of blocks away so we should be getting outside.” Harrison pointed toward the doors. “You two ready to go?”

“Yeah, I’m set. Tom?”

“Ready,” Tom replied.

They made their way outside where their Uber was just pulling up to the curb.

Tom got in first, holding out a hand to help Y/N climb in behind him. Harrison followed behind her.

They greeted their driver and chatted casually on the way to the restaurant.

After dinner, they walked down the street to the club.  Tom gave his name at the door and he, Y/N, and Harrison all showed their IDs to get their armbands for the bar, Y/N handing her belongings to Tom to keep in his pocket.  They walked in to the club full of glowing lights and thumping electronic music, peoples’ bodies swaying to the beat.

A waitress led them to their table above the dance floor and asked them if they wanted a drink.

“We should start with shots,” Harrison declared before ordering 2 tequila shots for each of them.

“Can I also get 2 shots of lime juice?” Y/N added. “I usually add a chaser at first if I'm doing tequila shots,” she explained at Tom and Harrison’s quizzical looks.

Once their drinks were delivered, Y/N picked hers up. “To good friends, good tequila, and good times,” she declared.

“Hear hear,” Tom and Harrison both agreed as they all clinked their glasses together.  Y/N drank her shot of tequila, the liquid burning her throat as it slid down. She immediately chased it with the lime juice, shuddering at the tang. “Ugh, much better mixed together in a margarita,” she joked.

They quickly followed with their second shot before Harrison decided that he was going to go check out the dance floor.  He shot Y/N and Tom a good-natured wink before he left.

Tom leaned in, the intoxicating combination of his cologne and the alcohol already starting to swirl in Y/N’s system making her feel fuzzy. “I’m going to go to the bar,” he said in her ear to be overheard over the music. “Want anything?”

“Sure.” Y/N told Tom which drink she wanted and he disappeared. She sat quietly for a few minutes before pulling out her phone and taking a selfie to send to Laura. Nightlife in NYC, she captioned it.

A couple of seconds later, a gorgeous blonde-haired guy bumped into her seat. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” he said apologetically.

“It’s fine,” Y/N said. “No harm done.” Y/N waited for the guy to keep walking, but he stopped right next to her.

“I’m Matt.”

“Y/N.”

Matt tilted his head to the side. “How about some company? A pretty lady like you must be lonely sitting there all by yourself.”

Y/N shook her head. “No thanks. I’m actually just waiting for someone.”

“Then do you wanna dance?”

“Um, no thanks.”

“How about a drink then?”

Y/N was starting to get uncomfortable. “Um, actually--”

“Here you are, love.”

Y/N looked up to see Tom carrying her drink as well as a beer for himself.

Y/N shot him a grateful look. “Thanks, babe.”

Tom sat next to her and gave her a lingering kiss on her cheek, dangerously close to the corner of her mouth. “So terribly sorry darling, hope I didn’t keep you waiting long,” he said apologetically, putting an arm around her shoulder. He pretended to only just then notice Matt. “Oh, hello. Sorry, didn't see you standing there.”

Y/N tried to keep her chill. “No big deal, honey. I was just talking to Matt, here.”

“Umm, actually you know, I've got to get going,” Matt mumbled. “It was nice to meet you, Y/N.” He rushed off.

“Bye, Matt!” Tom said cheerfully.

“Ugh, what an asshat,” Y/N said, taking a sip of her drink. “Thanks for coming to my rescue.”

Tom shrugged and took a swig of his beer, keeping his arm around Y/N. “You were obviously uncomfortable and that guy clearly wasn't getting the hint.”

They were finishing their drinks when Harrison came back. “Time for a break. I need another drink.” He pointed to Tom and Y/N. “It's your turn to get out there."

Tom offered Y/N his hand. “Dance with me?” he asked.

Y/N nodded and took his hand. “Show me what moves you've got, Holland,” she said with a wink.

“Order me another beer when our server comes back?” Tom asked Harrison.

“Sure thing, mate. Y/N?”

“Yeah, actually.” Y/N told Harrison what she wanted to drink as she and Tom stood.

Tom led her to the dance floor, where one song had just ended and another song had begun.

Y/N swayed her hips, letting the beat of the music and the warmth of the alcohol in her system relax her. Tom wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her flush to him.  Y/N hooked one arm around Tom’s neck, closing her eyes and matching Tom’s rhythm to where they were one seamless flow.

They danced for several songs until Tom’s hand slowly traveled up Y/N’s back until he reached the bare skin where her top was cut low. Y/N shivered as Tom slowly ran a finger up her back, opening her eyes and locking gazes with him.

Tom’s gaze held something… primal, something that both excited and terrified Y/N at the same time.  She subconsciously licked her lips, Tom’s gaze flickering down for just a second before raising back to her eyes.  His grip on her waist tightened. “Y/N…” he murmured.

“Yes?” Y/N replied breathlessly. The way Tom said her name in that accent of his made her briefly wonder how many other different ways she could get him to say it and in what other situations. She blushed at the thought.

Tom tilted his head, leaning in slightly, while Y/N followed suit until...

...Someone knocked into them, shattering the moment and breaking the spell.

“You know what?” Y/N said nervously, looking everywhere but at Tom. “I need to hit the ladies’ room, I’ll umm… I’ll be back in a bit.”

Tom nodded. “Okay, I’m going to go back to the table then.”

Y/N nodded as well.  She went to the ladies’ room and splashed some cool water on her face. Get a grip, Y/N. You’ve both been drinking, and with the lights and the music… Just keep it together.

She walked back to the table, where the guys were each drinking a beer, Y/N’s drink on the table between them.  

Y/N sat down and took a long swig of her drink. “Bit warm in here, isn’t it?” she said. “Luckily we seem to be right under the AC.”

After a while and another drink, Y/N had calmed down enough and was ready to get back out on the dance floor.

She took turns dancing with both Harrison and Tom, but this time she was sure to keep a respectable distance, also switching to water for the rest of the evening lest she get tipsy again and lose her inhibitions.

They called an Uber back to the hotel, where Y/N and Tom dropped Harrison off at his floor, wishing him goodnight.

When Y/N and Tom arrived on their floor, Tom asked, “Would you like me to walk you to your door?”  

Y/N giggled. “That’s so gentlemanly of you, but it’s literally down the hall. I think I can make it.”

“Ok, good night then.”

“Good night.”  Y/N turned and walked towards her room.  She was almost to her door when Tom called out her name. “Y/N!”

She turned to see Tom jogging towards her, holding her belongings that he had been keeping in his pocket.  “You might need these.”

Y/N blushed as Tom joined her in front of her door. “Haha oops, yeah, those might be important.” She bit her lip nervously. “Thanks for inviting me. I had a lot of fun tonight.”

“Me too,” Tom replied with a soft smile.

Y/N's fingers brushed Tom's as she reached for her belongings, setting off that same spark that she had felt earlier that evening. She leaned in and placed a soft kiss on Tom's cheek before turning towards her door.

Suddenly Tom grabbed her hand. “Y/N, wait.”

Y/N glanced back at him in surprise.

Tom dropped Y/N's hand as his eyes searched hers. What he was looking for, Y/N wasn't sure. Tom reached up and tucked some loose hair behind Y/N's ear, his fingers lingering on her face in a gentle caress.

Y/N subconsciously leaned into Tom's touch, her eyes fluttering closed as warm lips tentatively pressed against her own.

She reached up with her free hand, trailing her fingers up Tom’s arm before wrapping her hand around his bicep and pulling him closer, Tom wrapping his arms around her and pulling her flush to him as he continued to kiss her breathless.

The sound of a door closing down the hall brought them back to Earth, Tom giving Y/N one more chaste kiss before separating.

He grinned. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

Y/N smiled shyly. “Night, Tom.” She swiped her keycard on her door before entering her room, not noticing that Tom hadn’t moved or taken his eyes off of her for a second until she was inside.

She flopped down on her bed and touched her lips with her fingertips, the feel of Tom's lips still on hers.

What a night.

Taglist: @laureharrier @thoughstofaredhead & @greenarrowhead

[edsrich]

I Walk The Line - Reddie [ 01 ]

Summary: Eddie Kaspbrak is finally enrolled into the Boarding School that he had been fighting for years just to get in. However, not all is what it seems between these walls, full of shadows and unsolved mysteries that dangle on loose threads. Derry Academy has a dark secret that is yet to be revealed and the more Eddie finds out about the unknown, more grains of sand fall to the depths of the hourglass.

Warning(s) For the Whole Series: Rape, self harm, sexual assault, depression and death.

A/N: Please ask in my inbox to be tagged in a taglist for this series if you wish :)

Playlist ( X )

Part 1 | 2 (Soon)

"And this is your room, Edward."

"It's uh, Eddie. My friends call me Eddie."

Mr. Maguire lifted a single key that was attached to a metallic hoop, it hanging between the Principal's wrinkled fingertips and scraping at the thin air. Other students passed, giving almost shocked looks as the two stood in front of his now new dorm room.

"Well, Eddie, I'm sure you'll be a good student here at Derry Academy however, I'm going to go over the dorm rules with you. Does that sound good Eddie?" Mr. Maguire spoke with his monotone voice, his eyelids slitting his eyes.

Eddie could only nod, feeling very intimidated by how his new Principle said his name in such a broad manner.

"One, in your dorm you shall not play any loud music after 8pm. Two, you shall not have lights on past 11pm. If you are going to study, you should use your desk lamp and not your main room lamp. Three, you only leave your room for the bathroom after 9pm and you shall not stay in other dorms overnight; weekends are an exception." Mr. Maguire paused before tilting an eyebrow down at Eddie, "Do you understand, Eddie?"

"Yes Sir, I understand completely." He tried to keep his voice stable, however his tone only quivered all over the place.

A smirk toyed at Mr. Maguire's lips as he then nodded at Eddie's hands, Eddie caught on straight away and held his hand out before his Headmaster who placed the key into his palm. Eddie quickly closed his fingers around the silver key, tightening it between his fist.

"With that in mind, this is now your room Eddie. I expect you to design it to your liking; this room is already slightly altered as someone used to live here before you. Although, you can't alter the wall colours."

"Oh, thank you Mr. Maguire!" Eddie grinned, pulling his pastel pink polo down by the collar to allow air to flow through.

"No problem, kid." The Principal's facade faded slightly as something flashed through his eyes, but with a clear of his throat the facade was quickly hardened. "If you need me, I will be located in my office. Have a good day."

Before Eddie managed to muster the words to even form a goodbye, the Principle of Derry Academy had already legged himself down the halls of the boys dorm. Eddie sighed shakily, pulling his suitcase along beside him in his other hand, stopping it right in front of his wooden door that had a chalkboard before him that was nailed deeply into his door along with a stick for him to write his name upon. The chalkboard itself looked as if it had been scrubbed at many times with faded skids of white crossing over each other's paths. Eddie's fingers lifted away from the suitcase handle and grabbed at the thin stick of chalk and that was then he wrote his name onto the black surface. He simply wrote the name 'Eddie' with a smiley face right next to his name and a few squiggles here and there to let his personality shine through his name introduction to those who walked by.

Eddie placed the chalk back down on the small indent of a shelf before lifting the key to room 27 and unlocking his door to be revealed to what was before him, his new room.

The room was quite bland, as if it had been cleared- but some aspects shown that someone had been living here before his presence was. Such as how the bookshelf was half full with a variation of different colours and sizes with some more thick and some more slender. Even how the bed that was cramped into the corner of the room and how it had a plaid bedding with specifically three pillows and the fourth tucked at the end as if it were a foot rest for when the boy that lived in this room previously slept.

Something about this place was off, though; Eddie couldn't quite put his finger on it.

Eddie walsted his way inside with his brown suitcase rolling behind him, chipping at his heels with discomfort. A ragged sigh left his lips as his feet sunk into the rug below him which too must've been something that the person previously had in the room as an accessory to give a more homey feel.

His hand dropped from the suitcase as he placed it up against the pale wall and resting against a few cracks that had surfaced past the thin paint which showed its age just by that small detail of a crack. Eddie then walked forward, going over to the bed and bouncing down on it to test its comfiness.

It wasn't comfy.

Eddie could practically feel the springs through the thick blanket sticking up into his skin, causing his eyes to narrow as he quickly became unimpressed.

He was already starting to regret stepping his foot through the door of this school. He recalled how his Mother actually was hesitant to let him go after forcing him to go here herself; all because she was scared of him around other kids his age and staying under the roof of other girls. Eddie rolled his eyes at the thought.

Eddie was glad to be here though, he was finally away from home and from the tight grasp of his Mother, he finally felt independant just being away from her. The truth was that Eddie's Mother was far too protective over her son; to the point where Eddie couldn't leave or sleep without taking his medicine and wasn't allowed to eat certain foods for some odd reason. Eddie hated it, but he knew that he needed to take the medicine.

As he thought about his medicine, he stood up and walked over to his upright suitcase and quickly flattened it against the dark oak wooden floorboards and pulled the zipper across to unravel its insides. Inside of his suitcase was mostly matching pyjama sets and a few weekend clothes that he could rewear; most of the things inside contained medicine, decor and some personal belongings to keep him occupied.

Eddie huffed, grabbing his medicine packet which was sealed tightly at the top and placing it on top of his chest of drawers- quickly organising them after taking them out of their clear plastic bag.

Each was labelled with when they should be took, for example, the bright orange packet had the words '9pm / 7am' stuck to them from his Mother, alike to others but with different times. Each capsule holder was organised with what time they were to be took so that it was easier for himself somewhat.

With that done, he knelt next to his open suitcase once again to start packing away his personal belongings neatly just as he always would. His underwear kept tidy inside of his top drawer, his pyjama set collection and in the final and bottom drawer he kept his usual clothes and soon to keep his uniform for school days. Eddie sighed at himself, shutting over the final drawer and resting his frame against the wooden chest.

Did he really want to be here? He had friends back at home that he would barely see until Christmas at this rate and who was to say that he'd make friends at this school? Bad vibes were written all over it.

The only good thing that was coming out of all of this was that he didn't have to have his Mother breathing down his neck at every possible moment. He felt free, but at the same time these walls still enclosed him.

The air that surrounded him in his own dorm started to thin; becoming congealed. For some odd reason also, Eddie's small brown thorns along his arms stood on ends along with the goosebumps that strengthened the strands upwards.

Eddie didn't feel as safe as he probably should within his own dorm.

Maybe it was something about the aura of this place- afterall, it was quite an old building from the 1800's. Who knew what lurked these halls.

He hummed a soft tune, setting up his boom box up against the side of his chest of drawers and setting his stack of mixtapes next to it- each one labelled different to the other. Yes, he labelled his mixtapes based on certain moods and vibes that he was looking to listen to, some even labelled just as genres. It was out of habit, he couldn't help it.

What was also left in the room was in fact a large grandfather clock that was snug into the corner of the room and ticked itself to and thro by each passing second. The clock currently struck itself at 20 past 7 in the evening.

Tomorrow was going to be his first official day.

Eddie clung the metal key in his grip as the thoughts of his uniform and schedule ran over his brain, as he now realised that he should probably go and grab what was his from the office- which was probably downstairs where he came in through the dorms.

Bonus points: he also stayed on the first floor, so it wasn't hard to find his way around.

With making sure his keys were intact with him, the small boy walked towards his dorm door and opened it up- walking out as it shut itself behind him. Other male's of his age walked past his door and up and down the corridor and getting lost into the shadows of the night.

Eddie walked by his lone self, not making eye contact with the unusual eyes that scanned over him. They could probably already tell that he was the new boy, hopefully that wasn't a bad thing. But from what Eddie had seen so far, he couldn't tell; this place gave him a bad vibe. With each step that he took against the oak wood creaks beneath him, he felt like an outsider even more. Everyone here already seemed to have cliques, especially since groups of either those in two's, three's of four's were just staring in confusion.

Please, don't let me be an outcast again. He thought.

His feet strode to the staircase and eventually he allowed himself to tiptoe down each step; each one creaking which put Eddie on edge. Again, this was another reminder to how old this building truly was.

One person shoved themselves into Eddie's side as they passed on the stairs, causing the hand railing to stick into Eddie's waist- causing a subtle squeak to surpass Eddie's parted lips.

When Eddie glanced to the side, he saw a slightly older and much taller blonde with a scraggy mullet glare at him with a sickening smile of some sort- his three other friends trailing alongside him. One more on the chubbier side with a few pimples sporting to his face and dark brown thorns sticking up on his head, showing that his hair was gelled a bit too much. One of the other boys was rather thin and was the smallest out of the boys that were stood, he was more of a platinum blonde and his face was sort of scrunched up from his sour expression and oddly pale. Finally, a lanky tall boy with wavy brown strands of hair that almost danced at his shoulders, his smile wasn't as teasing however- but more odd, it was hard for Eddie to specifically pinpoint an emotion to it. He did know that it was weird, however.

"You're next, girly boy! " The mullet boy snickered, his friends too laughing.

Eddie felt as if they knew something that he didn't know, yet. His chest tightened as his thoughts were swarmed over with his kneecaps trembling close together.

Great, I've only been here for 30 minutes and I'm already being teased. Eddie thought. But why? No one knows who I am yet.

The laughs echoed through the small space, before they trotted upwards and to the dorm sections. Eddie could feel himself able to breathe properly again, for once not needing his inhaler.

With that situation quickly passing, Eddie stumbled his way down the stairs much more urgently so that he could get back to his room as soon as possible. The new scenery of the entrance to the dorm space and it's bottom office came into view, a large chandelier hanging from the ceiling before Eddie and down onto the long old fashioned rug that was placed over the new change of floor, tiles.

Eddie sighed, noticing another boy was waiting at the office and leant up against the wooden desk. Eddie didn't want to start a conversation at all, especially after his first experience seconds earlier- but he needed his schedule and his uniform for tomorrow. The sooner he got back to his room the better, right? Right.

The desk grew closer as Eddie eventually found himself in front of it, with no one attending the desk as they probably should. A sigh drew from his lips yet again as Eddie pressed the bell in order to alert the receptionist that someone needed assistance.

"I-I've been here for ten m...minutes now, I wouldn't get your hope up."

Eddie's eyes flickered beside him, seeing the boy that he saw when walking up to the desk. The boy was tall and looked around his age, his hair was cut neatly with some of his forehead exposed to the light, his bright blue eyes blinking as he too scanned the new Eddie.

"Oh." Eddie replied, feeling a sense of awkwardness rile up.

The boy blinked again, before speaking up. "Y..You new?"

"Huh?"

"New, as in new t-to D-Derry Academy?"

Eddie finally managed to pick up on the fact that this stutter wasn't just a nervous habit- but an actual thing for the boy.

"Oh... Yeah, I'm Eddie Kaspbrak."

"I'm William D-Denbrough, but call me Bill."

Eddie finally found a smile to twitch over his face as he finally had met someone who was nice despite his first experience. He nodded to the boy known as Bill and fidgeted with his sleeves.

"So... W-what's your room number?" Bill questioned, his head slightly tilting.

"Oh, I uh- room 27 on the first floor, what about you?"

Eddie also too found out that he was terrible at continuing small talk, or any type of talk in general.

However, with Eddie's response Bill almost stiffened up- with his prominent adam's apple bobbing up and down in his throat, signalling something had changed in this innocent conversation that Eddie was unable to figure out.

"O-Oh, I um, I-I share o-one of those spuh-special rooms with another g-guy, it's r..room 45 on the second f-floor."

Eddie could also pick up on how his stutter had gradually gotten worse within the few seconds between their answers.

"Oh!" Eddie nodded, tapping his fingers against the polished wooden desk to create a soothing rhythm for himself. "I didn't know you could share with others."

"Y-yeah, we've been friends since kids a-and when we first joined we.. we saw that it was an o-option in the leaflet."

Luckily for Eddie, he didn't have to respond as the receptionist at the office was quickly back in her seat with smudged crimson lipstick and a pen between her claws. Eddie gulped but before he could speak up, the woman cut him off.

"Oh you must be the newbie." She cooed, almost admiring him. "Edward Kaspbrak, right? Mhm honey, I've been expecting you- Mr.Maguire informed me about you."

"It's Eddie." Eddie spoke up, trying to be polite as possible.

He hated being called anything but his nickname that he had grown used to over the years, Edward was just too much and Eddie was simple.

"Oh alright, Eddie."

Eddie flashed his eyes down to her name tag on her blouse, the name Elaine imprinted onto the shiney gold. Of course her blouse had popped buttons upon her white blouse and her glasses were slid down to the tip of her nose. Her eyebrows were drew overly arched, almost Marilyn Monroe like; her hair was curled into tight ginger ringlets. If she wasn't wearing so much makeup, she'd probably look around mid-20's, however right now she seemed late 40's at the youngest.

Her green claws moved away from the pen and pulled out a cupboard near her feet, rummaging around for a few seconds before pulling out a sheet. She then handed it over the desk to Eddie, looking through her clumped lashes at him.

"I'll go get your uniform, honey."

"H-hey, can I-"

"Wait your turn, Billy." Elaine spoke sickly, standing up and flattening her skirt down before strutting into the back office.

Bill sighed exaggeratedly, rolling his eyes at her usual behaviour and drummed his fingertips into the wooden surface; his eyes rolling back to Eddie.

"Well... She's certainly a character." Eddie muttered, glancing at Bill.

"Y-yeah, she's banging the Principle."

Eddie almost choked.

"W-what?"

Bill smirked at the smaller boys reaction, "Yeah, that's the only r-ruh..reason why she still has her stupid job. She can barely s-stand in her own heels, n-nevermind sort out who's timetable is which. I'm surprised his wife hasn't found o-out already."

"Wife?" Eddie expasterated, completely in awe of shock and disgust to already find out that an affair was taking place under the school premises.

"Yes, wife." Bill hummed, standing a little closer to Eddie and shakily picking up the sheet that was his timetable, "Lucky, she g-got yours right."

Eddie peeked at the sheet, wanting to see his classes and teachers.

Bill's eyes scanned over quickly, as if he was digging for information that he needed to confirm for himself- however, his eyes quickly settled on a class that he wasn't sure to expect or not.

"D-drama?"

Eddie felt his face flush lightly to a dusked rose, "Yeah, I suppose I take drama."

"Suppose?" Bill looked to Eddie.

"W-well.. I specifically asked for that to be my chosen subject."

"Ah." Bill confirmed it with his very eyes, "Well h-here."

When he handed the sheet back, Eddie could almost see something click in Bill's brain. But again, Eddie found himself to struggle why he saw that.

Bill then hummed between his stutters again, "W-well, I also saw you take History with a friend of mine, Mike. He's one of m-my teammates."

"Teammates?" Eddie asked, tilting his head.

"Yeah!" Bill smiled, his straight teeth poking through his lips. "W-we're on the b-basketball team."

"Oh!" Eddie nodded, trying to show as if he was impressed in order to seem kind to Bill. "So you're popular?"

Bill practically laughed in his face, in mockery of himself.

"P-popular? With this stutter? I wish." Bill's smile only grew in surprise to Eddie, "I-I also write a lot, which is n-not cool at all."

Eddie shrugged, "I think writing is pretty cool, it's cooler than acting."

"I write about c-creepy stuff, it makes m-me look weird." Bill stuffed his hands in the pockets of his pants and swayed back and forth onto his heels, then his tiptoes.

"Well, you're not weird to me Bill." Eddie spoke gently, smiling softly.

Bill just looked at Eddie with soft eyes, his eyelashes dangling over his own iris as he scanned the boy with his own thoughts battling against one another. Eddie, confused, just stared back awkwardly.

"I'm g-going to make an offer, Eddie." Bill paused, "And this is s-something I or we don't do anymore."

"Oh? Do go on." Eddie urged, his curiosity growing by the seconds.

Again, Bill was silent for a few seconds before clearing his throat.

"I'm willing to offer y-you a place in a club, there's si- I mean f-five of us, including myself. We're all weird or d-different and I think you'd fit in."

Eddie felt his heart skip a beat at the thought of actually being offered to practically make friends; his first day of school had not even started yet and this was already a sign of luck.

"What kind of club is it?" Eddie beamed, trying not to show too much excitement.

Bill poked his tongue into his cheek as if to think for a moment before finally finalizing on an answer, "Well... I guess i-it used to be a uh- well... A club where y-you'd go if you needed to t-talk to someone for help or to let something off your c-chest, a escape." He paused, his smile growing and infecting his face yet again. "Over time w-we all became friends, did things t-together and the club just became... ours. We call it the losers club now. Because w-we are all losers."

Eddie enjoyed watching how Bill was obviously happy reminiscing on how he met his friends and how he found his place in school, the nostalgia clearly softening him.

"Are you calling me a loser?"

Bill's smile quickly fell and his lips fell into an 'o' shape.

"No! It's just... I feel as if you'd fit in with us e-even though we might have differences, we call ourselves losers b-because its funny."

"Oh, are you sure they wouldn't mind? The rest of your members- friends, I mean." Eddie fumbled around with his words, his eyes flicking down to his pumps.

"They'll u-understand why you've joined, so they'll be f-fine." Bill grinned, cutting himself off at the sight of Elaine.

Her buttons were fixed this time, but her lipstick still remained trailed to her chin; a stack of clothing in her grip.

"I hope this is the right size, pudding." She dumped the fabric against the wooden surface, "Your Mother called up earlier and told us all of your measurements and sizes- even telling us what fabric is the best for you!"

Eddie felt ashamed.

"So this seems to be the best match, now you hurry along. You have a big day ahead of you tomorrow sweetheart."

Eddie nodded frantically not bothering to say goodbye, scooping up his new belongings. Just as he was about to walk past Bill, he was stopped when Bill placed a hand on his shoulder.

"If you d-d-do want to join, go to the room next to the d-detention room just beside the cafeteria during breakfast time." Bill smiled, "W-we always provide breakfast anyway, so you won't g-go the day with an empty stomach."

Eddie nodded, making a mental note. "Got it. I'll see you there?"

"We will." Bill nodded, smiling as Eddie parted pathways with him.

That night Eddie laid in bed wide awake with his matching pyjamas, his eyes staring at the cracked ceiling above him with soft and strained eyes. His bambi like eyes were slid over with exhaustion, but for some reason he still couldn't sleep like he wanted to. Something about this very room seemed off, almost eerie.

His window was shut, along with the blinds and curtains. His door was shut and locked tight too. So why did it feel as if eyes were boring into him?

Everything about this place was just weird, more weird than expected.

This school was supposed to be strict and ordinary, like any other boarding school. But it wasn't. How is a married principle having an affair a receptionist normal? Also, the vibe of this school had gotten worse as the night ticked on. The building would constantly creak and the sound of the old grandfather clock ticking put Eddie on edge, despite his medicine calming him down as they usually would.

But what did that boy mean by 'you're next'? Eddie could only imagine the possibilities of what it could mean. Was he next on their list? Was he next to be shoved into a locker? Was he next to die?

Oh gosh, he didn't want to die.

Eddie's exaggerated thoughts quickly became calm whilst he turned onto his side, facing the chipped wall in order to cut off the feeling of being stared at.

With those thoughts pushed back, Eddie closed his eyes once again and brought up fluffy thoughts of rainbows and future dreams. Anything but thinking of how stressful and nerve wrecking tomorrow was going to be.

A/N: Thankyou for reading part 1!! Like I said at the top ^^ if you wish to be added to a taglist, please ask me in my inbox :)

[everlark-your-own-adventure]

Powder Keg - Ch 3

Happy Monday, Everlarkers! Last week’s episode of EYOA’s Powder Keg left our Katniss with a dilemma - call in Grumpy Gale on his day off, or spend an entire day with archnemesis Peeta, who somehow broke her heart.

You chose for Katniss to throw caution to the wind and spend the day with Peeta. What happens next? Our own @burkygirl continues the drama (hang on to your hats, kids, this one’s a doozy!)

As always, you have 48 hours to vote, until noon, Wednesday, November the 22nd. Remember, vote in the comments or reblogs, not in the tags! And as always, share with your friends, more voices = more fun! Ready? Here we go…

The door to the staff room slams behind me as I storm away. I have got to get some fresh air. I need to be alone for 10 seconds or I’m going to scream. Fucking Johanna. She might as well have stuffed us into a get-along shirt like a couple of bratty kids. And what kind of choice is that anyway? As if I’m going to drag Gale up here on his day off to deal with a bunch of kids just because Dickwad is doing a tap dance on my very last nerve. That's not fair to Gale. He works two jobs to help his mom take care of his brothers and sisters and this is the only day he gets to sleep in. And anyway, I definitely don't need him running up here and trying to save me.

The cold air slices through my lungs the minute I step outside. I close my eyes and breathe deeply; each sharp, frosty inhale forcing the red haze just a little bit farther away. When I’m calm, I go back inside and find Peeta in the staff room packing up his gear to go home for the day.

“What are you doing?”

His expression is flat, emotionless as he methodically packs his bag. “What does it look like? I’m obviously not going to get any work here today. I might as well go home and help Dad at the bakery if I’m going to work for free.”

My attempt at another calming breath comes out like an impatient huff instead. “We have a class, like, any minute.”

His eyes snap to mine. “You didn’t call Hawthorne?”

I throw myself in a scruffy armchair that must have gotten dragged in here when it was no longer presentable for the guest area. “No. I am not going to do that to Gale on his day off. Just stay away from me, Mellark, and it’ll be fine.”

“I don’t know how I’m going to do that if we’re supposed to work together all day.” Peeta runs his fingers through his hair until it’s standing on end. “I just don’t get why we can’t be friends, Katniss. We used to be, or at least, I thought we were. I don’t understand why you’re so determined to hate my guts.”

“Are you kidding me right now? You completely humiliated me and you don’t even remember it?”

He leans against his locker with a puzzled grimace painted on his features. “No. Elaborate.”

I don’t - I can’t - answer that. Three years later, the wound is still too raw. I’ll cry or kill him. Neither option is acceptable so I jump out of my chair and go back outside to wait for the kids.

The worst, most painful part of all of this is that he can't even recall what he did to me.

Three years ago, I thought Peeta and I were well on our way to being a couple.

Nearly every morning, he’d greet me on the slopes, his eyes as bright and blue as the sky behind him. We’d spend the day carving up the slopes, skiing in and out of each other’s turns just like he did today. We drank hot chocolate in the lodge while we warmed our toes by the fire, Peeta’s arm thrown over my shoulders. I’d laugh at his corny jokes and tell stories about the time I spent here with my dad. Some nights, we’d stay for night skiing and we’d fly down the mountain together, the snow beneath us a sparkling carpet of sugar as we whooshed along under the glow of the lights. Then Peeta would drive me home and we’d listen to classic rock as we bumped down the mountain.

Gale tried to warn me about him. He said I was reading too much into Peeta’s friendly gestures, that he was a player and I needed to be careful. Gale had been hinting at wanting to be more than friends with me for awhile, so I just brushed it off. I told him he didn’t know Peeta, that he wouldn’t do that to me.

A few days before Christmas, Peeta and I were lingering in the warmth of his truck, listening to tunes and reliving the best parts of our day when he turned toward me and his crooked smile grew serious.

“You’re a really great girl, Katniss,” he said, and then his gaze flicked away. His teeth sunk into his bottom lip and his thumb drummed on the steering wheel.

“Thanks,” I managed to choke out. “I like hanging out with you too.” The drumming stopped and Peeta reached out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear. My pulse skittered as his fingers trailed along my jaw. I stirred in my seat, my body yearning to close the space between us. As if of a will of its own, my chin lifted and I admired the way the dashboard lights made him look like he’d been sculpted from marble.

His lips were firm and warm when they met mine and my body melted beneath them. His fingers threaded through my hair tugging me closer and I gasped in response, giving him the chance to capture my bottom lip between his own. My hands flew up to his shoulders, enjoying their strength and revelling in the warmth of his presence and the spicy goodness of his cologne. He tasted of chocolate and cinnamon and it made me greedy for more. I welcomed his tongue as it slipped past my lips, sliding against mine, twisting around it before flicking across the roof of my mouth and backing away, forcing me to chase it into the warm darkness of its cave where I plundered its depths.

A light flickered on the front porch of the house and Peeta dragged his lips away, framing my face in his hands and lowering his forehead against mine.

“I think someone is sending us a signal,” he panted. “I should let you go inside.”

I nodded. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Peeta pressed his lips against my forehead and then climbed out of his truck. While he got my skis out of the back, I pulled the rest of my gear from the cab. He carried my skis to the door and then a shy smile crossed his face. “Did you hear about the party in the dorms at the lodge tomorrow night? The instructors have been inviting some of the guests our age. Are you going?”

I’d heard about it. Gale had asked me to go with him. I’d said no. Parties weren’t exactly my scene, especially with the out of town ski instructors, but with Peeta at my side, it might be worth my time.

“Yeah, I think so.”

His smile turned to a grin and he bent down to kiss my cheek. “I’ll see you then,” then he turned back to his truck, his hands stuffed into his pockets. I went inside and, ignoring the questioning looks from my mother, headed straight to my room.

When I arrived at the party the next night, it was in full swing. The air was filled with smoke and the clinking of bottles as people relaxed to the music. I scanned the room for faces I knew. Johanna, not yet a manager, was wrapped around a hulking blonde instructor named Gloss. A guy named Finnick had his head in the lap of a shy girl whose name, I think, was Annie. Gale was scowling in a corner, his beer clutched in his fist. And in the middle of it all was Peeta, his arm wrapped around another girl our age named Bristel who was snuggled up beside him. A wave of emotions crashed over me, extinguishing any flame I might have been tending for Peeta. It was a potent brew, a blend of humiliation and disappointment. Tears threatened and I bit down on my lip so that I didn’t give them both a piece of my mind.

I stood there, waiting for him to notice my arrival. When his gaze fell upon me, he gave me a wave and returned to his conversation with her. I’d been dismissed. Clearly, the night before had just been a lark, something to do because he was bored. He was a jerk. An ass. A party-barge-sized douche.

My thoughts were swirling so fast I heard nothing as I walked out, starting back for my mother’s car that I’d borrowed for the evening. As I sat in the dark trying not to cry, I heard a tap at the window. Gale needed a ride home. I told him to get in and we drove back to town in silence.

I never spoke to Peeta after that night and to this day, Gale has never so much as offered me an “I told you so.”

My dismay when I heard Peeta and I would be both hanging around the instructor’s lounge this winter was almost too much to bear. I was going to have to deal with him everyday, just to have a shot at this sweet job that is double what anything else pays in town. And now we have to spend all day teaching a bunch of nine-year-olds to ski? My life sucks sweaty balls.

The bus rumbles up the road and I can see the kids bouncing up and down in their seats. The door opens wide and they all pile out, jabbering away at the top of their lungs.

A young teacher is the last to disembark. She makes her way to me and shakes my hand with a smile.

“I’m Madge Undersee,” she says, “and this is my class. As you can see, we’re very excited.”

“Katniss,” I tell her. “Welcome to Mt. Mockingjay.”

“And I’m Peeta,” says my nemesis, who has appeared beside me, and I watch as Madge falls under his spell. She giggles. Giggles! It’s disgusting.

“We’re your instructors for the day.” He turns to me. “Shall we get started?”

At my nod, Madge claps her hands and calls out to her students who soon fall into silence.

When they are quiet, I speak up, unwilling to let Peeta establish himself as the leader for the day.

“Welcome to Mt. Mockingjay,” I say to the wriggling masses. “I’m Katniss and this is Peeta. We’re going to get you on skis in a bit, but first we have to go over some rules. These are for your safety and-”

And just like that, they’ve tuned me out and returned to talking to each other. A sharp, “Class!” from their teacher brings them back in line.

Peeta holds up his orange helmet. “This is your brain bucket,” he calls out and the kids laugh. “You put it on before you put on your skis and you don’t take it off until you take your skis off. Got it?”

Twenty-two heads nod.

“Peeta and I are your teachers today,” I tell them. “No one leaves the bunny hill until we say you’re ready.” A couple of boys in the back of the crowd roll their eyes.

Beside me, Peeta clears his throat. “But we know you all can do it and even if you don’t get down a big hill today you’ll learn enough today that you might be able to do it next time.”

Ugh. He’s so good at this stuff. It makes me crazy. I’m the one who’s been practically raising a kid since I was one myself and with a cheesy grin and a bad joke, he's won them over.

It’s a bit like the way my dad used to handle his students, which annoys me further.

“Are we allowed to have snowboards?” pipes up one of the eye rollers.

I look to the teacher who gives a slight nod. The potential for a clear division of labour emerges.

So now I’ve got a choice to make. I can divide them up, boarders and skiers, and cross my fingers that they won’t all choose boards just to hang out with Peeta, or we can go with them to get their equipment and test them together.

One option means Peeta and I each have a separate class to teach today, lowering the risk of a blow-up. It also means I run the risk of having his success compared to mine, again, when I’m already in serious jeopardy of losing this job.

What should I do?