#i physically cannot imagine that right now it’s so wild how just a few months ago that was all in the plans

[cordyce]

.

[yuriisclumsy]

hii! How are you darling :)

Can i request a crack/ funny and fluffy cale x pregnant reader ? Like she is a few months pregnant, so cale and the kids always lay with her and dont let her do much.

Ofc the others are overprotective of her, bc like shes clumsy😭 like always falling down the stairs, nose bleeds (me core) and she watched everyone panic while looking at them with a deadpanned look bc

1. Shes a baddie whos to hot to die

2.the baby is fine and alive

And cale is loosing his mind bc he cannot leave her alone for two mins bc she will somehow make even more trouble simply bc shes ✨just a girl ✨

Stay still, will you?

𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝙲𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝:1,267

»»►This is a funny scenario. I like to think Cale is a super, over the top, overprotective, man. If you mess with those he cares about or loves, you’re about to find yourself in an interesting situation. 

»»►But when Cale finds out he’s going to be a papa, he goes wild. Forget accepting whatever mission the crown prince wants him to do, he needs to be right next to his wife–24/7. 

»»►And let’s be honest with ourselves, this man would literally take this chance to laze around even more. This is the life he wanted, no? 

»»►Oh, but his dear wife doesn’t like sitting still for more than a minute. This is torture for her—but can’t do anything about it because her husband and (adopted)kids want her to relax and take care of herself and the baby. 

»»►But, why? You may ask. That’s for the single fact that she is clumsy (hey just like me!). She crashes stuff, trips, falls, hurts herself—according to Cale and the others—she denies such accusations—and last but not least, she gets herself in trouble. 

»»►So, yeah. [Name] have no “stepping outside the state” privileges until after the baby is here physically. But [Name] is a tough cookie. She can handle herself when no-one is around. So—to everyone’s dismay—she goes outside one day. It’s just to stroll around and see what has progressed in Harris Village. 

»»►One thing to note: she didn’t tell a soul about her outing. 

»»►Now imagine Cale’s face when he comes back to see the staff panicking for the whereabouts of his wife. 

»»►Let's just say…it was chaotic that day. 

“Woah, that looks tasty...!” [Name] drooled at the sight. 

“Good morning, lady [Name]! What can I get you today?” The shop owner greeted [Name] with a smile. 

“Can I have this please?” [Name] pointed to one of the delicacies of the bakery. It was a croissant-looking-bread stuffed full of chocolate. 

The owner of the bakery gave her a bag filled with what she ordered. “Here you go! Please come back soon!” the owner waved goodbye. 

“I will!” She waved back at the owner. [Name] took one of the baked goods and began to eat it.  

“I wonder how everyone is doing at the state.” 

… 

“LADY [NAME]!” 

“M’lady! Where are you?!” 

“Does anyone remember the last place [Name] went to?!” 

“M’lady, please be okay!” 

Currently, everyone is in a frenzy. The lady of the house was nowhere to be found, and everyone and their mothers were running like headless chickens in search of her. And if they did not find her, their master was going to kill them! 

“What is with the commotion here?” a voice spoke from the entrance of the manor. 

Everything stopped. Slowly, the housekeepers and butlers turned their heads towards the voice. They knew this voice. Very well in fact. Although they grew to like it, right now, they wish they didn’t hear it. They prayed that it was a ghost. Dread overtook them as they saw the voice’s owner. 

Cale Henituse. Their young master. And the husband of the manor’s lady they were trying to find. 

“So? Is anyone going to tell me why you are all running like the world just ended?” Cale spoke. 

Who was mad enough to even dare to tell the young master that his wife magically disappeared? Not me. And not anyone in this room.  

Yet a brave soul stood up and spoke. May he rest in peace. 

“Ah…y-young mater Cale,” a young butler went forward and vowed, stammering in his word, “we..uh…. Can’t find lady [Name] anywhere...?” 

“...” 

“...” 

It was deafeningly silent. No one moved an inch, waiting—waiting for the order to execute them. They fully accepted their fate. 

“Well, what are you all just standing there for?” he spoke, breaking the iceberg. 

“Huh?” 

“Standing still isn't going to bring back [Name].” He stood there, staring at the crowd. 

He was right. 

They needed to get back to searching for Lady [Name]!  

A chorus of ‘yes, sir!’ was heard before a horde of housekeepers and butlers left in search of their Lady. 

“*sigh* Why are you like this [Name]...?” Cale whispered and looked up. He slowly walked to the exit of the manor heading to the town; the children followed after him–this included Choi Han. 

“Master Cale, where are you going?” Hans asked. 

“I’m going to the market area in the town,” he said, not bothering to look back. “Ron, make my bed as comfortable as you can make, will you?” 

“Yes, young master.” Ron responded. 

“Great.” 

… 

Lovely day for [Name] sitting in the shade of an umbrella and her delicious foods. Going from one shop to another, she had managed to gather a lot of food. She had gone overboard again, yes, but the baby she was carrying and her were happy. Who could ever disturb such happiness? 

“[Name].” A male voice called her name firmly from behind. 

Of course. The only person that could was her husband. [Name] knew he only meant good, but right now he had broken that tranquility. 

“Oh! Cale, love, darling, how are you...?” [Name] turned and looked at him nervously. The children had gathered around her–with Raon being invisible naturally. 

“[Name]...” Cale rubbed the temples of his face before sighing, “why are you out?” he asked sternly. 

“Well clearly, I was taking a walk. And I bought some snacks on the way.” She answered, petting both Hong and Raon while On made herself comfortable in her lap. 

“What–no. That’s not what I meant.” 

“You asked why I was out, and I told you why.” 

“You know exactly why I asked that.” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” [Name] gave the children the treats she had bought earlier. 

“[Name], please. You know how dangerous it is for you to be here right now. You are due at any point now! And I just…agh..I just want you to stay safe.” He said in frustration. 

[Name] looked at him, feeling a bit guilty that he is like that. She had reached her ninth month a week ago, making this month the most crucial. She just didn’t want to stay locked up in her room all the time. It was something that did not sit right with her. 

“I’m sorry…” [Name] looked down in shame. 

“I…*sigh* You are going to be the death of me.” Cale came closer to her and placed his hands underneath her. 

“Hu-huh? Cale? What are you doing?” panicking a little before realizing he was going to carry her. 

“Carry you, obviously.” He scuffed. “We’re going back to the manor.” 

“Aww…can’t we go to another shop? It’ll be the last one, I promise!” Her begging went to deaf ears. He wasn’t letting her get away with it, so she started to wiggle her way out his arm. 

“Stay still, will you?” 

“Not until I get my last treat.” 

“*sight…* Fine. But you’ll have it after dinner. Dinner is going to be served soon.” Cale said while walking to the nearest candy shop. 

“Mmmm, I'm fine with that. Oh! Choi Han, hello. Sorry, I didn’t notice you there.” 

“It’s fine lady [Name].” Choi Han gave her a small nod. 

“Moooom…I want a treat too!” 

“I also want one!” 

“The great Roan Miru will get one too, right?” 

“Wait a second. Since when do they call you mom?” Cale asked in confusion. 

“Yes, yes. All of you will get one.” 

“Don’t ignore me.” 

Choi Han giggled as Cale continued to ask and get ignored by them. 

Fin 

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Master-List

[neverchecking]

Champ and Aaliyah looking at all the baby clothes and occasionally coming home with some can only lead to chaos.

(Sage staring at Aaliyah, completely broke, "Are you pregnant?!" "What? No!" Sage's expression drops as somewhere Twilight feels a shiver of fear go down his spine. "Is Tia pregnant?" "No. If she was she'd have told us.")

You said brunch and all I thought of suddenly was Champ and Aaliyah somehow invent bottomless mimosas while browsing through the baby stalls or filling out the wedding binders or crying over baby booties.

Good for Sage. He's getting some introspection and self-reflection and Tia is so proud of him, of both of them, for how far he's come. And you know what, he's proud of himself too. Besides, if he can deal with other kids AND Fungus, raising his own kid shouldn't be too much of a challenge, especially with the Best Mom in Hyrule by his side.

(Fungus asks when Sage got a crush on Yona and the only reason he's still uninjured is because Sage has a baby zora in his arms.)

Getting Aaliyah and Sage to babysit was kinda a thing before the merge because a few people they'd met over their journey trusted them with their kids and if you want to know that your kid is safe, who better than the most dangerous people in Hyrule. Champ was absolutely babysitting random kids all the time. But after the merge, Tia's Hyrule had basically no hesitation in just handing either Link a baby if needs be. Aaliyah is extremely startled when a mom just shoves a baby into her arms, like 'Here. Hold my kid while I wrangle my 6-year-old away from doing something dumb.'

Aaliyah and the baby are just staring at each other for a good minute before the baby giggles and Aaliyah melts.

Cal and Wild have cracked the code people. They're in and they are not leaving. They cannot be pried out now. They have zero thoughts for the rest of the day after being kissed. Wild burns dinner and Champ has to rescue it. Everyone else is like 'Didn't you hate them?' and it's like 'I have no idea what you're talking about.' as Aaliyah is draped across all three of their laps.

I feel like Aaliyah and First aren't physically duking it out but just getting increasingly snippy and catty with each other, staying verbal with the occasional rock/napkin/knife thrown only for Tia's sake.

Tia's fox form is pretty much a last resort but one that comes easier after her adventure through time and turning into a dragon. Like she couldn't do it after being freed from the Calamity, but spending eras as a dragon let her better access more of her power and get creative with said power. So Fox Form is very much a last-ditch effort when she has no other choice.

That being said, the simple aplomb in which her trio treated her afterwards made her drop walls even she didn't know where there. To the point, she gets confident enough to start kissing them on the cheeks for whatever.

Though imagine Sage, Aaliyah, Champ and the rest of the chain all notice those scoundrels arriving with lipstick marks a little too close to their lips and Tia walks in afterwards with the same lipstick colour (She had a meeting that required her to be a little more dressy than usual).

When confronted about this, she takes a page out of Sage's book and escapes out of a window without answering questions.

Sage never ever knows and it drives him up the wall. They don't have kids why do they have enough clothing for SEVEN AALIYAH?!

She's just ':) One day yk?' Fungus in the background like "YEAH FOR THE FUTURE SAGE >:D"

OKAY BUT THAT WOULD BE SUCH A CUTE WAY TO BREAK THE NEWS. Like imagine Aaliyah coming home, a newly knitted baby blanket in hand and Sage just picks it up, looks at it and goes, "Another one? You do know we have no kids right?" and Aaliyah just rolls her eyes. "Well not yet, little bugger has seven months before they're here but it's good to be prepared." And Sage just bluescreens. He's dropping the blanket and freezing for a second before wrapping her up in his arms and all but cheering, spinning her around their living room because this was what he had worked so hard to have. And now he has it.

BGIFB Twilight sensing the disturbance in the universe with every murder plot Sage hatches fonfnfo Bc should Tia fall pregnant before a proper courting he is going for throats.

I did say brunch bc that's exactly what I thought too lmonfo I LOVE them acting like middle-aged white woman.

Sage really getting that character development. Because this has been nothing but good for them and they are not only living, they are thriving. And you bet they are just has proud of themselves as Tia is of them.

(Fungus really has no self preservation AT ALL and it's a miracle he lived to tell that tale LMAO)

I LOVE THAT FOR THEM. Who better to protect your kids than the biggest threat to Hyrule? At any given point in time, any one of them could have like, three random kids under their care nofbnf. Champ especially. (The other two teach the kids how to bite). IMAGINE A FRESHLY MERGED AALIYAH AND SAGE, WHO ARE SO VOLATILE RN, JUST BEING HANDED A KID LMAO . Especially when the mom is just 'hold this brb real quick-'

That's probably how Tia figures out about the baby fever in the first place and that's just kicking her off into using child exposure therapy to calm these two feral rats down.

Aaliyah and the baby just O^O the whole time before the baby laughs and then Aaliyah is all soft eyes and big smiles, cooing and tickling the poor kid.

(THIOBSF THEY PROBABLY HAVE SO MANY GOD CHILDREN BC THE PARENTS ARE JUST ' yeah my kid needs a good protector')

CAL AND WILD ARE IN, I REPEAT, CAL AND WILD ARE I N. And they have settled their roots in DEEP. Not even Hylia herself could pry her out. they are head empty, I will now die for this woman, blank faced. Champ having to rescue dinner bc he's the only one of them who looks at Aaliyah and is like "...ew.". She then pushes him off a mountain :)

AALIYAH JUST GASLIGHTING EVERYONE IS SO FUNNY TO ME

"I thought you called them mindless parasites that would be crushed beneath your foot?"

"Fungus, that was two days ago, things change- Cal, stop moving I'm sitting in Wild's lap."

"So you don't hate them like you said?"

"I never said that, your hearing things. Should I tell Yona and Sidon about this level of delusions your having?"

Aaliyah and First are those mean girls in high school. The Regina and Cady if you will. Until one of them starts driving a bus, yk? (If you don't know mean girls, I'm sure that reference makes zero sense but go watch that movie its SO GOOD-)

Tia the only thing keeping half these people alive tbh.

Tia and her fox form mean so much to me you have no idea, because when its seen, Champ just immediately knows shits fucked. And when he knows, he lets the other two know.

Tia making the moves is so girlboss of her I love it. Especially bc if she's the one doing it, the trio can't do anything about it. Who are they to tell Tia what she can and cannot do.

Aaliyah for sure has to do a spit take that has Wild patting her on the back while Sage is the embodiment of >:O. Champ has to be held back man, bc THATS HIS MOM/BEST FRIEND/SISTER/ONE OF THE MOST IMPORTANT POEPLE OF HIS LIFE YOU FUCKING HEATHENS?! Sage is tackling him since he's the only one who knows how truly dirty champ can fight lmao-

HAVE YOU SEEN THAT SCENE FROM CINDERELLA 2 WHERE PRINCE CHARMING JUST JUMPS OUT THE WINDOW?!!? LMAOOO THAT'S TIA-

When confronted about this, she takes a page out of Sage's book and escapes out of a window without answering questions.

[emo-batboy]

Lately, I’ve been thinking about Battinson who actually has naturally curly, dirty blond hair that he got from his parents. Picture this:

Bruce whose hair is a kaleidoscope of golden blond and strawberry blond and dirty blond that can’t be tamed when it’s humid out because it’s too wavy and curly and voluminous all at once

Bruce who looks so bright and cheerful with his soft facial structure and crazy hair that cannot be replicated because it’s so uniquely Bruce

Bruce who is a spitting image of his mother’s gorgeous natural color and his father’s wild mane

Bruce who absolutely destroys his natural hair because it reminds him too much of his parents

Bruce who tries desperately to avoid the gut-wrenching comments from those stupid rich people who thought they can bring up his parents just because they used to be friends

Bruce who feels physically ill whenever he hears “Oh you look just like your parents.” “They should have been here to see you.” “You’re a spitting image.”

Bruce who religiously dyes his hair a boring brown and straightens the shit out of it until it’s damaged beyond belief by the age of 18 but at least he doesn’t hear those stupid remarks anymore

Bruce who forgets to wash it sometimes but doesn’t care because his hair is his least favorite thing about his appearance

Bruce who gels the ever-loving fuck out of it to avoid it getting it in his eyes, but he also hates getting haircuts so it gets way too long and happens anyway

Bruce who gets greasepaint in it all the time, wears hats and hoods whenever appropriate, just can’t stop messing with it but hates bringing attention to the thing so he has to glue his hands to his side in public

Bruce who is a stranger to everyone and himself, especially his hair

Bruce who mourns it like he’s still mourning his parents

Now imagine:

Bruce who is going through the aftermath of the Riddler case and the floods

Bruce who only just realized that vengeance is not the answer

Bruce who wants to become Hope but doesn’t know how yet

Bruce who decides that he can’t hide himself behind a cowl all the time now so he chooses to develop a better public image

Bruce who realizes this requires a public appearance as well

Bruce who is way too busy saving the city to keep up his hair dye routine so he forgets to touch up his roots a couple of times

Bruce who is advised to stop gelling his hair back so much because it makes him look less approachable

Bruce who feels so awkward and vulnerable when his hair isn’t hidden behind a hat or some product or his cowl but he goes through the motions because he wants to try his best to be the hero Gotham needs right now

Bruce who walks into Mayor Real’s office one morning, hair sticking up all over the place after stopping no less than 10 muggings the night before, his natural dirty blond in full effect and strikingly…warm

“Did you dye your hair?” Real asks. Bruce pauses. “Uh, no. I stopped dying it a few weeks ago.” “I didn’t know your hair was blond.” He braces for the comments, but she doesn’t mention his parents. Instead, she just smiles. “It suits you.”

Bruce who genuinely doesn’t know how to handle the simple compliment so he just awkwardly shuffles around it and into their discussion on infrastructure

Bruce who stands outside of her office for five minutes after their meeting because he hasn’t stopped thinking about the mortifying reality that his natural hair is visible again

Bruce who also can’t stop thinking about how she said it. It suits him.

Bruce whose natural hair suits him?

Bruce who finally gets the time to dye it again after two months of nonstop work but when he thinks about what Real said…he decides against it. For now

Bruce who starts getting used to seeing his dirty blond hair in the mirror again, even expects it. visualizes it

Bruce who knows when it’s getting too dirty because the small peaks of gold disappear so he starts washing it more regularly

Bruce who watches the volume come back and doesn’t hate it

Bruce who sees the rat’s nest in the morning of golden brown and random reds and even a streak of chestnut and doesn’t immediately reach for gel and a straightener anymore. Instead, he just runs a hand through it and thinks ‘to hell with it, it’s fine like this’

Bruce who gains favor from the public along with a new look, a fresher one

Bruce who becomes a familiar face on TV as the soft-spoken billionaire with the dirty blond hair that never looks right but it’s personable

Bruce who shakes hands and holds babies and hugs kids and the most compliments he gets are for his hair

Bruce who always has just a few strands of hair sticking up in the most random direction but he just swats it away (in another wild direction) and that’s that

Bruce who stops caring so much about being clean-shaven and now sports a bit of stubble because he just likes it that way

Bruce whose hair gets naturally much lighter in the summertime because he’s outside so much now and so his golden roots bleed into a rich strawberry blond

Bruce who has so many unflattering photos from the press of his hair actually looking like a rat’s nest, like seriously how does it look That Bad (Alfred thinks it’s hilarious)

Bruce who gets haircuts regularly now and always asks if they can use as little product as possible because “I don’t like when it’s sticky” but he always likes when it’s just a bit long too

Bruce who tugs on his hair, not to push it away but to fidget with it during meetings, making it even crazier

Bruce who can be recognized from the back by his crazy swirl of hair

Bruce who’s been sporting this new hair for a year now, the summer has passed and his hair is comfortably golden brown again (emphasis on the golden) and it’s bittersweet because he actually finds that he misses the striking blond streaks in July

But it’s all worth it when he notices his curls are finally coming back in the front

Bruce who looks like a completely different person than before and he’s so so happy

[robininthelabyrinth]

Spilled Pearls

- Chapter 29 - ao3 -

“In the future, you should send your children to the Cloud Recesses for me to teach,” Lan Qiren said. He was sitting with Wen Ruohan on one of the rooftop gardens in the Nightless City, watching the moon and stars from a pavilion placed there for that purpose; their bodies were pressed close together, and it felt as if they were far away from all the things that were familiar. “You and Lao Nie both, and naturally I’ll come visit with you often as well, bringing my nephew. Between the three of us, we might even be able to teach them how to be proper human beings.”

Wen Ruohan laughed in his ear and pressed his lips to his cheek – he had taken to kissing him at random, spontaneous, as if still overwhelmed by the fact that he now had the right to do it.

“I will,” he promised. “I agree, I think they’ll turn out better that way…you would really have me educate your precious little A-Huan?”

“If I’m willing to entrust myself with you, why not him? Anyway, I can teach him music, and with the aid of the other teachers in my sect the sword in the Lan sect style, but you can teach him much more than that. You know how to look at the world and see it for what it is, and then bend it to your will, make it sing to your tune. He’ll be sect leader in the future; he needs to learn that, and you can teach it to him.”

“I can, and I will,” Wen Ruohan said, then thought for a moment and asked, “What does Lao Nie bring to the table?”

“Flexibility, mostly.”

Wen Ruohan barked out a laugh. “He certainly has that.”

He didn’t even sound bitter about it any more.

Lan Qiren smiled.

“In the meantime, I will handle the rest of it,” Wen Ruohan added, and Lan Qiren looked at him in silent question. “Come now, Qiren. Did you really think that I would allow you to remain caged in the Cloud Recesses your whole life?”

Lan Qiren paused. That was the sorest part of his heart, his most painful misery, but he didn’t think Wen Ruohan would bring it up casually. If anything, he was a bit more afraid of what Wen Ruohan might get into his head to do about it – there was very little Wen Ruohan wouldn’t dare.

“Da-ge –” he started warily.

“No, no,” Wen Ruohan said, lightly scolding. “Little Lan, be serious! I already rejected the opportunity to cage you here at the Nightless City, playing only for me, despite how much I longed to do so. I refused to do it – me, refusing myself – because I knew it would only make you sad. Do you really think I would allow other people a privilege that I have denied myself?”

Lan Qiren did not laugh, but he dearly wanted to. It might be the first time he’d ever wanted to laugh about his situation – not even Cangse Sanren had managed that. “Has anyone told you that you are extremely self-absorbed?” he asked instead. “Arrogance is forbidden. Do not be haughty and complacent.”

Wen Ruohan smirked back at him. “All true, little Lan, but don’t forget your favorite: Do not tell lies.”

Self-absorbed, narcissistic and arrogant, Lan Qiren concluded, and there was no helping it. It was clearly a terminal case.

He used his sleeve to hide his laughter.

“What are you planning, exactly?” he asked once he had recovered. “If you harm my sect, whether directly or indirectly by denying them my services, I would be even more upset than if you tried to lock me away in here.”

Wen Ruohan waved a hand dismissively. “Do you think me so incapable? I have already begun making arrangements. Discussion conferences may only be once or twice a year, being as they are tremendously irritating to arrange, but there’s no reason that we of the Great Sects should not recognize our greater duty towards the smaller sects, and not to mention our obligations to protect the mortal world –”

“You know that it exists, then?”

Wen Ruohan ignored him. “The resources of cultivation clans are limited, and the world large. There are many places which would benefit from aid that do not see any simply because they are far away or tucked in inconvenient places, and no sect lives nearby – naturally, it is our duty to fight evil no matter where it is encountered. Lao Nie has already agreed that it is critical that the sect leaders demonstrate our sincerity by fulfilling this duty in person, leading by example.”

Lan Qiren’s heart had already felt as if it were overflowing with warmth, and it felt even more so now, almost squeezed to pain by how much joy was there. More than he had known he could contain.

Bad luck in brothers, he thought to himself - but oh, he had such good luck in friends!

“I see,” he said, thankful that his usual neutral tone concealed how happy he felt. “And naturally, where you and Lao Nie go, Sect Leader Jin cannot be far behind in his eagerness not to lose out, and where three of the five Great Sects lead, naturally the rest cannot be far behind. So I, too, will be obligated to...what? Go out on night-hunts in inconvenient places?”

“The world is too large, and the number of cultivators too few – and at any rate, there’s no point in setting up a full night-hunt which draws in every person from a thousand li for a few paltry fierce corpses or a ghost or two. I propose, instead, that we would send cultivators out alone, in pairs or in small groups, to wander for a few months through the remote places in the world and clean them up. Then, at the next discussion conference, the Great Sects could jointly agree that whoever was most enterprising would receive a reward, and naturally, stories of various exploits could be exchanged – ”

“Ah. Another reason for young men and women to gather and boast of improbable exploits.”

“Think of it as giving them more opportunities to win glory,” Wen Ruohan said. “And stop talking down about ‘young men’; you are a young man. Naturally you are also qualified to go out to do such things. Required, even: if our Great Sects do not set a proper example, who will?”

“Mm. A proper example. Even if I coincidentally happen to spend more time playing music than hunting demons?”

Wen Ruohan’s eyes were bright. “Even so. And naturally, you could always bring along someone more powerful to do the demon-hunting for you…”

“How convenient.”

Wen Ruohan smirked. “Do you doubt that I will be able to make it happen, little Lan?”

“No,” Lan Qiren said, then added, honestly: “I think you could take over the world if you wished.”

“Naturally! But it would be quite irritating, I think, if I had to also ensure that both you and Lao Nie did not disapprove of my methods…” He paused, lips twitching. “By coincidence, while we’re discussing convenience, I was thinking that it would be dangerous to send all those wild and reckless young men out there without proper support. Surely it would be only reasonable to set up a few convenient places here and there, not so far away, to provide them with supplies and a place to rest and recover –”

Convenient places that would fly the Wen sect’s flag and spread its influence, Lan Qiren presumed. Lanling Jin would be furious – using wealth to buy influence was their favorite technique, and they resented other people copying it – and would immediately insist on establishing their own set of “supply stations”, and then the rest of them would have to catch up and make their own. Yet another expense, and the Great Sects would need to do more than most; it would probably wreck havoc with the Lan sect’s annual budget.

On the other hand, well the remote parts of the world really did need the help. One of the Lan sect’s newly recruited guest disciples had been talking about a place not far from his hometown that specialized in making coffin goods; it was, according to him, the most inauspicious place that could possibly be imagined…

Not a place anyone might want to go, unless they truly were intent on traveling.

Lan Qiren smiled once again. He thought he might never stop smiling.

“Indeed,” he said, trying to sound dry and rational. “Very coincidental. No one will doubt that this is nothing but a scheme to expand your reach and power, rather than any personal motive.”

Wen Ruohan did not answer, but instead, matching a smile of his own to Lan Qiren’s, pressed his lips against Lan Qiren’s once more.

After a little while of silence, Lan Qiren cleared his throat and asked, “Do you intend to tell people?”

He was not referring to Wen Ruohan’s plans for the future.

Wen Ruohan understood.

“In time,” he said. “As much as I would love to shout that you are mine and I am yours from the rooftops and perhaps have bulletins be posted to every town -”

Lan Qiren grimaced. It would be one thing if he thought Wen Ruohan was exaggerating for romantic effect, but unfortunately it would be just like him to engage in that level of over-the-top grandstanding.

“– but your position is not yet certain, and my reputation is too questionable. People would make assumptions and spread malicious gossip, and I – I would not harm you to please myself.”

“Sweet-talker.”

“It’s not sweet-talking when it’s true,” Wen Ruohan protested, although he was chuckling. “When you are more renowned as a teacher than a sect leader, when little A-Huan is old enough to have passed the worst stretches of childhood – then we will announce it, and let the rest of the world choke on it if they like. You, me, Lao Nie…hmm. Jin Guangshan will probably think we’re concealing a conspiracy and ask to join in.”

Lan Qiren gagged. “I refuse,” he said. “I don’t care if I’m not physically involved, neither you nor Lao Nie are allowed to even think about it. That man has visited so many prostitutes that one might be forgiven for thinking he believes that the road to immortality is paved with venereal disease.”

“…thank you, that was an image I did not require.” A pause. “Jiang Fengmian –”

“Remember when he punched me in the face in a fight over a girl I didn’t even want?”

“It wasn’t a serious suggestion.” Wen Ruohan chuckled once more and pressed another kiss to his cheek. “Some years ago now, I swore to your Cangse Sanren that I would do right by you. I ought to invite her here and show her that I’ve made good on it.”

“You haven’t made good on it.”

“I haven’t?”

“No. Such a promise is fulfilled through the keeping – if you want to do right by me, there is no one singular moment that would qualify, but rather a continuing obligation.” Lan Qiren smiled up at him. “I’m sorry, da-ge. You’ll have to continue to do right by me for the rest of our lives.”

“I will,” Wen Ruohan said, and smiled back. “It would be my pleasure.”

-END-

[spencersstrawberryjello]

Shitty Slasher Film (Spencer Reid + gn!MC - platonic)

Summary: SPOILERS FOR SEASON 8 (and minor season 7 spoilers but I figure if you’ve seen season 8 you’ve probably seen season 7 already lmao) MC and Spencer decide to go see a slasher film, but it takes a turn for the worse when the killer begins to stalk his victim. 

Content: Hurt/Comfort (because literally what else do I write at this point)

Warnings: Descriptions of violence, depressive thoughts, and swearing

MC’s name and pronouns: Neither explicitly mentioned

Word Count: 2285

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The plan was simple.

We were going to see a new horror movie in the theaters - it seemed similar to a slasher film that Morgan, Garcia, Reid and I had seen like six or seven months ago, so I didn’t think anything of it when we booked the tickets. Morgan and Garcia couldn’t make it tonight, unfortunately, but we still elected to go on our own, thinking it would be a fun little outing. That was, until the film started.

The lights came up on a woman, walking through a back alley alone, at night. Typical. I even glanced over at Spencer and rolled my eyes a bit, and he grinned at the stereotypical horror movie trope.

She died, of course, and for the first half of the movie I genuinely thought it was going to be exactly what we assumed. We were laughing at the ridiculousness of it all, with the stupid special effects and the subpar acting. But everything went off the rails after the first half of the movie.

The killer had revealed his primary target, his endgame, and - much to my horror - he had begun to stalk her.

Scenes of her creating a disguise, moving houses, throwing away her phone, spun a dark web that I didn’t ever want to think about. But I had more pressing things to worry about than my fear at a movie that was literally intended to make you scared.

I glanced over at Spencer, and I could tell that his breathing had picked up. His hands were gripping the arms of the chair, knuckles as white as his face had turned. I put a hand over his, and his attention snapped to me.

“Hey, are you alright?” I asked him. It was a stupid question, and one I already knew the answer to, but it was the first thing I could think to say. He looked like he was weighing his options for a moment before he shook his head.

“Do you want to leave?” I followed. He nodded, eyes wild, and we quickly grabbed our bags and left, just as the stalker had pulled a gun on his victim. Spencer took one last look at the screen, watching with wide eyes as the victim begged for her life. It was like a trainwreck; he couldn’t take his eyes off the movie, and I couldn’t take my eyes off him as the stalker pulled the trigger, and the woman crumpled to the ground. He practically jumped out of his skin when the gunshots fired, and I grabbed his arm to usher him out.

I didn’t realize the full extent of his panic until we made it out of the theater, bursting through the doors into the significantly brighter lights of the hallway. He immediately sat down on the couch near the doors, head in his hands, breathing rapidly.

“Ok, you’ve gotta breathe, Reid. You’ve gotta breathe, alright? In through your nose, out through your mouth, can you do that?” I adjusted my breathing to fit the pattern, and saw that he had started to slow his as well. “Good, ok… we can sit here for as long as you need to, just focus on your breathing.”

He gave me an almost imperceptible nod, continuing to breathe slowly before lifting his head from his hands. His eyes were red, and it was clear he’d been trying to fight off tears.

“Reid, I’m so sorry -”

It was at that moment that he cut me off with a hug, tucking his head in the crook of my neck as I felt his body lightly shake with sobs. After a second I hugged him back, not used to physical affection from him, but not opposed as long as he was ok with it.

“It reminded you too much of Maeve, didn’t it?” I asked, trying to ensure that the story I had in my head was correct. He nodded, his breath coming in short gasps again, and I hugged him a bit tighter. “Reid, I’m so sorry, I never would’ve suggested this movie if I’d known the turn the story was going to take.”

He shook his head, sucking in deep breaths before finally attempting to speak. “No, no, it’s ok, I know that you wouldn’t have done this on purpose. It’s just…”

He trailed off, but I knew what he was trying to say. “I was there that day, Reid. I know how much she meant to you.”

“The girl in the movie kind of looked like her. You know? Same hair, same face shape… when I saw the fear in her eyes, all I could imagine was Maeve, terrified, with a gun to her head. The woman I love - loved. The woman I loved. Scared, and alone.”

“Oh, Reid… you know it’s not your fault, right? You did everything you could to save her.”

“No. No, I didn’t. I should’ve closed my eyes, I should’ve tackled Diane - hell, I should’ve shot that bitch the minute I walked into the room! Instead I stood there. I stood there while the woman I loved died in front of me, and I didn’t do anything to stop it.”

“Spencer.” I put my hands on his shoulders, pulling back from the hug to look into his eyes. “You absolutely cannot blame yourself for this. What happened to Maeve was horrible, but it was not your fault. And you can’t live your life with that on your conscience.”

“Maybe I deserve to.” His voice was soft as he tucked his head back into the crook of my neck, and I put my arms around him, one hand lightly rubbing his back. My heart broke for the man in my arms - my best friend - as he sniffled, a few stray tears still trickling down his face.

“You don’t deserve to live with that kind of guilt, Spencer. Guilt for something you didn’t even do. And I’m so, so sorry that you feel that way. And I’m so sorry about what happened.”

“Sorry doesn’t make it go away,” He argued, his voice muffled by the fabric of my t-shirt, “Sorry doesn’t bring her back.”

I heard his voice hitch when he said it, and I held him a bit tighter. “I know it doesn’t.”

He was silent for a moment before he spoke again, his voice thick with tears begging to be released. “I just wish I could bring her back.”

It was as if saying it broke something in him, and I felt his body shake as he cried again, consumed by grief and guilt unlike anything I could ever imagine. He was usually so closed off about his emotions that having him crying in my arms was a rare occurrence, even after years of friendship. The last time he was like this was after Emily’s… “death,” and even that wasn’t near as intense.

I wasn’t sure how long we sat on that bench, the orange lights of the movie theater hallway creating a strange liminal sensation as I held Spencer, finally releasing the emotions he’d clearly been pushing away since Maeve’s death.

Eventually, he stopped crying, his breathing returning to something close to normal, and he pulled away from me, his eyes red from tears.

“I’m sor -”

“Nope, do not even start to apologize. There’s nothing to apologize for.”

He closed his mouth, contemplating saying something else for a second before nodding, hugging me again.

“Thank you.”

“Of course, Reid. Do you want to go back to my place? We can order a pizza, and watch a movie - something we know this time. If you need to be alone, I understand, but -”

He shook his head. “I’d like that.”

“Good,” I sucked in a deep breath, trying to steady my own breathing after everything that just happened, “Good. Are you ok to walk to the car?”

“Yeah… I’m not sure how talkative I’m going to be tonight though…” He kind of trailed off, clearly drained, but not wanting to be alone.

“I understand; you know there’s no expectations with me, Reid. If you want to just wrap yourself up in a blanket and eat junk food, I get it. I just want to be there, to make sure that you’re ok.”

He gave me a small smile, and I grinned, grabbing his hand to help him off the bench. We made our way out to my car, and I climbed in, starting it before turning on the radio.

Spencer was pretty much silent the entire drive back to my apartment, the noise in the car mostly consisting of the music and my less than stellar singing. When we finally pulled into the complex, we headed upstairs to my place.

“I’m gonna order the food. Do you wanna find something on Netflix you like?” I asked as I unlocked the door. He nodded, and I threw my keys on the kitchen counter, putting in the pizza order on my computer. I saw him grab a blanket from the basket in the living room, wrapping it around his shoulders and plopping down on my couch.

I expected to return to the living room to see whatever movie we were watching cued up on the TV. Instead, I saw Spencer, staring at the wall across from him, remote untouched on the coffee table.

“Hey,” I sat down next to him, gently putting one hand on his shoulder, “Is there anything else you want to talk about?”

He was silent for a moment, and I could see the mental battle he was fighting. Eventually, he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m afraid… I’m afraid that if I allow myself to grieve, if I allow myself to think about what happened, I won’t be able to stop. It’s been almost four months, I thought the pain would be gone by now. But it isn’t, it’s… I just miss her. I miss her so much.”

“I know, Reid. I know.”

He leaned into me, and I didn’t hesitate to wrap my arms around him, the thoughts of pizza and a movie completely abandoned in my mind. Instead, all of my attention was on Spencer as he spoke again.

“On the last case, Rossi talked to me. I told him that I wasn’t sleeping because whenever I did, I would dream of her. Of Maeve. And everytime I saw her, I felt nothing but relief flooding my mind. I told him how she would always ask me to dance, and how I always said no. I never even got to hold her when she was alive, and I was scared that if I gave into the fantasy, I would be lost forever,” He took in a shaky breath before he continued, “And he said I should. He said, ‘just let it happen, Spencer.’ So I did. I danced with her, I held her, and when I woke up, she was all I could think about. The way it felt to wrap my arms around her, the way her head fit perfectly into the crook of my neck while we danced. It took another day before I could think about anything but her, before I could stop wallowing in my grief enough to function. And since that night, I haven’t allowed myself to give into the fantasy again, the fantasy of having her back. I think… I think that if I let it happen again, I won’t be able to come back from it. It’ll just consume me.”

“Spencer…” I trailed off, unsure of what to say. He just shook his head, telling me I didn’t need to say anything as we sat there on my couch in silence. He wasn’t crying, he hadn’t cried since we left the theater. He was just… hollow. Everything that he’d been trying to repress - to compartmentalize - had finally caught up to him, in the form of a shitty slasher movie that we’d gotten cheap tickets to see.

I held him tighter, wishing that I could figure out something to say to comfort him, to take away his pain. But I knew there was nothing I could do. Nothing I could do but just be there.

“Have you ever considered talking to someone? Like, not someone from the team - a professional?” I asked.

“I’ve thought about it. But… we’re experts in human behavior, you know? What’s a therapist going to be able to tell me that I can���t already profile myself?”

“Well, it might be helpful to have a licensed professional to talk to about this stuff. Someone who can actually give you advice on how to handle your emotions. Because as much as I am absolutely here for you no matter what, I’m afraid I’m not great at mental health advice.”

“Yeah… maybe.” He sounded dubious about the idea, and while I wanted to encourage him further, I didn’t want to push him today. So I settled for just gently rubbing his back as he laid in my arms, staring at the wall. Eventually, the doorbell rang, and I got up to get the pizza, bringing it back into the living room and setting it down on the coffee table. By now, he’d sat up, the blanket still pulled around his shoulders, but at least a bit more present.

“Thank you,” He said, for the second time that day. I just smiled at him.

“Of course. I love you, Reid. And I’m always here, whatever you need.”

“I love you too,” He gave me a small smile back before turning his attention to the coffee table, “But I also love food - I’m starving.”

I laughed as I handed him a plate, joining him on the couch as we both dug in.  

[pathofcomet]

look at what you taught me

fandom: bridgerton series

pairing: colin/penelope

summary: Colin and Penelope have never been awkward with one another. Except for this one time.  (AO3) (book spoiler ahead)

In the beginning, when he travels, Colin can think of nothing else but the present moment: a ship under his feet, the lull of a carriage, the wide expanse of the world all around him. Whatever destination is coming next, if he is certain enough – if not, he’ll just make it up as he goes. The furious scribbling of his quill against paper, as he races to put down in words all his eyes take not but a second to admire. It feels like everything he never knew he wanted to do so desperately. It feels right.

Then, it becomes more difficult to return home, the more he travels. But soon enough, the travel starts to wear him down. He begins to look forward to when he’ll return home: despite his own mother’s incessant remarks, despite the brotherly arguments, despite having to see another sister married off. Even the most loving mamas trying to marry off their daughters to him seem somewhat adorable, if he is gone long enough. But the need to travel comes back, like an itch that won’t go away unless he scratches it away. He makes promises to his sisters – so that he can stay as much as possible, but he goes insane with anything more than a couple of months. He likes to believe that by now his family simply made peace with his many eccentricities, and simply paid the cook more when he was around.

He treasures the pockets of familiarity he gets when in London as much as the breathes of fresh air he gets when he’s away. He imagines he drives his mother wild, with all his coming and going across the continent. He knows what Lady Whistledown writes about him as well, and he’d strangle the woman himself, for alerting everyone of his return so punctually. Ambitious mamas are hard to fend off when you’re a young man, and it only gets worse the older he becomes, because the expectation of marriage dawns ever closer.

***

“You must agree, Colin,” his mother says, and at the mention of his name, he straightens in his chair, because it’s a terrible thing to be singled out in a conversation by Violet. “Penelope is quite an agreeable young lady.”

Colin agrees, both because he truly believes so, and because while his mother doesn’t need his confirmation, she’s kinder when she has it. Benedict, from the other side of the room, leans closer in his chair, so he can hear better whatever commentary their dear mother is about to impart with them.

“I dare say she’d make quite a suitable bride for you, really.”

All hell breaks loose. Benedict drops his foot to the floor with a loud thud, while Colin drops his sandwich, eliciting a swear for which he’s reprimanded by three of his sisters. And then.

“Mother!” Eloise shrieks, quite offended – which Colin finds surprising, considering that the two of them are best friends. “That is entirely too daring!”

Colin agrees, but he is too busy desperately trying to cough away the piece of sandwich stuck in his throat. Eloise, though still quite shocked, pushes her cup of tea in his hands, just to get him to make less noise. He downs it in one go, grateful to not have died of this particular cause. His heart, quite in override still, might provoke a heart attack soon enough if his mother does not change the subject.

“I believe you misremember your ABCs, dear mother,” he jests, because he does not want to take the idea seriously. “There’s one son for whom you haven’t found a bride quite yet.”

Benedict shifts in his seat, suddenly finding his newspaper way more interesting. But this time around, Violet doesn’t rise to the so delicious bait of teasing her second, not when her brain is so set on match-making her third.

“I don’t see why not. Isn’t she a friend to all of us?”

She stops, waits for a nod from each one of her children currently engaged in eaves-dropping on the topic.

“She’s polite, witty,” she continues listing reason after reason, all to which Colin is entirely familiar and now that he thinks about, has noticed himself, several times over, in Penelope. “And quite darling.”

He imagines darling is what girls who aren’t called beautiful get stuck with by kind mothers. He never actually stopped to even consider Penelope in any of these ways: she’s always been there, ever since he was in short pants – and that’s almost already half their lives. A fixed presence by the side of his younger sister, and a favourite of his mother, despite all the awkward wallflower tendencies in Penelope. But he doesn’t recall ever trying to pick apart her character, find her individual traits, even consider her as a… woman.

Colin is suddenly shamed by his wilful, manly indifference. Violet arches her eyebrow at him, clearly still expecting an answer.

“Mother,” he adds with a sigh. “I can promise you most certainly that I am not marrying any time soon.”

“One never knows,” she murmurs, though she allows him his momentary peace, and returns to her embroidery.

***

Only that his mother doesn’t stop with her comments, and they seem to grow in number each time she meets Penelope, which unfortunate for him, is often enough. The next morning, as she returns from shopping, she comments on how nice she looked in a dress of her own picking, and not her mother’s own distasteful choices. Each time any married sibling sends a letter, or comes visit, her efforts in getting Colin to marry are reinforced. She jabs at him with comments: morning, afternoon and evening.

And suddenly, Colin can find that there’s nothing else much that he can think about, but Penelope, and how exactly this insane idea came to live in his mother’s mind. So he starts paying attention.

He supposes parties would be generally more enjoyable if he didn’t have to attend them with his family, as much as he loves them. He can physically feel Violet’s eyes drawing across the room, and then settling, decisively, on his back, a list of eligible ladies for marriage already compiled in her mind, alongside one for dancing partners. Colin can already guess what her mother is about to tell him.

And he is right. She pokes at his elbow with her fan, nodding to the edge of the ballroom, where Penelope Featheringston stands, card empty and looking like she’d rather be anywhere else but here. Well, at least they do have that in common.

“Colin, darling,” and really, that’s all that Mrs. Bridgerton has to say to any of her children for them to do her bidding.

He makes his way across the room, trying his best to avoid getting roped into introductions by mothers or old friends alike. The faster he’s getting this over with, the faster he can return to the appetizers, and to a reconnaissance of the room of his own.

“Pen,” he says, and she startles, turning around to him with the widest of eyes, and the shyest of smiles. Huh, maybe she does look quite darling.

“Colin!” she exclaims, smoothing down a hand over her dress, and while it’s a gesture driven by nerves, it looks quite adorable.

“Would you do me the honour of a dance?”

He extends out his arm, which she takes – an answer without needing one. And it’s quite a shame, to all the other men in the room, because Penelope is a wonderful dancer, and a most attentive conversationalist during them. She asks him of his most recent travels, destination known through the letters he sent to Eloise, most likely. He’s received his fair share of foot stepping and the occasional elbow in his side, but never with Penelope.

She animates with each step, blushing at his hand around her back, smiling at a spin. He never considered how soft her body feels under his fingers, underneath the thin material of her dress, but now he is acutely aware of her warmth seeping through. He asks of the books she’s been reading, which he knows are plenty.

And at the end of the dance, he finds that maybe dancing with Penelope Featherington is not such a tedious task, after all. And at the end of the night, he’s quite certain she’s been his best partner.

***

Art exhibitions are not really Colin’s thing, really. His interest lays in a world painted in words, not in colours. But considering the fact that one of Benedict’s pieces is to be exposed to the world for the first time, of course his entire family must be present. He is proud of his brother, for having found a path in life, having chased it so full of determination.

Colin’s good at chasing as well. He’s just been proven, more and more lately, that he chases only things that cannot last, which displeases him greatly. It doesn’t mean he is not entirely supportive of his older brother. What other reason he’d have to be present here, at all?

“Penelope!” Eloise shouts, gathering the attention of her friend.

Penelope spins around, red curls jumping with the movement, and she blushes. Colin is pretty sure she’s done this every single time he’s seen her, though maybe he now begins to understand why. She nods her head in their direction, all Bridgertons replying in kind. Eloise lets go of his arm, rushing instead by her best friend’s side, hands entangled in a most obvious display of friendship and affection.

Colin knows Penelope’s family – and so he knows there’s no such camaraderie between her and her sisters, as it can be so easily observed between himself and his own siblings. He’s glad these two have each other then: a friend is one’s most fearful champion.

He walks by his mother’s side, going through the gallery, the two girls just a few feet ahead. Eloise is the taller one, yet both their heads are bent together as they discuss, such an air of ease and comfort about them. His sister says something, and suddenly Penelope turns a bit more to the side, laughing: a sparkle of mischief in her eyes and the loveliest pull at her mouth. Now, Colin finds himself quite taken with her mouth, staring because he finds it impossible not to. The soft pink of her lips, as she’s worried at them trying to come up with a comment about this and that painting. The white of her teeth, as she smiles. Her tongue, wetting her lips, from time to time, as the rooms grow hotter, with all the people passing around.

He’s lucky that the art pieces all around are distracting enough that Penelope herself doesn’t notice. His mother does, though.

“Quite darling, no?”

And she looks at the exact same person that he is, and most certainly not at the painting of a fruit basket in front of them.

“Mother,” he warns, a slight squeeze around her arm.

“Oh,” she sighs. “You can’t blame me for caring enough to try.”

Maybe not. But he can blame her for opening his eyes to something that he, like everyone else – he begins to realize - didn’t really know was right there.

***

So Colin Bridgerton, like a true hero of his days, leaves for Wales. And like the caring gentleman that he also is, he uses one of his friends as his excuse. It helps – it’s quite a useful distraction, for a while, walking over the hills, staring out at the sea, spending evenings eating hearty meals with someone that knows him well enough, but not too much. And he writes in his journal, of his quiet passing days.

By contrast, the nights are not so quiet. While he tries so hard to forget the society back in London, at night there are no distractions: and even so, while asleep, he cannot really control his unconscious mind.

So Colin dreams: at first, the most innocent of shadows, people that he can vaguely make out. Then the visions get clearer, and longer, and more tormenting. It starts with Penelope’s smile, and that mouth of hers, which in a dream he can admit to wanting to desperately kiss. Which, in a dream, he has leave to do. He knows, upon waking, that whatever taste lingers on his tongue from his haze, it certainly has nothing on the reality, and hates himself all the more for it. Then her body, close to his, the press of her bosom hard against his chest, the roundness of her bottom in his palms. The next morning, he is in need of a change of bedsheets, like he is nothing but a horny teenager.

He is sure his mother must have cursed him. The dreams continue, sweet haunting that only makes the guilt rise in his throat. She’s his sister’s best friend, for heaven’s sake, and here he is, conjuring her up in his dreams with no respite! It’s like his body has decided to take an entirely different path from his mind.

Colin is miserable on a travel, for the first time in way too long.

***

Maybe that’s his excuse. He lacks sleep, and for him, the most pressing issue is, obviously, still the one of his marriage. Violet Bridgerton is popular for many things between her children, but her cutting words and sharp mind are not necessarily one of those, especially if used against one of them. Colin has found himself at the receiving end of exactly that for weeks and months now, so he is apprehensive when he is summoned back to London.

But if his mother has need of him, then he must make haste. Of course, the real reason is simply the news of Daphne’s new pregnancy, which is incredibly happy. Colin loves to be an uncle way better than he likes being a younger brother.

Especially since right now, Anthony and Benedict have taken the liberty to pick up with the teasing where their mother stopped.

“You left in the middle of the season,” Benedict remarks, and Anthony clasps his back in a way that only eldest brothers can do, when they require an immediate answer.

“Oh, very well,” and Colin actually scowls. “I needed to get away. Mother has been incessant with this bloody marriage thing.”

And because they’re his brothers, of course they joke and jest more, at his own expense. Everyone in their house knows that his mother has her eyes set on Penelope, and everyone in their house is already tired of her insinuations, Colin most of all. That doesn’t mean that Anthony, or Benedict are going to pass up the opportunity to rile him up on the subject. It’s been a while, after all, since they’ve had reason to laugh at him in particular.

It’s the damn lack of sleep, and all of these comments, which are entirely unwarranted and so overwhelming, despite his protests, that make him throw all decorum out the window.

“I am not going to marry soon, and I am certainly not going to marry Penelope Featherington!”

“Oh!”

The softest sound, really – feminine and delicate and belonging to the single person that he didn’t want to see right this moment. With much slowness, burning red with shame, Colin turns around to look at Penelope Featherington. And he knows: by the expression on her face, the haggard breathing with the desperate rise and fall of her chest, and her eyes, that he just broke her heart.

What he says right there on the spot, he cannot truly recall. A fumbling of stupid, empty nothings, apology too small, too unfulfilling, because Penelope draws herself up and protects the little bit of her dignity left.

And she leaves, so fast that he doesn’t have the time to do what he wants: follow her to clear up things.

Benedict punches him in the arm, quite terribly hard. It still doesn’t feel as bad as the gut-wrenching guilt building up inside himself, or the self-loathe that he so much deserves. Because just as he was beginning to make up his mind regarding how dear, truly, she has grown to be for him, he has done the worst thing a person who cares about another can do: hurt her.

***

He shows up at the doorsteps of her house the following day, surprised to find Penelope alone in the drawing room.

“As you might suspect, Mr. Bridgerton,” she says, when he inquires after her mother and sisters. “Many men before you have made the same declaration, though maybe in more private settings. I am afraid any hope of marriage left in this household falls upon my sisters.”

It is the fact that she doesn’t use his name that stings the worst, and makes him understand exactly how much harm he’s done with his extremely horrifying comment.

“Penelope, I am so entirely sorry for the way I behaved yesterday. You must believe me when I say I did not mean to offend you in any way.”

“Must I?”

He stops, opens his mouth: no words come out. She looks the picture perfect of peace, and maybe this is what should worry him the most. It is his first time seeing her as more than a blushing young woman, and suddenly maybe he realizes why she is Eloise’s best friend: she’s made of tougher stuff than what he’s been led to believe so far.

“What I said, the way I’ve said it. I’ve hurt you… It’s entirely intolerable and I apologize for the situation you’ve been put in because of me being an ass.”

Situation that she handled entirely fine, given the fact that he so singled her out in a market of numerous others undesirable young ladies. She sighs at his curse, something that sounds like Colin, that has the tiniest of fondness in the tone. Something in his chest tightens with fondness of its own, for this woman in front of him, who has been nothing but a most beloved friend, to his entire family – and to him, as well.

“I…” she stops, taking in a deep breath, her hands shaking. “I already told you, no feelings were hurt. You’ve made no remark that wasn’t already obvious to everybody in the ton,” she says, and she waves in the air the latest number of Lady Whistledown.

Of course, even when he misses it, his sisters and his dear mama are quick to fill him up on the happenings of the season. In today’s fresh paper, Whistledown has written down that were the two of them ever to get married, she’d have to give up writing altogether – such an unfitting match never having been seen before.

“You can’t possibly believe those writings,” he says, suddenly offended at the paper, though he’s not quite certain on whose behalf anymore.

“I didn’t, until –”

Until he has reinforced them all the more, with his declaration. Colin suddenly feels himself flush from head to toes, at being so openly chastised. His brother Benedict has already told him, that he has cruelly overstepped most demands of polite society when he lost his temper in that way, in such a public place.

“I really do apologize, Penelope.”

He hadn’t realize how much he enjoys saying her name until now, when he so desperately wants her, needs her to say his own. A sign that things between them can be mended, move from the terrible awkwardness between them.

“Pity doesn’t feel that nice to those who already know how pitiful they are, Colin.” His gaze snaps up at her, and finds her already smiling at him – quite charming, even if so utterly self-depreciating. “Though you are forgiven.”

He bows at her in thanks, lower than he’s gone in months, if not years, just to show how entirely grateful he is. Of course, Colin is yet too young, rich, handsome and charismatic to know the meaning of her words, and too stupid of a man to try and understand where she is coming from.

But he will, in due time.

For now, maybe his favourite sight to see during his travels becomes the shores of England, when returning home. Because home has just started to mean just a tiny bit more.

[heyyyharry]

Better People (one shot)

“Do you think there’s a chance for us in the future? In a few years, when we’re better people?” 

...in which Y/N makes a bad decision at 2 AM. (angst/smut)

Word count: 2.4k

Warning: phone sex.

.

.

.

“I can’t sleep. Talk to me.”

She could barely recognize her own voice. She felt her mouth moving, but the words were someone else’s. This wasn’t her. She had grown out of this person. She was no longer the girl who ran back to him whenever things went wrong in her life as if he was the answer. He was not. If anything, he was more questions. Questions she could never understand. And yet, in a fleeting moment, confusion and distraction and a false sense of reassurance were all she needed.

“It’s 2 AM,” he said, his voice was rough yet gentle. She heard the rustling of bed sheets and felt a sting in her heart as she wondered if he had to keep his voice down and crawled out of bed so he wouldn’t wake whoever was sleeping by his side.

It’d been six months. He must have been with plenty of others. She couldn’t condemn him for it because she had, too. She’d kissed strangers, let them fuck her in the bathroom of a club, in the car, on the couch, in this bed. She’d gone on dates and had a good laugh with people who’d chosen not to stay. They had either not cared enough about her or they’d eventually realized they could never replace him.

She felt like an idiot. He had never been hers. She had never been his. Or at least that was what she wanted him to think so he didn’t have so much power over her. If people knew how much you loved them, they would take you for granted. And he had taken her for granted, so many times before. Of course, she hadn’t been a saint. They had destroyed each other and put each other back only to destroy each other again. 

As toxic as that was, she missed it. She missed the euphoria of being with him. She missed the chase. She missed the fall. She missed him. And she wondered if he missed her, too.

“Are you alone?” she dared to ask.

The rustling of sheets made her sigh in relief as she knew he was still in bed, probably alone, sitting with his back against the headboard, naked under the sheets. God, she could picture it. And she hated that her memory was all she could rely on when it came to him.

“Yes,” he said, and there was a pause. “Talking to me won’t help you sleep well, love.”

She knew it was stupid, but her heart fluttered at the way he said the pet name. Love. If only that was true.

“You don’t want me to hang up,” she said. Not a question.

“I don’t want you to hang up,” he replied. Again, not a question.

She gave a nod even though he couldn’t see her. “I thought you had my number blocked.”

“I did…” His voice was lower and raspier than usual.

“What made you unblock me?”

“I don’t know.” Something told her he was being honest. “Wanted to call you,” he went on, “But I didn’t know if you’d wanted me to…”

“Aren’t you glad one of us had balls to do it?” she said, laughing.

He also laughed. It hurt when she realized how much she’d missed that sound. She kicked off the covers, mentally cursing her AC for being a bitch during one of the hottest nights that summer. She was only wearing her panties, which had been soaked from the thoughts of him before she’d picked up her phone and decided to call him at 2 AM.

Eyes on the ceiling, she whispered, “Tell me a memory.”

It was a little game they used to play. She assumed he remembered it.

“Y/N,” he said in a growl, and her heart sank as she thought he was going to hang up. She would be so ashamed if he left her now. He could have been nicer and not answered the call. Her cheeks grew hot and not because of the room temperature. “Will you promise to go to sleep afterwards?”

She shut her eyes and smiled, feeling relieved and stupid. “I promise.”

He seemed hesitant, but as his breath caught, she knew he was doing what she was supposed to do. She grew confident and slipped her hand into her damp underwear, stroking her wet clit as his voice took her back to one of their good memories.

“Met Gala night,” he began, his voice deep and mesmerizing. “I left the after-party early and found you waiting outside my house. You were wearing that little black dress that I loved. You smiled so wide when you saw me. But I knew you weren’t happy. You were jealous, angry even. You didn’t like to see me interact with her. You didn’t like the media talking about her and me like we were still a thing. I told you she and I were over, that I wasn’t seeing someone…and there was only you…but you didn’t believe me.”

“You didn’t care if I didn’t believe you,” Y/N managed to speak as her fingers worked on her clit. He was panting. She closed her eyes and saw him teasing himself so he could finish with her.

“I shouldn’t have cared,” he breathlessly admitted. “But I did...Fuck, I did...” Those words pulled the strings of her heart and she let out a whimper at an attempt of his name. He continued, “I let you in. And you kissed me wild. You made fun of my bow as you told me to strip.”

They both laughed despite the tension. Her fingers didn’t stop as she wiggled out of her panties and lay naked and sweaty in between the damp sheets. She wished they smelt like him. From the pattern of his breathing, she pictured his hand going faster on his cock as he fucked into his fist, imagining it was her pussy, remembering what it was like to fuck her instead.

“I remember...” he went on, “eating you out on the sofa. You were wet, dripping...fuck...you were so ready for me...I always cum so hard thinking about you that night...sitting on the sofa...with your legs spread...and me on the floor sucking on your pussy.”

“Nobody eats me out that way,” she confessed, squirming with the mixture of pleasure and discomfort. She wished he was here. She wanted his hands on her, groping her breasts, his fingers in her mouth as he fucked her with his other hand. “Nobody fucks me like you.”

She felt so vulnerable once she’d said it. She hadn’t meant to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d ruined her for everyone else. What if she wasn’t his best? That would be so embarrassing.

But then, between ragged breathing, he told her, “Nobody fucks me like you, either.”

“Really?” She didn’t want to sound hopeful. She didn’t want to think there was hope in whatever they were. But she did have hope. In this very moment, there was something more.

“Even now,” he gasped. She could hear him fuck into his hand. “God, Y/N.”

Six months since the last time he’d said her name like that. She slipped a finger into her cunt and fucked her the way he would, though it wasn’t the same, she almost came.

“Wish you were here,” he groaned. She told herself he didn’t mean it literally. And yet...

“Harry, what would you do to me if I was there?”

“What wouldn’t I do to you?” he chuckled. “I’d suck your tits. Fuck you with my fingers until you come all over on my sheet. Then I’d make you come with my mouth. You’d be sensitive but still beg me for more. Like you did that night...I’d flip you onto your stomach and fuck you from behind. You’d love that, wouldn’t you? You love when I’m rough with you.”

“I do, Harry. I do.”

“I miss the way you say my name. Please...say it again, Y/N.”

“Harry...I-I miss you.”

“I miss you, too,” he choked out. She was getting close. “Another finger, Y/N. Put me on speaker and stroke your clit.”

Even when he wasn’t physically here, he still knew her body better than he did. She put him on speaker and rested the phone on her chest as she used her free hand to get her off. It felt good but not quite. Not the way he made her feel.

“Are you close, baby?”

She nodded frantically, her mouth agape. “Y-Yes...Can I?”

“Yes, baby, come for me. Need it,” he grunted. She tried to picture his face as he came. Lips parted. Head tossed back. Hand fisting the sheets. Hand pumping his cock as he painted his abs with his cum.

She came so hard, shouting into the dark of the night, shaking, trembling, breathless.

Then there was only silence.

Just them catching their breath.

What was there to say if it wasn’t the dirty things to get each other off. They would never say they missed each other when there wasn’t sex involved. How stupid she was. So fucking stupid. She didn’t like this at all. Once the lust was over and there was only the love. She felt bare and weak.

She was on the verge of tears when his voice broke the silence. “Y/N, are you still there?” She didn’t know if it was her wishful thinking or he genuinely sounded desperate. “Y/N.”

Stop saying my name, she wanted to tell him, but she composed herself and didn’t allow her tears to fall.

“Yes, I’m still here.”

He was quiet for a moment. “We can’t do this again,” his voice trembled. “You know that, right?”

She did. But there was something about the way he said it that made her think he wanted her to reject that idea. To be on his side. Or was she too obsessed with him that she wanted him to want her to stay?

“I know,” she said despite herself.

“One question before you leave me,” he tried to sound funny, but failed. “Has there been anyone else?”

Her stomach knotted. “Have I been fucking other people you mean?”

“No.” He laughed quietly. “But answer that one, too.”

“Yes, I have.”

“So have I.”

They already knew they’d fucked other people in the last six months. But hearing him confirm it made her feel like crying. She needed to hear it, though. Maybe that was why he’d asked her to answer.

“I meant to ask…” he said, “has there been anyone else...like me? Have I...have I been replaced?”

She swallowed hard, eyes pressed shut. “There’s only one you.”

“That’s reassuring.” Is it, Harry? “There’s only one you, too, Y/N.”

Those words were the final straw. Before she knew it, she was crying. The tears had begun to fall and she didn’t know how to stop. He didn’t hang up. He listened to her cry in utter silence. There was nothing left to lose now. She had to say it. “I cannot leave you, Harry. Not really. I’ll always come back. Like tonight. I’ll break and call you and we’ll ruin each other again.”

“I’ll always take you back,” he said, his voice unsteady as if he was holding back tears.

“We’ve failed so many times before.”

Instead of telling her there would be next time and next time would be different, he said, “I know.”

So he’d completely given up on the possibility of them making things right. He wouldn’t give them another chance to be anything more than this. A part of her felt relieved even though the rest of her was dying.

“I told myself we’d be better off as friends,” he said. “We were too toxic for each other. We fought all the time. We got jealous for the stupidest reasons. It was like being with my worst enemy and my best friend at the same time. But I guess...I’d rather hate you and be able to have you than just be friends and not really have you...”

“That’s a very bad sign,” she laughed despite her crying.

“It is,” he painfully agreed.

“Do you think there’s a chance for us in the future?” she ventured. “In a few years, when we’re...better people?”

He took some time to think. “What if the better versions of us find other people? Or what if only one of us does? What then?”

She felt herself smirking. “Tough luck.”

He sighed. “I don’t like the idea of you getting better and ending up with someone else. I’m too selfish. I want you for myself even though I cannot keep you.”

“I feel the same way.” She pulled a pillow to her chest. The emptiness in this bed was killing her. If only they could fuck and forget this conversation and pretend to be happy while they weren’t. But she knew they couldn’t anymore. “Whatever happens, will happen,” she told him. “If people are meant to be together, they’ll end up together.”

She didn’t know if she believed that, but it felt like the right thing to say.

“I hate when you cry because of me...” said Harry.

“I hate crying because of you.”

He paused again. She hated when he did because she would always get anxious while second-guessing what he might say next and whether it would hurt her.

“You promised me to go to sleep when we hang up. Can you keep that promise, Y/N?”

“Yes,” she choked out the word as hot tears streamed down her cheeks and wetted her pillow.

“Goodbye, Y/N,” he said but didn’t hang up right away. Perhaps he was waiting for her to say something, to give him a sign.

So she gathered all her courage and said, “Goodbye sounds like the end...I don’t like that.”

“How about goodnight?” he sounded hopeful. “In a year or two, I’ll be better, and you’ll be better. And if we still want each other, we can start again.”

That would be too good to be true. However, she would hold onto that.

“That sounds good to me.” She worked up a smile. “Goodnight, Harry.”

And then he was gone.

[ziracona]

Hello! I have always believed that Michael needed better doctors and good treatment. He was simply billed as "Evil". Sometimes I think that at that time they were unaware or ignorant of mental illness, and that is why Michael did not recover. I wish it had been treated better. I would like to know your opinion about it ;v;

Oh, absolutely. Michael is a very tragic character, and what happened to him was almost entirely Loomis’ fault, secondarily the system and his parents’, and like onyl 0.8% his own. It’s true that mental health aid has historically been really bad in most places, and even today treatment and acceptance—even in specifically medical settings—tend to be abysmal. Of course people knew less than they do now about how psychological stuff works, but bias, cruelty, and superstition as well as a system that enables and even to degrees outright encourages that is to blame for the awful treatment people woth mental illnesses and personality disorders faced and continue to face, not just a lack of knowledge, and the history is really heavy and awful to look over. : ( It’s horrific some of the things doctors have done and do to people just trying to get help.

Like, in Michael’s case, we’ve had a name and understanding of psychosis since the 1800s. Canonically, by the time the poor kid was six years old, he was hearing voices telling him to do bad things to people. He told his parents, seeking help, and they did nothing to help him—just told him it was his imagination—despite knowing hos grandfather had suffered the same symptoms. If they had only taken him seriously and given him therapy and possibly medication too, Judith never would have died. (I am not goong to say it every time, but all this information is official canon) Michael’s reason for killing his family members is wanting the vocies talking to him to be quiet, because it’s agonizing. If you’ve ever had intrusive thoughts (stuff like “pull into oncoming traffic” or “break that and see what happens” and such that don’t actually compell or force you to do it at all, and are always things you as a person deeply do not want to do, but nevertheless are really annoying or distressing to hear in your head), imagine that cranked up to 1000, endless and constant, but from voices that seem to come from around you instead of in your head. Especially as a young child, with no understanding what is happening to you, this would be incredibly scary and distressing—doubly so when dismissed by your parents, whose sole job is supposed to be to love and protect you.

The voices say they’ll be quiet if Michael kills Judith, so Halloween night, he does. Important to note here Michael is recently six years old at the time, which developmental psych literally is not old enough to have a complete understanding what death itself is, let alone complex morality. You /cannot/ be evil at six, you simply don’t have a complex enough understanding of right and wrong or of consequence to /be/ evil. Also at this age, usually kids see death as a vague concept, but one that applies to people they don’t know only, not to them and their loved ones. In Halloween 1978, immediately after stabbing Judith, Michael looks away while he keeps doing it, and his breathing speeds up in a scared way. He barely looks at the body, and immediately goes down stairs to wait for his parents—probably for them to fix it—and does nothing to flee or hide what he’s done. He looks traumatized when they take his mask off. (Lots of little notes here like that Judith when she sees him seems annoyed but not very, and when he attacks her, tries to shield herself and call to him to stop, rather than fleeing or fighting back, which [appealing instead of fight or flight] is pretty exclusively something you only would use if attcked by someone you are on good terms with—I mean, Michael is six—if Judith had /tried/ to fight back, no way she would have died—so there’s less than nothing to indicate they had anything but a loving familial sibling relationship. But if I list all these I’m gonna launch into my six page Michael Myers meta so I will speed through the rest.)

Anyway! Sorry, I have many feelings. About...everything. Including Michael for sure. So, immediately after killing Judith, Michael stops talking. He also shows other psychosis and trauma readily recognized side effects, like catatonia, slowed movement. In Halloween 1978c Dr. Loomis claims he tried to treat Michael for eight years, then spent another seven trying to keep him locked up because he realized he was evil. This is a /blatant/ lie, as in film canon Loomis, by Michael’s review hearing I believe four months in? Six or less for sure, I believe it is four. Loomis has /already/ become convinced Michael is a demon in human form, faking his symptoms, and itching to kill again. The other doctors think Loomis is crazy, as does the other doctor who examines Michael, but they’re awful people so they let him stay Michael’s doctor anyway, even though they refuse to move him to Litchfield maximum security. By this time only a few months in, Loomis is canonically also threatening the six year old in his care and constantly telling him he is an evil being who wants to get out and terrorize again. (Also, I will die enraged the sentance Michael gets for killing Judith is to remain locked in solitary in a sanitorium for /15/ years, until he turns 21, at which point he will be tried as an adult for murder??? The fuck?? You CANNOT charge a 6 year old’s crime in adult court! ‘Tried as an adult’ is meant for like, when a 17 year old dismembers their family and eats them! It’s for particularly heinous crimes, committed by someone /very/ close to being legally an adult, and that /only/. The idea of waiting fifteen years to try someone as an adult for something done at age six is laughable and sick).

Okay this is already long, I get carried away rip. Uhhh, anyway, yeah. In Smith’s Grove, Michael is visited by mom and Laurie once, then never sees any of his family again, because his dad hates him and forbids the others—finds out because Laurie is four and talks that they went /one/ time, and physically beats four year old Laurie for mentioning his name until she trauma blocks out ever having had a brother. From then on, Michael spends /fifteen/ years and all the dest of his developmental stages of childhood in a sanitorium with Dr. Loomis—a man who on wild religious superstition grounds assumes by his own admission /on sight/ that Michael is evil, and no other human contact. According to canon, Michael spends at least four hours of /every/ day with Loomis, his /only/ human contact, who threatens him, promises to stop him, and endlessly barrages him with “You’re evil, you’re not human, you want to kill again, I /will/ stop you,” and nothing else. He also canonically keeps Michael overdosed on a type of antipsychotic that, while a fine drug if used normally, if overdosed can deeply worsen symptoms, and can cause permanent brain damage.

Honestly, if a six year old is exposed yo major trauma, none of their issues are explained, legitimized, or believed, and almost all of their developmental stage is spent with endless voices they don’t know the cause of suggesting murder and violence, one human being and authority figure telling them over and over and over for fifteen years with no other constant in their life or human contact period that they are a demon in human form who wants to kill and is /going/ to do so again...? How else was that story ever going to end? I’ve said it before, but that’s beyond conditioning; it’s lab growing a human child to one day walk out and murder Laurie Strode with a large kitchen knife.

I stand by Halloween is a greek tragedy more than a slasher, and Michael and Laurie are both victims. He’s the Asterios, she’s the Ariadne. Loomis the Minos, the real villain. (Or the Poseidon choose your poison).

Anyway, I 100% agree! If he had just gotten help from his parents, Judith would have never died. If he’d had good doctors, none of the events of 1978 would have come to pass, or anything after it. Loomis single-handedly causes the deaths in 1978 himself through years of cruelty, and bigoted bias towards a small child in his care who needed his help, not his abuse, but he chose to break as much as he possibly could despite his responsibilities as a doctor, an adult, and a human.

If you’re interested, I did a canon-deep-dive character study short story on Michael on AO3! Halloween is such a sad story but it’s fascinating. God, poor Michael and Laurie deserved so much better than they got. It’s a testament to Michael’s character that even after 15 years of Dr. Loomis, he really only kills his intented target(s) in search of quiet from the voices, and anyone who sees him/would be a threat, and not other people. Makes no attempt to kill any of the kids in Halloween 2018, and only kills Bob when he literally opens the door to his hiding spot and Michael is found and Bob becomes a threat to him. In H20, after Michael has had 20 years on his own, you get arguably the least brutal Michael, who intentionally passes on killing the mother and child, and the security guard he walks right past, because they don’t see him and thus he doesn’t /have/ to. Halloween II is less intentionally avoiding, but even then he still does the same multiple times too, like with the old lady making a sandwich, or the scene in the incubator room. Anyway he desevered better fuck Loomis all my homies hate Loomis.

[andmaybegayer]

Last Monday of the Week: 2021-03-01

First Monday of the Month. My boss just quit at work which means I'm now the only formally trained engineer left who has any particular specialization in embedded systems. This week is going to be a doozy.

I also wrote a Very Long set of media updates because I’ve been consuming some stuff that makes me think a lot. Never a good sign.

Listening: I spent all of Saturday playing Minecraft after talking with some friends about it during the week on IRC. Practicing what I preach with regards to my Large Biome Supermacy policy, which does involve a lot of walking. Hence, I started catching up on The Adventure Zone: Graduation again, I'm like ten episodes behind.

https://maximumfun.org/episodes/adventure-zone/the-adventure-zone-graduation-ep-32-by-a-haircut/

I don't really enjoy Travis' DM'ing style. It's very loose and he has a tendency to let players run wild without much structure which is a tricky thing to handle. He does a lot of worldbuilding and character design but doesn't seem to plan much in the way of arcs. That pays off sometimes (returning to the school to realize they broke a promise they made a few sessions earlier and had to deal with consequences, for example) and when it does, it’s really good, but it's finnicky. I know DM's who can do that, but, well, actually I know One Single DM who can do that well and she's absurdly smart.

Reading: Still on Worm, I just got past chapter 8 or so now. It lives in my phone browser so I've mostly been reading it whenever I get some spare time, which is a good sign. If a book doesn't grab me I need to really settle down in a quiet space to avoid getting distracted, but I can read Worm while someone else is on the phone in the same room.

It is a story with a lot of very well-conveyed feelings and events. It's very easy to imagine yourself in it. Characters actually act like they care about what they're doing, I feel like writing this took a lot of care to keep everyone on model.

There's also a certain care given to the superpowers that you'd usually only see in forum posts arguing about an actual superhero story. Everyone always likes to argue about how far you can push a superpower: can you use teleporting to fly? What prevents a speedster from catching fire in the air? Where does the energy for a  pyrokinetic ability come from? Worm takes these and runs with them as a way to make absolutely any fight become a series of gambits relying on whether a power can or cannot be used to perform some high-stakes trick.

The world certainly has some underpinning contrivances to explain why no one gets killed very often but I've always considered nitpicking the base contrivances of a setting silly, because that's precisely what they are: contrived, in order to allow the rest of the story to flow from there. Like arguing about Omega’s abilities in the famous thought experi-*I am dragged off stage by the ratblr police for making a by now extremely stale joke*

Watching: I came and edited this section in like an hour before this posts because I keep on forgetting to put it in. I don’t really like watching TV and with my parents stuck at home in Pandemic Times it’s how they pass the time.

I did finish S3 of the Good Place. It’s very funny. I’m glad I’m watching it and I’m going to have to go find S4 because ZA Netflix doesn’t have it for whatever reason. It feels a little like it was written by Phillip Pullman if Phillip Pullman was a comedy TV writer.

I also really enjoyed the PBS Spacetime video about how time causes gravity. Love when an explanation of concepts is good enough that you drawn the conclusion on your own.

Playing: Visual Novel Hell plus Minecraft.

I spent approximately seven hours in Minecraft over two days. I tend to hop in and out of games for 1-2 hours at a time but there's a handful that can suck me in for an entire day. Minecraft, Warframe, Horizon Zero Dawn, Night in the Woods. Bastion, to a lesser extent. I end up avoiding them because I don't like loosing entire days, but I wasn't really planning on doing anything this weekend anyways.

Minecraft was mostly a long-ass trek to find a saddle, because as previously mentioned, I enjoy playing it with Large Biomes for the sense of scale.

I also completed Act 3 of Psycholonials and Eliza.

Psycholonials is odd. It is doing the thing that Hussie does where it dances around what's ostensibly the story to carry out the actual story. You get used to the trope after your first encounter but it still makes you wonder when the other shoe will drop, and of course, there's no reason it ever has to. The story may remain in suspended animation behind the every growing mess of narrative red tape tying the B-plot together.

Stories about Social Media have no well established norms. I think I might pick up Feed by M. T. Anderson and also perhaps Hank Green's books sometime. See what context they set that in.

Eliza is frustrating to me. It's a game for programmers, by programmers, about programmers. I'm friends with a lot of Capital P Programmers, the types who go to university and get sniped for developer positions at Seattle or Silicon Valley tech companies and who make great and terrible things and then warn you about the deep problems that underpin the slowly rolling ball of venture capital and bloated technology that is the tech industry. But at the same time, it makes me feel like I've burnt out on that conceptually before I even went in. It’s a whole other world that I’m familiar with but very distant from. In fact, that’s kinda how I feel about Psycholonials too. I’m familiar with the social media rat race but I also don’t go there. Parallels!

My cousins (who are halfway to Capital P Programmers, only so much you can do halfway around the world from silicon valley) warned me not to go into CS, because it would bore me, and that's a non-trivial part of why I'm in Engineering. They gave the same advice about Biology and Physics, without that I may have ended up in Microbiology. it’s not my domain, but because of how Engineering is going, you end up a lot closer to programmers than you think. I found out the other day that most of the software developers on my team have no formal tertiary qualifications, which is accepted in CS but of course, right out when it comes to engineering. It’s a whole other world that I kinda expected to skip around. I might go into this another time, since this post is already getting long.

Making: I haven’t done any engineering scicomm posts on here in a while so I started a few blank drafts and finally got one off the ground. With some luck I’ll have that ready this week. What’s it about? Not saying! It might change!

I’ve been doing layout for a custom keyboard, I need to call a laser cutting place and find out what their kerf requirements are so I can adjust the path accordingly. Wouldn’t do to burn a couple hundred rand on an oversized part, I’m paying for this, not my employer like the other times I’ve done laser cutting, so I’m probably not going to spring for getting one of their designers to check my design. At some point I should CAD up a chassis, but at the same time I might just buy some wood and go ham with a router once I get the plates cut.

Computers Slot: I got WeeChat set up properly on my desktop, which technically was just a matter of getting my SSH keys moved over. It’s taking me forever to move in to Cinnabar, in part because Stibnite lost her boot partition and I haven’t bothered to fix it.

So here’s a pitch for WeeChat as a good quality Terminal UI IRC Client. Many of my closest friends live there and it has a good set of tools to help me keep in touch.

WeeChat is very configurable but with perfectly sane defaults, I didn’t configure it for years. The UI is smarter and less arcane than something like irssi, and if you enable mouse support it can be downright modern. Running it remotely like this limits some features but as long as you don’t mind jumping through a few hoops to do filesharing, IRC is really great like this.

One of the big ones is the ability to do that double-pane thing, I can keep an eye on two channels at once (really as many as I can cram on my screen, but usually two) which is great when you want to browse channels while talking in your home channel.

It also has a good array of remote access tools, from what I’m running up there, just weechat running on my server inside tmux connected over mosh for low-latency SSH, to weechat-relay, a relay protocol built in to weechat. At the moment relay only supports android phones and the glowingbear web client, but I’ve never really looked around since both of those cover all my needs. Easily one of the best ways to get IRC on a modern mobile device, barring maybe IRCCloud.

[meandmyechoes]

The more I think about Dark Disciple, the more I find something odd.

[28th March 17:46]

I keep referring to it as a ‘favourable experience’, and there is no question the writing is what made me fall totally head over heels about quintress, but I also just, can’t?

I mean, yes. It’s very passionate, dramatic, scenes and gestures I can only dream of. But I also, don’t really see it in that ’omg they totally belong together here are my sixty headcanons of them’ sense?

I am very involved in the pairing, but also don’t really, actively ‘ship’ it — like the way it was an open book with Rhayme or Latts Razzi (since it’s the same author that indoctrinated me to Captain Rhayme). I could imagine them being happily ever after and silly shenanigans and slow-burn. But the concept of a quintress fairytale ending is so wild. I can only ask how much it is tainted with my personal view on relationships.

I know the plot leaves little room for “the future” and fed us well on all tropes possible. But, it just never occurred to me to put them in any other clichés or invent a missing scene.

Winding up, I don’t think their relationship is "weak", but it’s very motivated by circumstances and once you take that out of them, you are a little bit lost. For example even during the illicit affairs month, I… can’t really propose one date that does not seem tonally insensitive. (I can think of them being cloak dorks and Vos bringing her to ice-cream, that’s it, after a long hard moment) Really, all I possibly want is that sweet, sweet angst and canon is already there so I have no complaint.

It’s just… I don’t really get why it has to be the two of them that fall for each other. I understand why they did, and I believe it— Perhaps it’s much more a physical attraction thing that I don’t really have personal experience with.

I don’t know if quintress classify as slow-burn because 10 chapters still seem a little quick in the grand scheme of things. (aside: I’m quite disappointed Ventress wasn’t doing much in the last quarter of the book.) My point is, they do feel a little bit puppet to tropes, and while it’s deliciously written, there’s not much potential outside of canon. And that lack of inspiration makes me grimace a little.

[3rd April, 01:39]

I’ve scrolled through the dd tag and let the book sank a little. I am better articulated to talk about the sexist criticism now.

It’s a romance story, and when I judge it by that (lower) standard, it ticks the boxes. However, it might be a weakness as well, due to the projectability of the heroes. And yes, the whole assassination is dumb. Yet, tcw has been consistently this dumb at us. The last two times when she’s more rooted in the dark she failed, sent Savage and failed, so she’s gonna do it again with Vos… after she put down her desire for revenge. right. and surprise! Our “assassination” plan is to find Dooku and duel him directly. right…

I’ve read a review that says the romance takes away from the plot. However, the romance IS the plot. The book IS supposed to revolve around the two of them. I do agree them becoming begrudging allies then partners is a more unique approach, more rewarding as foils as well. but I guess a romance is easier for the conventional to process ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

With the “Ventress lose agency in falling for Vos”. Now, I can’t dictate how each of us buy into their physical attraction and chemistry (or lack thereof), and there’s no denial that a conscious human being is making that choice for the fictional character, I think the stance on this topic varied person to person from the above two factors, which are very different starting points.

I kept Katie Lucas’s foreword vividly in mind while reading. She said this is a story about people seizing chances to rebuild. That there’s always a choice. Cliché as it is, I believe ~the power of love~. I believe there exists someone you’re willing to sacrifice everything for, to overlook everything for, to forgive - to love them, warts and all. So, yes whether you think Ventress loses her agency to the romance, or if that’s a conscious choice on her behalf, is swayed heavily by how much you buy that they are the one.

[10th April, 10:30]

Yesterday I’ve been thinking a bit more about this. I do love this ship, I just don’t believe they’d be two people who find each other again and again in every life time, in every universe. That’s why, as magnificent as fireworks, it also won’t last.

To explore this, it’s not entire impossible for quintress to separate peacefully after this incident, but would that cheapen the build before? The entire motivation of dark!Quinlan hinges on his vision of their future. And say, Ventress did saved him and survived. How would he balance being a Jedi and his feelings - that’s publicly exposed to the Council? (sidenote: i really don’t like Ch. 27 where a bunch of old men are questioning their love life, but uhhh yes, I’m a sensible person!) For now, I’m seeing another Obi-Satine situation. And honestly how bad that an outcome is. It’s not like Ventress died for her war crimes! The show gave her a full pardon! So Idk man. Why can’t she leave him because she loves him and she exiled herself and they never see each other again WHY NOT FILONI WHY NOT.

Now I’m lamenting more what could’ve been with the two arcs. In Filoni’s original sketch, Aayla and Maul were involved. Man, that could’ve been the dream.

~~~

Part 2: [26th April, 15:15]

It has been… a month, since I finished Dark Disciple and I feel like it’s time to conclude all the thinking this book has made me do.

On the wider reflection about attachment and the Jedi Order, I still have to do more reading on it from other sources to form a concrete opinion. This theme won’t be touched on in this post yet, but I cannot shake how intriguing it is to compare “falling” in love to falling to the dark side. The temptation, and the submission to their emotions, the irrationality, the newfound curiosity, it all incites. Very curiously, it was Anakin Skywalker who commented that one is “blinded by love”

Okay, so what I’ve been scratching my head off the past two weeks is how I look at the romance between Asajj Ventress and Quinlan Vos. How would I define it?

Now this is as much as an exploration of how I view romantic relationships. Well, I’ve decided it wasn’t “love”, it was an “affair”. It was an affair because it’s a rush of passion, it’s a secret, it won’t last. Before I chop my own head off for bluntness, I mean it in, of course they are hopelessly in love with each other, that’s the exact premise of why it moved me so. But it wasn’t a complete relationship, wasn’t a healthy, sustainable one by any objective standards. Then, that’s the exact contradiction. Oh to throw caution in the wind with you, or to build a future with you?

Both are things I want a lot, and the ideal is of course one after the other. What quintress had (in the end) is definitely not something I’d want for myself, but it’s so fantastical, it’s alluring, just like the concept of falling in love - opening up yourself and trusting another person, is - it’s risky. That’s why it’s a sweet, sweet drug.

I’ve been so angry at all the red flags in this relationship. Reading this book, getting into both of their shoes, yelling NO like their best friends. But ultimately, what they had is unique to them and I can’t influence it in any way. Re-reading, I find myself holding myself back at all the places I was furious about going ‘You are smarter than this!’. Because it’s a tragedy, and the beautiful (I guess) thing is they chose each other.

The other day something on the dash inspired me to really think about ship dynamics. I, unashamedly admit, I’m VERY into Obi/Quin/Ventress in any and all combinations. *cough* I will not explain further.

I do accept the premise and I did discover they share quite a bunch of traits, but it confused me a while what made them cross the boundary, and it was, physical attraction (that the book was selling so hard I was blushing hot). I love them both a lot, and I would like to date them both, and I can see myself in either of them. Again comes the contradiction, is it a good thing to have characters so easily projectable, or do I want to see myself in more complex characters like them?

I probably lost quite a few cars stalling this train of thought. And I've been a canon apologist since forever. This book brought me a lot of emotional upheavals and a lot of food for thought. It brought me down to reflect on my romantic worldview and sexuality because I have nothing better to do. It totally challenged me as a writer and it’s just a really good novel by its right, regardless of the absurdity that is The Clone Wars. It’s a lot of firsts for me. And I really should find something better to do.

[26th April 16:00]

I must address that I got spoiled of the ending and the first and second half of the book probably went through some big changes.

If I cried for this book, it’s score would be even higher. And I’ve been so obsessed with discussing the relationship, without shedding light on the characterization, which is definitely an unfortunate side effect. Then it occurs that quite possibly the second half (26-42) deviated even further from the script than the first? It doesn’t have concept art or blocking, plus possibly (heavily) edited to omit correlation to other arcs. My major complaint for the second half is Ventress doesn’t do much and we know NOTHING about Vos, even though he is given screen time in the book. my, I just wish Ventress punch him harder and drag his idiotic mess back to the light sooner.

And to criticism about it being their ‘toxic’ relationship being portrayed as ‘true love’, well, it really depends on how thoughtful the reader is, right? I think if the reader is able to notice all these red flags and gave their own interpretation of the relationship and its outcome, it’d’ve been an educating experience. There’s what for the reader and what for the characters. They don’t know this ‘love’ is destroying them, and what kind of message is it sending? What ‘love’ depicted in the book is true then? I have my answers, and I hope every reader comes to their own as well.

[glassworkspiderlilies]

like some holy rite

Fire Emblem Three Houses | Dimitri/f!Byleth | AO3 Summary: Byleth wakes up and finds Dimitri at Garreg Mach some time before the Millennium. For a while, it is just the two of them. It makes...somewhat of a difference.  —Azure Moon reunion, and onwards. Notes: Is it absurd to post a 19.5k word fic in this format? I sure hope this post supports it; I’m not sure I’ve ever written this long a fic before haha. Guess we’ll find out. I recommend reading this on AO3 anyway, also because my actual notes are there too. :’) Long story short, I am FLINGING this out there after months of working on it, as I started writing this as I was playing through Azure Moon back in December lolol.  _(:3 」∠)_

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“You shouldn't go there,” the villager warns as Byleth’s gaze towards the monastery sets with determination, nearly begging as he adds, “I won't be held responsible!”

She doesn't deign a reply, starting to pick her way towards Garreg Mach, slowly but steadily. The more she walks, the more she feels like she's coming back to her body, the movement like oil to her machine even as she feels like she’s walking through a fog. She's still wrapping her head around what the villager said—it's been five years since Garreg Mach fell—but she can't quite believe it. Not that she thinks him a liar. Things are simply too strange; she's been caught in some kind of intricate web since—or even before—she arrived at Garreg Mach, and she has no answers, and Sothis...Byleth knows it was Sothis who woke her, but the goddess is quiet once again. 

And so, amidst all this strangeness, Byleth is alone. 

It's not fear that drives her towards the monastery, even when the villager had recounted the gutted bodies of Imperial soldiers with a shudder. But it is familiarity. She needs to rendezvous. Even if there's nothing there but rubble, even if there's nothing there but monsters and bandits, she has to go, wants to go, to the place that she spent the last year in relative peace, if only so she can think within its ruined walls. 

So she goes, climbing the rocks and rubble and debris, stepping over and past the numerous—too numerous—bodies that litter the ground. She decides on the cathedral for its vantage point, finding the structure largely still intact as she makes her way up the stairs. Even here there are bodies, blood both old and new staining the stone. She doesn't pause at the fresher red; she has not been afraid of enemies for a long, long time. 

The sunlight filtering in startles her after the darkness, but she adjusts quickly. The view distracts her for a moment, but when she casts her eyes over the rest of the open space, she realizes there is someone else here.

Byleth is calm; her senses are attuned and rarely lapse, despite Sothis scolding her in the past for being dull. Whoever this is—they are not an enemy. 

As she takes her first steps towards the figure crouched in the shadows, she knows—yes, this is not an enemy. She knows him even as his name comes slowly, and she is crossing the distance with an even stride as the sound of her boots echoes in the chamber. 

Byleth sees the grip on his lance tighten, the weapon seeming like the only thing that is keeping him upright. She knows before he lifts his face that five years have not been kind to him, that he is haggard and wounded, possibly beyond repair.  

When he does lift his face, cheeks splattered with blood, a patch of black covering one of his blue, blue eyes, his gaze so bleary and unseeing…it takes a minute for Byleth to place the emotion welling up inside of her. It's a quieter form of what she felt as she held her father's cooling body; this boy—no, man—is still alive, but oh does he look like death, like he doesn't know how to be alive. 

Just as he looks at her, unsure if she is real, she too gazes back, unsure if he is corporeal. 

She takes a few more steps forward, reaching out a hand, hesitating. She's always dared, but this...perhaps the consequences will be too much. 

“I should have known...” he begins, voice rough from disuse. But in it too is pain, and grief, and a touch of wildness. “That one day...you would be haunting me as well.”

Careful, she warns herself, but still, she dares. 

Gently, ever so gently, feather-light, she traces his cheek to jaw with her fingertips. He shudders violently at the touch despite the mere whisper of it, the sound escaping him caught between a keen and growl.

“Dimitri,” Byleth says, her voice coming out like a sigh, a whisper. Perhaps a prayer. 

He looks at her with both puzzlement and wonder, as if he cannot fathom why sound should be coming from her lips. 

“You...” he says, darkness and bitterness and guilt eclipsing the brief, so brief light in his eye, “What must I do to be rid of you? I will kill that woman, I swear it! Do not look upon me with scorn in your eyes!”

She doesn't know what to say—she's never been good at expressing, but Dimitri has never been one to mistake what she can express. It's not scorn, but pity, and the fact that he mistakes—misinterprets—it...she realizes he's not seeing her, not truly. 

“A wish for a world where no one is ever unjustly taken from us...” she sighs, her soft voice an echo of a distant memory, of regret. “Ah, Dimitri. How many have been taken from you?” 

He stares, truly stares, his gaze sharpening. She looks upon him, her fingers still lingering on his jaw; she traces backwards this time, jaw to cheek, then upwards to brush his shaggy bangs from the patch on his right eye with her fingertips.

“It can't be...” he says hoarsely, and for a moment he looks desperate and afraid to hope. “You're alive....?!”

“Everything will be okay,” she murmurs, because she wants to believe it, but his face shutters closed, what could have surfaced lost underneath the dark. 

“Hmph. If that's the case, that can only mean you are another Imperial spy. Did you come here to kill me?” he says, and when she doesn't reply—”Answer the question.”

He spits out the words like a challenge, growling and angry and ready to attack. But she does not obey, and stares one of her long, unsettling stares, and something, something in him backs down, just a little, just enough. 

“Of course not,” she finally says, and he groans like her refusal hurts him, like he wishes she were here to end him.

He brushes past her—close enough that he just grazes her shoulder, far enough that she could consider the contact her imagination if she wanted to. But she stops him when she speaks again. 

“I'm glad you're safe,” she says, her voice soft.

There is a long, heavy pause.

“Am I?” he asks, and Byleth—oh, she hurts, in that internal phantom way, and she feels the trace of a tear roll down her cheek but doesn’t know if it is physical or imagined. She cried when her father died but this man is alive—and yet it hurts just the same.

“Dimitri,” she says, lifting her hand once more, but he sees the movement and whirls, eye wild.

“Don't touch me!” he all but howls, but Byleth's hand freezes where it is.

“I won't,” she says evenly, “But sit with me.”

“No,” he growls, but he makes the mistake of meeting her eyes, and he cannot look away.

“Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd,” she says, and he flinches at the use of his full name, his royal name. 

He doesn't move even as he bristles, but she finds that a more positive indication than not. Her vision goes blurry for a second though, and she sways a little, but she steps forward to stabilize herself.

“Stay a minute,” she says faintly, like she's asking him to stay after class to discuss something, as she did with her students in the past. She tilts, and he sees his arm fly out of his cloak to catch her, and her last thought before she blacks out yet again is that there are some things that do not change after all. 

.

He's there when she swims back up to consciousness, the sun setting red and gold. She finds that she's tucked sort-of by his side, not touching, but near enough to, so that part of his voluminous cloak is draped over her. He's sitting like when she first found him—hunched over, hand gripping his lance, head cowed. But she's here now, next to him. 

Blearily, she unfurls her hand, the back of her finger resting lightly against his knee. After a moment, he shifts, moving just a breadth away. She closes that distance as well. 

“What do you think you're doing?” he says, voice rumbling low. 

“What have you been doing for the past five years?” she murmurs instead.

“I have been dead, more or less,” he counters easily, flatly. There is a silence before he speaks again, the words rushing out of him, tinted with anger and accusation, but also—disbelief, still. “And you? Where were you?”

Byleth sighs.

“I don't know,” she whispers, trying to reach for splinters of memory. “There was—the dragon, and the canyon...I...think I screamed.”

Dimitri goes rigid. She touches her throat lightly, as if she can't believe she did such a thing. 

“And then...there was only...the darkness, for a long time.”

“Yes,” he says, and she understands it's not because he's corroborating her story. 

“Eventually...Sothis was there...” she continues, “And then she wasn't. And I came here, and you were here...and you're still here.”

“That, I am,” he says harshly, bitterly. If the use of the Goddess' name startles him, it's overshadowed by other emotions. 

“And I'm here too,” Byleth says. 

A pause.

“That, you are,” Dimitri responds, less tightly. 

She looks up at him, but he refuses to meet her eyes again, his hair shadowing his expression. 

“Dimitri,” she sighs, sleep claiming her once more, “Dimitri.”

He waits until her breathing slows again and he knows she's asleep. He hovers a hand over her cheek, struck by how big his hand is in comparison. He could kill her so easily, right now. It's in his crest, his blood. 

For once, he doesn't want to; the ghosts, right now, are silent.  

“Hello, Professor,” he says quietly, the greeting sounding—almost normal, like how he used to greet her around the monastery. “It's been—too long.” 

He's not the same, can never return to the boy she likely remembers, especially if she hasn't experienced anything of the past five years. He doesn't know how to tell her—anything. Not that he saw her fall and heard that piercing, echoing scream of hers that day, five years ago, and one final, final thread in him snapped as a roar burst out of him when he reached out as if he could save her. Not that in a distant, distant place in him, he'd hoped she was alive somehow, because her ghost was not among the usual chorus—though this was something he hadn't quite realized himself until she appeared again, and when she did, in thinking that she had finally perished if he was able to see her again, he didn't know another part of him could wither. 

Dimitri stares as she sleeps, unable to parse what it is he feels about her presence here, amongst everything that's happened. If she cannot reconcile what he's become, then nor can he reconcile how she hasn't changed. She doesn't fit in, cannot fit in in the blight that is his current existence. 

He won't, then. He'll leave her be, and she can do what she will, as she as always done. It doesn't, and won't, matter; she is merely someone he used to know.

He moves, intending to get up, but she curls in her sleep, breaching the remains of distance, her forehead pressed lightly against his leg. 

Dimtri is frozen. It would be so easy to move, so, so easy.

Things have never been easy with the Professor. 

In the end, he stays, cloak draped over her form, watching the sun set, listening to her breathing into the night. 

He's gone in the morning, just minutes before she opens her eyes, the warmth of his body and cloak still on her skin. 

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When she'd first arrived at the monastery, she had been something of a—ghostly presence. A trained mercenary, indeed, but many thought she could have found occupation as an assassin. Deathly silent in her movements, utterly quick and efficient in her fighting, preternaturally calm and blank. But as more time went by, and as she grew more accustomed to the lifestyle at Garreg Mach and teaching, the Blue Lions especially were privy to the changes in their professor as her main class. Byleth Eisner became more solid, more human to them over the course of the year, and well-loved. 

And Dimitri...he had become particularly adept at reading and communicating with their still-enigmatic professor. He had deeply treasured the times they sparred, the times they had tea, the times she'd help him train orphans in swordplay. Like anyone else, he had loved their professor. 

Like anyone else. 

But now—she feels like the same kind of presence that he found her to be in the beginning: silent, and unsettling, even as he knew that she meant no harm, then. He no longer knows how to read her, and, caught between familiarity and finding her a threat (for even if she means no harm, she is still a threat), he finds himself on edge and wary and overall uncomfortable.

Byleth follows where he goes, mostly, though sometimes she wanders off to some other part of the monastery. She fights the “rats” with him, though her style remains clean and efficient even as he brutalizes his prey. He can feel her eyes on him, though she says nothing.

He continues to avoid meeting her eyes, brushing brusquely past her when she attempts to speak to him. Some days, he'll give her curt, sharp responses. Neither treatment seems to deter her; she stays with him.

Sometimes, he comes out of a haze, on trial with a jury of ghosts, to find her back or side pressed against his. Sometimes she is asleep. Sometimes she is not. She lets him move if she is awake, does not protest or hinder him. He can never quite bring himself to move is she is asleep. He never stays if she is awake, only when she is asleep, though he is always gone just moments before she opens her eyes. 

He will not say he appreciates her presence. He doesn't. But she slots herself back into his life neatly. Not seamlessly, not as if she has never left, but neatly. 

The ghosts have grown quieter. 

He no longer knows if that is what he wants, because the ghosts have been his jury since the tragedy. He doesn't know if he can live without them anymore. 

Dimitri does not worry or search for her when she is nowhere to be seen. He does not feel relief if he ends up spotting her in the distance, trailing among the rubble, as if she is trying to place what it used to be. He doesn't care.

But he looks for her, and ends up watching. As if he cannot help himself. 

A part of him still bristles, shouting that she is an enemy, no matter how she acts—the Imperial soldiers, spies, assassins and Kingdom traitors have tried all manner of methods to kill him, from brute force to the finest seductions. The bodies all look the same when he's done with them. 

Yet even after all these years, Byleth is still an exceptional swordswoman, and the Sword of the Creator seems even more comfortable in her grip. Maybe that is why she feels—safe. There have been a handful of times where she's startled him, or moved too quickly, or simply caught him at a bad time, and his lance never leaves his side. But any time he's swung, she's blocked it cleanly—though perhaps sometimes she'd had to dig in her feet to account for his strength. Sometimes she merely just steps out of the way, and he misses entirely. It's one strike, only ever one. 

“You've gotten better,” Byleth says one day, as she lowers her sword. “But not more skilled.”

Dimitri glares. As if there is an art to murder. Once, that comment would have bothered him, or driven him to improve. But not now. 

She offers nothing else. They never spar—Dimitri never accepts, the handful of times she's suggested it. He never apologizes for his lapses; she never expects them, breezing past the moment as if it didn't really matter to her. Perhaps it doesn't, even as he cannot understand why.

“You need to sleep sometime,” Byleth murmurs one night, staring at the bags underneath his eyes, lowering his weapon with her own.

Dimitri blinks several times to get his bearings, then grunts. He didn't sleep well as a student, and since then, he hasn't slept in years. 

Byleth reaches out—he growls, but does not say don't touch me, and so she inches closer. He shudders when her fingertips touch his skin, though perhaps less violently than the first time. 

“I'll guard you,” she says simply, and he barks out a humorless laugh. He opens his mouth to retort, but she levels him with a stare. 

“I'll guard you,” she says again, and motions to a more comfortable-looking piece of rubble to lean against. He won't take a bed, she knows, and so she doesn't bother recommending one. She'll stay where he wants to stay, and it is always the ruined cathedral. 

He stares at her, considering walking away, but she continues to stare back and he eventually relents. He settles down where she'd gestured to, and she nods in satisfaction. She leaves his line of sight momentarily to patrol the immediate perimeter before returning, sitting on another comfortable-enough piece of rubble, her eyes and posture alert. 

Dimitri doesn't know why she's bothering, when he won't even sleep. Even if he does drift for brief moments, the clamoring in his head will not let him rest. Better to not even attempt to sleep, in the end.

Still. He supposes there is nothing else to do right now, without rats scuttling about to be disposed of, and his body would shut down sooner or later if he didn’t perform at least minimal maintenance. He still had things to do. If Byleth wanted to waste her time guarding, then so be it.

He lets his eyes droop, and eventually, after a long, long while, he drifts.

When he wakes, he's so groggy that it takes him quite a while to realize that he isn't in the same position as before he closed his eyes. He's lying down—and not on the hard ground either. 

He closes his eyes again, a mixture of emotions roiling inside of him. He doesn't want to turn and look up to see what he knows he will see, and instead turns his head a little bit so that he can hide his face, hair falling over his eyes. Perhaps she's asleep, and he can pretend like this never happened. 

Unfortunately, he feels her fingers lightly brush his hair back, hand resting on the back of his head. She wouldn't have gone back on her word to take watch.

Her hand is warm, her lap is warm, and Dimitri cannot handle it. He turns the other way, an accusation on his tongue, but it dies the moment he sees her face, gentle and serene. 

She's not staring at him—she's looking forward, still on watch, but does look at him once she feels him turn. She smiles faintly at him, but says nothing, and then returns her gaze forward. 

“It's still early,” she murmurs. “Go back to sleep. I will guard your dreams.”

She strokes his hair, nails scratching gently at his scalp, and he is still so, so tired. He sighs, 

“How can you do that?” he mutters, though it comes out less cutting than intended. 

“I'm here,” she says simply, and he sighs again.

“Yes. You are.”

She murmurs something else but he cannot make it out, already slipping back under.

He doesn't dream. 

She's still there in the morning when he wakes. Dimitri rises as quickly as he can, and she also gets up from her position to stretch. Neither say anything about what occurred; Byleth yawns, and then curls up on the ground again. 

“Clear,” she informs him, her eyes already drooping.��

He stares at her. After a moment, he takes off his cloak, wrapping her in it, her head pillowed by the fur around its collar. He sees her smile faintly, but she's already asleep before a thank you can leave her lips.

He prefers it that way. 

Dimitri is no guardian of dreams, but he stays as she sleeps, as he always does, and leaves just before she wakes, as he always does. 

.

Sometimes, he truly loses himself in the heat of battle.

There are none around the monastery that can give him any challenge—thieves, bandits, Imperial soldiers and spies, they're all the same as he fells one after another. He pays no mind to Byleth when she joins him for the hunts; she knows well enough to stay out of his way. When he starts, he only knows the heat of bloodlust, and rage. 

He's grown numb to the corpses he creates; he no longer looks at their faces. But it's never satisfying, after the battle; he always feels cold, empty, the blood stiffening his body as it dries. 

Dimitri doesn't know which the worse state to be in is, honestly. He's never had to think about it before, but now Byleth is here, Professor is here, and thus the paradigm changes. 

Stubbornly, he clings to what he knows. 

He lets his mind go blank during the next wave of Imperial soldiers, cutting down any moving body he sees. He loses track of time—surely there hadn't been that many, but his sense of numbers have been skewed over the years as well. Ten, fifty, one hundred—how many is too many enemies to face? They're all weak, so weak, too weak for this world. 

But so are you, the ghosts whisper. After all, you let us die. You let your friends die. You were too soft a prince to be king, and now...now what? What can you possibly be the ruler of?

“Be quiet!” He hisses, swinging his lance, “I vowed I would bring you her head! I will do it if it is the last thing I do! I will not fall until then!”

Dimitri, they moan. Dimitri, Dimitri, Dimitri. Avenge us. Avenge us. 

“Dimitri,” a voice calls. “Come back to me.” 

The ring of metal against metal snaps him back to attention, and as the haze of battle lifts, he realizes that it's Byleth in front of him, the Sword of the Creator in its whip form wrapped around his lance. 

“Professor?” he questions, his voice like that of a child. Confused, shaking, high-pitched. 

“Welcome back,” she murmurs, tugging her sword, and thus the lance from his grip.

He lets it go. She catches it before it clatters to the ground, untangling and sheathing her blade to carry his weapon. She reaches out a hand to grab his, but hesitates. He stares at her extended hand blankly, numb, and she wraps her fingers gently around his arm instead, giving it a light tug. 

He complies. He remembers nothing after that, only truly coming back into his body when he realizes Byleth is scrubbing his hair vigorously with her nails. They're in the baths, only his chest bare, but the whole of him drenched in warm water. 

He...doesn't know what to ask. Where are we, what are we doing, what happened—he can figure out the answers to all of these with a little thought. So he stays quiet, and allows Byleth her ministrations. It's actually a little bit painful as she scrubs, but not unwelcome. She holds a hand over his eyes as she dumps water over his head to rinse, and he sees the water run red, then red again. She keeping pouring until it runs clear. 

“Soak,” she says, and he turns his attention to the steaming bath. He looks at her, and she stares back impassively, holding out a towel. 

He understands that she means to stay, and tries to form words as he takes the towel. He is a little embarrassed, even now, but she turns, and he hesitates for a moment before stripping out of the remainder of his sopping clothes, wrapping the towel around his hips, and sinking into the water. She turns back to face him after she hears the water still again, and nods in satisfaction. 

It's silent, save for the occasional drip or splash of water, and it takes a while before he begins to feel flushed from the steam and heat. He makes to get out, and Byleth offers him another towel, as well as monk robes. He raises an eyebrow, but she shrugs, and leaves him to change. 

His cloak still hangs in the changing room, and he throws that on over the robe before walking out. 

Byleth is nowhere in sight, but he makes his way to the cathedral and finds her sitting on the pews in front. His wet clothes have been wrung out and draped over the pews on the other side, drying. His armor too rests in a neat pile.

She turns and tilts her head at him when she hears him approaching, gesturing for him to come closer. He does. She motions of him to sit, and instead he sits on the floor at her feet, cloak pooling around him. She smiles a wry smile, then pulls his head into her lap, running her hands through his damp hair. 

He closes his eyes, unable to protest; after the bath, he feels dislodged and exhausted.  He lets out a deep, burdened sigh, and she pats his head.

“What have you been doing for the past five years?” she asks, again. 

“I have been dead, more or less,” he responds, again, though the words sound simply tired this time. 

“And what does that mean?”

He doesn't answer right away, focusing instead on her fingers through his hair. 

“Dedue snuck me out of the prisons,” he says eventually, “And paid for it with his life.”

“...And the others?”

“I've been on the run. The Empire reaches far, too far. They can only be dead.”

There's another silence between them.

“Why did you come here?” Dimitri asks.

“It was the only place I could go,” Byleth says. Her words are matter of fact—because truly, where else would she have gone? She had no home, no attachments to any place as a mercenary, and with Jeralt gone...there was never any other option. “And you? Why was it that I found you here?”

“It was the only place I could go,” Dimitri says too. It wasn't—sentimentality, just a bleak hopelessness that had him moving back towards the monastery. A familiar place, away from the Empire and its prisons, where he could plan and think, at least for a little while. 

Byleth hums. 

“Professor,” Dimitri says, sounding very much like the boy he used to be.

“Hm?”

“Leave.”

She lets out a soft laugh, and despite it all, a vague sort of warmth blooms in him at the sound. 

“No,” she says, so simply. “Sleep, Dimitri.”

It takes a while, but he obeys. 

.

“PROFESSOR!”

He watches in horror as Solon completes his spell and Byleth is swallowed up into the darkness. There is silence, and the Professor is no longer there, and Dimitri—he cannot articulate what it is welling up inside him. The rest of his classmates catch up to him, Dedue and Felix both catching sight of his face, and he doesn't know what it is they see there. Dedue is impassive as always, but his eyes widen just a fraction, and Felix's eyes also go wide, then narrow, a scowl creasing his face as he turns back to Solon.

Dimitri's knuckles are white as they grip his lance, eyes still trained towards the sky.

He's shaking.

“Boar!” Felix barks, grabbing his shoulder, and flinches almost imperceptibly as Dimitri turns to him, eyes still blown wide with shock. “Pull yourself together! We still have enemies to fight!”

“Enemies,” Dimitri echoes, hollow, “Yes.”

Felix hisses, shoving his prince as he tears his hand away, but Dimitri doesn't feel a thing.

He doesn't recall actually fighting, just vaguely remembers swinging his blade, the weapon becoming slick with blood. He doesn't know how much time passes before Annette's shriek pierces the air.

“Everyone! Look!”

He looks. The sky splits open, light rendering the sky red, and he waits with bated breath as a hand reaches out of the tear, and then slowly, Byleth steps out of the sky, sword burning bright in her hand, eyes and hair glowing Goddess-green.

Dimitri, practically blinded yet unable to turn his gaze away, wonders if this is what salvation feels like.

It's almost the same when she appears again, five years later, but Dimitri knows—there's no saving him, now.

“Forgotten already, your highness?” Glenn laughs, “Don't you remember my body, at your feet? How cold I was in your hands?”

“My son,” his father calls, “Dimitri—you must not let them get away with this.”

“Oh, my son, my son,” his mother weeps, “Bring me her head—only then can I rest.”

“Please,” he begs, “I've made my promises, it was my fault, and I am sorry for it—”

“It was not your fault,” comes the whisper of light.

“It was,” he insists, “I was there, I could have saved them—”

“You could not have.”

He shudders.

“Weak, because I was weak—”

“No. Because it was out of your control. You were a boy. How could you have known? What could you have done?”

“I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'msorryI'msorryI'msorry—”

“I forgive you, if it is truly mine you're seeking.” the light says. “Peace. I'm here.”

He weeps, apologies and sins incoherent on his tongue.

Byleth cradles his head and lets him confess.

.

He is wary the next morning when they finally cross paths again, back in his black armor with his lance tight in his hand. 

He had awoken with his head still in her lap, her hands still on his cheeks. She had been snoozing lightly, and woke when he moved to look up at her; the two had gazed at each other sleepily for a moment before Dimitri pulled away and left without another word. Byleth let him go, yawning and stretching as she rose from the pew, her first order of a business a bath of her own.

She makes no comment, of course, when they reconvene. He's at least partially back to his snappish self, but—his gaze lingers, when he speaks rudely, as if he is self-conscious of the disrespect. 

It amuses her, a little, to see the difference, even as it flickers in and out in the coming days. There are still good and bad and worse days, where he ranges from that awareness of his behavior to uncontrolled anguished raving and violence, but. But. There's a brink, now, which he can come back to, no matter how tenuous and fragile it is at the moment. 

But he retreats again, when they finally confront the root of the infestation of bandits and thieves, and one by one the rest of the Blue Lions house makes their appearance, five years older. There's no time for a proper reunion in the midst of battle, but Byleth is pleased, and her former students yell and whoop and laugh when they catch sight of her alongside Dimitri. 

When they finally do get the chance to speak after the battle, Dimitri is gone before she realizes. Felix scoffs, and Gilbert, Ingrid, and Sylvain look at each other worriedly. Mercedes, Annette, and Ashe are too excited to see her to fully take note the change in Dimitri at the moment, Annette hugging her so tightly that Byleth cannot breathe. 

Still, she smiles, and though her former students stare in surprise as they always did at the rarity of the expression, they smile back. Plans are made, the monastery regains life slowly, but quicker than she could have expected. Dimitri sequesters himself back in the cathedral at all hours, and the others take their chances to approach at first before keeping their distance after he lashes out, or cows them with his countenance alone.

With how much they were in each other's company before, since there had been no one else, Byleth feels like she has not seen him in days. She has a new role, with the others looking to her for guidance that they cannot find in Dimitri even as they address him. It feels similar to five years ago, where her role as a professor blended with tactician and commander—but now, she is an adviser to a king, save for an official title. Everyone still calls her “Professor”, unable to shake the habit, or perhaps they too need the familiarity. She hasn't changed at all in these five years.

When she finally does make her way to the cathedral, Felix is there too and pulls her to the side.

“Do something,” he hisses at her, though his eyes are on Dimitri, “I can't bear to see that creature in the state it's in.”

Byleth says nothing, only looks to the prince standing by the ruined altar. 

“He's gotten better at killing,” Felix says, his brows furrowed, “But in doing so, relinquished what little humanity he had.”

It's the Felix way, Byleth knows, to be like this. He's concerned in his own way, for his own reasons, but there is a past between them that she does not know the full extent of that colors it all. The reason why he only calls Dimitri the Boar Prince, and never by name. 

“Such things,” Byleth says after a long moment, as the two of them stare at Dimitri's back, “Are not so easily undone.”

“I know,” Felix says, almost miserably. “But...”

He stares at her, eyes burning, and she inclines her head. 

“I will not move any faster than I have been.”

Felix frowns, but seems to piece some things together. Have been, she says. 

“You found him first,” he says, slowly. This, they all know, but how long ago, they did not think of. 

Byleth shrugs. 

“Neither of us knew the Millennium would be upon us,” she muses. “I am...glad you all came. He will be too, once he...remembers how.”

Felix snorts, and turns away. 

“As you will, then,” he grumbles. 

“As I will,” Byleth agrees, and leaves his side to stand next to Dimitri. 

Felix watches as the Boar Prince turns to her, temper flaring, but she glances at him but for a moment before turning her gaze to the rubble. 

“Go away,” Dimitri still says, but it sounds defeated, somehow.

“No,” Byleth says, and remains where she is. The two of them stand in silence, until Byleth is called elsewhere. 

Sylvain laughs, when Felix recounts this interaction later to his childhood friends. Ingrid smiles. 

“Still weak to the Professor, I see,” Sylvain says, with a grin. “How long do you think they were here alone together?” 

“Sylvain,” Ingrid says, slapping him on the arm. He winces. “This is not the time. In any case. It's...reassuring.” 

Felix admits to nothing, but at the very least, he trusts their Professor.

But the Boar is another matter, and always has been. 

.

Byleth makes her decisions and stands by them. She is not afraid of Dimitri, no matter what he has become—she is far more used to being the one that is feared. The mercenaries did not call her Ashen Demon for nothing, sometimes in derision, sometimes in respect, sometimes in awe. Dimitri is called the One-Eyed Demon now, so if the pair of them are demons together, then they are the only ones who can deal with the other and come away relatively unscathed. 

Felix, Sylvain, and Ingrid notice when Dimitri takes his prisoner; the other Blue Lions come at the tail-end of the confrontation. Dimitri's tirade is—difficult to hear; it is difficult to see what he has become, especially to his childhood friends. Felix's head spins, fury and despair warring, and just as he surges forward, he feels a hand on his shoulder before a figure brushes past him.

Byleth casts judgement on Randolph, quickly, mercifully. She takes note of his last words, flicks the blood off of her sword, utterly calm. 

“What...is the meaning of this?” Dimitri seethes, once he processes what just happened, and he does not back down this time when Byleth turns her eyes on him. 

“...I miss you,” she says, just a little wistful, and they all know what goes unsaid.

His face contorts. 

“The Dimitri you once knew is dead. All that remains is the repulsive, blood-stained monster you see before you,” he growls. They stare at each other for a moment before he spits out his next words. “If you do not approve what I've become, then kill me. If you insist that you cannot...then I will continue to use you and your friends until the flesh falls from your bones.”

Felix mutters beast under his breath; Sylvain and Ingrid watch with pained faces. Annette and Mercedes have tears glistening on their cheeks, and Ashe's eyes are bright with tears as well. 

But Byleth steps closer, steps directly into his space, all but pressed up against him. Though she is nearly a full head shorter, she stares up at him, and the air seems colder than before. It feels as if the world has slowed and there is only Byleth and Dimitri, Dimitri and Byleth, boring holes into each other with their eyes, or maybe it is just Byleth that is doing the boring. 

An eternity seems to pass before a hiss escapes from Dimitri's lips like steam escaping pressure, and he looks away first, severe unhappiness evident on his face. He turns sharply on his heel and leaves, and Byleth watches him go. She waits only a moment before she turns to the rest of her former students.

“We bury the bodies,” she says, her eyes distant but her expression otherwise perfectly normal, and the Blue Lions wait only a moment before following her orders. They know not what, exactly, passed between their Professor and future king, but they are glad to not have been caught between them. 

Night finds Dimitri in the cathedral, as usual. Byleth joins him later, much later, when there is no one to see. It is not because of gossip that comes at the late hour, merely because it is so. 

It is quiet; Dimitri has no pleas for ghosts, tonight. They sit in silence, and the minutes pass; there is less tension than one might expect, only a tremulous, wary thread of something waiting to break. 

“I am a monster,” Dimitri says eventually. His voice is steady, sure. “I do not know why you continue to persist. You saw me today.”

“You are not a monster,” Byleth counters, just as steadily. “So do not think it...excuses you for your...poor decisions.”

Dimitri is silent. 

“I know...why you are as you are,” she continues, haltingly, as she struggles to find the proper words. “And so I hesitate to interfere too much. But know...that I will interfere...as I see fit to.”

“Because you are here,” he says, turning to her, an eyebrow raised.

“Because I am here,” she agrees, width a faint smile. 

He stares at her, breathing in deep to let out an equally deep sigh. They stay there, in the cathedral, with Dimitri facing the ruined altar again, Byleth sitting behind him. 

When morning comes and the castle stirs once more, neither are to be found. 

.

Ailell puts Dimitri in a fouler mood, between the heat and the ambush, and even Byleth suffers from the punishing temperatures. She is conscious of every rivulet of sweat that drips down her skin, and pities those who must wear armor. She hasn't the faintest of how Dimitri is surviving, with his black attire and fur cloak—or maybe his single-minded focus pushes even the heat out of his mind. 

To be fair, once the battle begins, she is no longer thinking of the heat, only how their surroundings affect their troops. They must finish the battle quickly and get out of the Valley of Torment; soldiers from Faeghus especially are not made for the heat. 

Dimitri and Rodrigue reunite, and Byleth watches closely as the prince's eyes gleam with an old light. She knows from experience to not get complacent, and Dimitri's minuscule softening is no exception. 

She is even more on watch during their next battle, where Dedue enters the fray, scarred but very much alive. For a longer moment, Dimitri looks like the boy she once knew, the boy they all once knew, and Byleth almost wants to believe that Dedue's return will be the true catalyst in Dimitri's health. But such things cannot be so easy. She may be far from an expert of the matters of the mind and heart, but she knows danger when she sees it. 

Yet—Byleth ultimately becomes distracted and heartsick, even without a heartbeat; she can imagine Sothis' somber countenance even as she gives logical reasoning as to why Byleth must continue to hold her sword despite it, even against former students who now work for the Empire. 

She makes a decision; she will stop the hearts of her former students herself, so that those who have sided with Faerghus and her and Dimitri don't have to. She can see their pale faces at they recognize familiar faces leading enemy troops, and though something in her keens, it is she who will take the responsibility, it is she who will bear the burden of that weight. As their professor, and friend. 

Still. It is a hard burden to bear, when she looks down at the body of Lorenz Gloucester. It's been a while, Professor. If this were anywhere but a battlefield, I would offer you tea. I've no choice but to follow the Empire, if I wish to live. I hope you will not think ill of me, he'd said. She did not, and how dearly she would have liked to accept his invitation, to spare him from this fate. She allows a moment of grief; nearly all the enemies have been disposed of, and the sounds of the battlefield are only growing quieter. This kill had been...the definitive one, this battle. Her moment of silence does, however, extend longer than she'd expected, caught up in memories—muffled yelling snaps her back to attention, and she runs back to the center of the fortress.

Dedue and Felix parry Dimitri's wild swings, while the rest of the Lions watch with worried eyes. Sylvain and Ingrid are on standby, weapons drawn, though Dedue and Felix are doing well enough to keep him at bay. 

But this is not Dimitri from the training fields, who tempered his strength; no, this is Dimitri unbarred and unseeing, and even Dedue and Felix will not be able to hold up under barrage from his strength. 

“You stupid boar!” Felix seethes, deflecting yet another blow. He growls, noticing his blade beginning to crack. “Get yourself together!”

“Your Highness,” Dedue intones, but not even he seems to be getting through.

Dimitri is speaking, but his words are jumbled and incomprehensible. Byleth blinks, forcing herself out of her previous stupor; the living need her attention. Later, she will brew a cup of Lorenz's favorite tea, and find a vase to put a rose in. 

“Professor!” Annette squeaks, finally noticing her, and several eyes flicker to her. “I—we don't know what happened, the battle ended but he just kept going—”

Byleth doesn't respond; she knows, she's seen this before. She passes Sylvain and Ingrid, who both look at her warily and mutter be careful. Like a ghost, she slips past Dedue and Felix, whose eyes widen, but Byleth has become well used to Dimitri's fighting style that he's developed over the years, especially in these states. She doesn't parry his blows; she steps to the side just as he lunges low and then surges forward, wrapping her an arm around his neck, squeezing in an almost-chokehold.

“Dimitri,” she murmurs directly into his ear, lips pressed against his skin. “It's over.”

He goes rigid, though his knuckles are white on his lance. She continues to murmurs his name into his ear, and it is a long, longer moment before he drops his weapon and falls to his knees. Byleth continues to hold him, bringing her other arm up to hug him properly, and Dimitri lets out a noise between a sob and a scream as he covers his eyes with his hand. 

Byleth tightens her hold and buries her face in his shoulder. 

“We have to keep moving,” she says, muffled by the fur of his cloak, and turns her head to his ear and repeats her words. She's tired, very tired. 

“Yes,” Dimitri says, voice rough, “We do.”

She untangles herself from the prince, helps haul him up. The others are hovering nearby, unsure where or if they can offer their help. Byleth sweeps her gaze over them, and feels a desperate fondness for these people. 

“Let's return,” she says, her tone exhausted. 

The Blue Lions offer her tentative smiles or nods of acknowledgement and comply, trailing after her and their ragged prince with their open hands and hearts. 

.

Byleth leads Dimitri away upon return to the monastery, and the Blue Lions watch them go. Neither show up for dinner—Byleth will usually eat with the Lions, and ever so rarely she coaxes Dimitri to the dining hall when there are less people around—and when night falls and both are still nowhere to be seen, the Lions go looking. 

“You think they're in one of their rooms?” Sylvain suggests, waggling his eyebrow, hands behind his head as he swivels to and fro.

He dodges a swing from Ingrid, but she catches him on the return, and he lets out a yelp of pain. 

Felix's frown deepens. 

“The Boar is hardly in a state to do anything but harm,” Felix scowls, and Sylvain sobers, putting his arms down. 

Dedue rumbles low in his throat, but even he cannot counter the potential consequences of Dimitri's...instability. 

“I think the Professor will be fine,” Mercedes says serenely, a faint smile on her lips. “But I think we should still make one more round before we turn in for the night.”

“It's odd that they're not in the cathedral,” Ashe muses. “His Highness is almost always there.”

“I think we should check that again first,” Annette declares. “They could have left the monastery earlier. Or maybe we just keep missing them?”

“Let's go, then,” Ingrid agrees. “But let us take the side entrance—we missed the left terrace, I think.”

So they go, the whole retinue silent as they wind around the side and up the stairs to the cathedral. 

It becomes evident that at least Dimitri is there now, his voice echoing in the open space, tone high and crazed and—broken. The Lions look at each other, moving as quietly as possible as they peek into the cathedral, fearing what they might find. 

But their fears are unfounded.

Byleth is sitting on one of the stones near the rubble, her hair almost glowing in the dim lighting of the remaining sconces. In her lap she cradles Dimitri's head, who is screaming, or sobbing, entreaties into her hands; her expression as she looks down at him is so tender it burns. She threads her fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp.

“You cannot stay here,” Dimitri gasps, as if he is choking on his own tears, “You've seen what I can do—”

“I will stay,” Byleth says, and she tilts his face up with both hands. “With you.”

“Leave,” he says, sounding less like a threat and more like an entreaty. 

“No,” she says. 

“Leave!” he screams, surging to his feet and away from her, chest heaving. 

She stares up at him and he stares back, and after a moment, Byleth lifts up her hands, as if to say come back.

“Dimitri,” she says, softly. “Are you afraid of me?”

He hesitates before answering. It is a long moment before he sinks back to his knees, and Byleth lowers her hands with him. Still he does not take them. 

“No,” he says tiredly. Even as her light burns, even as he tells her to leave. It's not fear that she strikes in him every time she counters him. 

She smiles.

“Nor I, you,” she says. “Come.” 

Slowly, he takes her hands, then lowers his head back into them. 

“I cannot win against you,” he murmurs. 

She strokes his cheek with her thumb. 

“You can, in other fields,” she hums. “But in this, I will not allow.”

DImitri lets out a choked laugh, and the two fall into silence, staying so still they could be a painting. 

The rest of the Blue Lion House take a moment before they peel away from the side of the walls of the cathedral, only daring to speak when they are a safe distance away. 

“Well, that was certainly something to see,” Sylvain says, his tone as suggestive as ever, but his expression belies him. He's far more pensive, his eyes far softer than anyone's ever seen them. 

“The Professor will be okay,” Mercedes says again, smiling. “And...eventually, Dimitri will be too.” 

“I agree,” Dedue says quietly. 

“But let's offer our support where we can!” Annette says, pumping her fists. “After all—even the Professor needs help sometimes. If we can't exactly help with His Highness...we can at least help the Professor help him, right?”

“That's right!” Ashe nods decisively. “Which means, we should make sure they eat tomorrow morning, if they skipped dinner tonight.”

The others begin to discuss plans on what they can do, while Sylvain and Ingrid look to Felix. He meets both of their gazes then scowls, crossing his arms. 

“It's pathetic, to see him like that,” he says, looking away. “And it shouldn't be the Professor's responsibility to recreate a man from the pieces he's made of himself.”

And yet, he'd made the request of her as well. Because he knows that she's the only one capable of it, even as it is unfair.

“Poetic,” Sylvain comments, and Felix glares. 

“Perhaps not,” Ingrid concedes, “But...nor is our Professor a fool. She made the choice because she wanted to.”

Felix says nothing. He knows. After a moment, he lets out a deep sigh. Sylvain and Ingrid smile at him, which he ignores. Very little gets past childhood friends, anymore. 

The next morning, breakfast is brought to Byleth's room with an extra plate made up for Dimitri, and she greets them with slow blinks. 

“Let us know what we can do, Professor!” Annette says, determined.

“Anything at all,” Ashe adds earnestly.

Byleth blinks at them a few more times before her lips quirk up into a slight smile. 

“Thank you,” she says.

For the moment, everything seems like it will be okay. 

.

Rodrigue dies.

They watch Dimitri break down again on the battlefield as he holds the man in his arms. The battle against Claude and then Edelgard had not been easy, either physically or mentally. When he finally faces the Emperor, the madness within him flares up again as he issues his threats upon her retreat. But the young soldier girl and her knife and Rodrigue blindsides all of them, including Dimitri, and he nearly becomes undone again.

But it's different, now, than when he escaped from the Empire's prisons all alone.

Byleth kills the girl with some regret; she thinks she knows who she might be, but—Byleth too has things to protect, and she is the more skilled of the two of them. Afterwards, she drops to her knees in front of Dimitri as he sits shell-shocked, cupping his face and bringing her own near, forcing him to look at her until he focuses on her—her eyes, her hair, her hands, her scent. 

“Are you with me?” she says, breath warm, “If only for the moment?”

Numb, he nods. 

“We bury him,” she says, her eyes kind but hard, “And then we must leave. Do you understand?”

He nods again. She wipes away the tears that he didn’t realize are sliding down his cheeks and presses a kiss to his forehead. 

When she gets to her feet and turns, she sees Felix first, Sylvain and Ingrid beside him. Dedue, Ashe, Mercedes, and Annette are behind them.

“We bury him,” Felix echoes, his face blank. He does not look at Dimitri, nor does Dimitri look at him. 

Other soldiers come forward who want to help bury a man they admired, a hero of the land. When the deed is done, Dimitri whirls away without a word to anyone, and Byleth glances at him, and then to Felix, who is already looking at her.

“Go,” he says, and he sounds—exhausted.

There is a moment where Byleth doesn't move, then closes the distance to wrap her arms around Felix, who goes still in her embrace. He pats her back awkwardly, and the side of his lip quirks up at this uncharacteristic display from their Professor. This was treatment reserved for Dimitri. 

“I'm not the one who needs you,” he says, not unkindly. 

She pulls away, stares into his dark eyes. 

“Perhaps not. But you have me, nonetheless. All of you.”

She looks up, nods to the rest of her team, then takes off after Dimitri. 

Sylvain and Ingrid move into the space Byleth had occupied, each putting an arm around Felix. He sighs again, trying halfheartedly to push them away, but they press in even more until he finally leans into them. 

Annette sings, Mercedes prays, Dedue and Ashe stand solemnly in respect.

“You're all idiots,” Felix grumbles, and they say nothing. There's no bite to it at all.  But a few moments later, so quietly they almost miss it, he speaks again. “Thank you.”

They don't even tease him, merely stand in the rain for a moment longer, until Annette's voice is drowned out by the downpour. 

.

They fight in the rain. 

“You cannot go to Enbarr,” Byleth says, tone hard, as she steps out in front of him, and she can see the raging turmoil in Dimitri's eye, the tension without release thrumming in every muscle. 

“Get out of my way. Death is the end, Professor, and the burdens of hatred and regret...they fall on the shoulders of those left behind. I must continue down this path—I already told you as much. It is far too late to stop.”

“You're wrong.”

His lips quirk up into a bitter, scathing smile. 

“Do not waste your breath with some nonsense about how I should move on with my life for their sake. That is merely the logic of the living. It's meaningless.”

Byleth stares at him and her lips thin. She cannot let him go, will not let him go, and that, at the very least, is not meaningless. 

She puts a hand on her sword, tilting her head in question, then her chin up in challenge, and Dimitri blinks once before something like relief washes over his face as he spins his lance and strikes. He is lost, lost again, and he doesn't know what to do, but fighting—fighting is familiar, too much so. 

Byleth is skilled with several weapons and far stronger than her frame suggests, but Dimitri's strength has no equal. And so she applies tactics that she hasn't needed to use in a long, long time—so-called dirty tactics. She flings mud into his face and trips him into it, trying to hold him there, but he squirms out of her slimy grip and lunges, the two of them rolling once, twice, before Byleth knees him in the stomach. He grunts and she springs away, releasing the bladed whip of her sword. Dimitri deflects it with a well-timed flick of his lance, having seen the move often enough, and catches it with his other hand, fingers protected by his gauntlets though its sharpness cuts into even them. He pulls, and Byleth narrows her eyes as she retracts the whip, bringing him closer, and lifts her leg to kick him. She aims true, but doesn't pull away fast enough, and he grabs her leg and throws her. She skids in the mud, planting her sword in the ground to stop herself, and leaps up again, expression still impassive. 

His eye flickers warily as he opens and closes his fist, as if he can't quite believe what he'd done. He spins his lance again and grips it more tightly in anticipation of her next move. She spins her own sword, adjusting her grip, and walks forward slowly, keeping her eyes trained on him. 

Dimitri blinks—and suddenly she's gone, flashing before him, and the next moment he's flat on his back. He makes to get up, only to feel a slight pressure insisting he stay down, and when he finally manages to open his eyes and catch the breath that's been knocked out of him, he sees Byleth with a foot on his chest and the tip of her sword hovering under his chin.

When he looks up at her, she touches the blade to his skin and tilts his chin up, just a little, and smiles, just a little. 

“You cannot go to Enbarr,” she says again, with the tone of one who expects to be obeyed, and he almost laughs.

“Not like this, certainly,” he agrees, groaning. 

She steps off, and Dimitri half-rises from the ground, using his lance as support. He hurts, between whatever move Byleth had just used, and the recent stab wound from that young girl. She hadn't gone easy on him despite it, and the realization warms him, oddly enough. 

“Tell me, Professor, since you seem to have all the answers,” Dimitri says after a moment, staring at the mud. “Those who died with lingering regret...they will not loose their hold on me so easily. Please, tell me...how do I silence their desperate pleas? How do I save them? Ever since that day nine years ago...I have only lived to avenge the fallen. Even my time at the Officer's Academy was all so I could secure my revenge and clear away the regret of the dead. It was the only thing that kept me alive...my only reason to keep moving forward...”

Byleth drops to her knees, but he does not lift his head, rivulets of water dripping down his hair and his face. 

“You've suffered enough, Dimitri.”

Her voice is soft and sad, but she says them like a benediction. 

“But then who...or what...should I live for?”

There's a pause before she speaks again. 

“...For what you believe in.”

His head jerks up, his eye swimming with anguish and uncertainty, question ready on his lips. But his breath catches before he can speak; Byleth is staring at him with such intensity that it awes him. 

“For a world where no one is ever unjustly taken from us,” she continues. “For the justice of Duscur. For the man you wanted—want—to be. There are things you believed in and still believe…you need only remember.”

Dimitri gapes at her as she speaks, the each word sinking into him slowly. Byleth smiles at him, tender and sweet, and she puts her hands to his cheeks.

“What I believe in...Rodrigue said the same thing. But is it possible? I am a murderous monster. My hands are stained red. Could one such as I truly hope for such a life? As the sole survivor of that day do I...do I have the right to live for myself?”

She touches her forehead to his.

“Come forward with me, Dimitri,” she whispers, her lips just barely brushing his as she speaks.

Hope flares, and he leans into her hands, covering them with his own, sighing. He’s not sure if he knows how to live for himself, not yet. But he thinks that there are some things he might want to live for.

“Your hands are so warm...have they always been?”

Hesitantly, he wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her closer. After another moment, he tucks his head into the crook of her neck and weeps. But this time, unlike previous times, he feels just a little bit lighter, and his future just a little bit clearer. 

She murmurs something once, then twice, but both are lost in the sound of the rain and his sobs. 

.

The rest of the Blue Lions minus Felix are waiting when they return to the monastery, watching with slight smiles as they watch Dimitri trail behind Byleth like a drowned puppy. 

Mercedes and Annette wait until they're closer to exclaim upon their sorry state, while Sylvain starts to laugh.

“What the hell were you doing out there? Mud wrestling?” he says, and Byleth shrugs.

“Something like that,” she says, slicking mud off of her arm. “We need a bath.”

“Together?” Sylvain follows up, waggling his eyebrows.

Byleth folds her arms into her signature thinking pose.

“It would be more efficient that way,” she concedes, and several of them choke.

Dimitri, to their surprise, flushes to the tips of his ears and looks away. 

Sylvain howls. 

“It sure would, Professor,” he says, “So why don't you and His Highness—”

“THAT,” Dimitri and Ingrid say loudly at the same time, and Dimitri sputters a little before holding up his hand to motion for Ingrid to continue speaking in his stead.

Amusement mixes with the indignation on her face, because right now, he's very much the Dimitri they're all familiar with, and it's a pleasure to see.

“That won't be necessary,” Ingrid continues, “We may be low on supplies, but water we have plenty of. And there's soapwort enough to go around if you aren't picky.”

“What a shame, eh Your Highness?” Sylvain snickers, putting an arm around Dimitri, not even caring about the mud. “Anyway, it's good to see you back.”

It's a casual declaration, and one that Dimitri can't quite process yet, but he's whisked away to the baths by Dedue and Sylvain and saved from responding. Ashe opts to make for the kitchens instead, to prepare something for Dimitri and Byleth to eat afterwards. The girls lead Byleth away with offers to help her wash up, and she smiles bemusedly and allows them their ministrations. 

“Thank you, Professor,” Ingrid says, as she works at Byleth's scalp with her nails.

Byleth hums, and does not accept nor deny the gratitude. Ingrid understands, but feels the gratitude nonetheless. 

“He needs the rest of you too,” Byleth says after a long moment, her voice sleepy. The girls are utterly spoiling her, with Ingrid at her hair, Annette working on her nails, and Mercedes massaging her face and shoulders. This has to be unfair, somehow. 

“We know,” Annette smiles. “But Professor, you're like...I don't think it's an exaggeration to say he needs you the most.”

“You're his heart and soul,” Mercedes says, and there's a pause. “And that's as dangerous as it is beautiful.” 

The girls are silent for a moment at this truth, and Byleth considers Mercedes' words. 

“I don't know if we know how to live any other way,” she says, distantly. “But if that is my place, then I will claim it.”

Ingrid, Annette, and Mercedes smile.

“We're very lucky to have you, Professor,” Mercedes says, and the other two murmur in agreement.

A faint smiles curves Byleth's lips.

“I think I'm the one lucky to have all of you,” she says quietly. 

She's practically asleep when they rinse her off the second time and put her in a soft tunic and skirt while her clothes are being cleaned. Mercedes seats her for a bit and does something with her hair while she dozes.

Sylvain is waiting outside with a salacious smile, but holds up his hands after Ingrid glares and makes a sharp gesture. 

“I'm just here to say that Dedue has brought His Highness to the dining hall, if you care to join him.”

The way he says it suggests that this is Sylvain's personal report, as opposed to being requested to do it. Byleth nods, and he turns to leave, but she stops him.

“Wait.”

He turns, and Byleth looks between him and Ingrid.

“Felix?”

Sylvain's eyes go a little glassy, and Ingrid's lips flatten, both of their postures going stiff.

“It’ll take some time, but he’ll be okay,” Sylvain says, his voice an awkward mix of airiness and seriousness, as if he himself doesn’t know how he wants to deliver the line.

Byleth stares at him until he sighs.

“Felix and his father have always had a complicated relationship since Glenn died,” he explains slowly. “And…his relationship with His Highness is the same.”

“He needs time alone for now,” Ingrid says. “But…you’ll probably see him in the training yard again soon. The sword has always been how he’s worked through things, after...everything.”

Byleth nods, and lets the matter rest for now. 

Sylvain decides to join them as they go to the dining hall, joking about how he's with a whole entourage of beautiful ladies, but none of them rise to the bait and he complains at the lack of reaction. 

The dining hall is empty save for them; Dimitri is sitting quietly with his meal as Ashe talks about the dish he prepared with Dedue. Byleth pauses at the doorway before joining them, observing. Though subdued, Dimitri looks...better. His hair is tied back, and without the cloak and armor, dressed in a loose shirt and breeches, he looks more boyish.

He looks up and catches sight of her, and his face blooms into a tentative and shy smile. 

She smiles back, and joins them at the table. The rest of the Blue Lions exchanges looks all around them; Sylvain mimes being blinded by the light when neither Dimitri nor Byleth are looking, and Ashe and Annette muffle a laugh while Mercedes titters. Even Dedue cracks a smile. 

When the two have eaten enough to satisfy their watchers, the rest of the Blue Lions take their leave, late into the night it is. Dimitri and Byleth stay behind for a moment longer, the silence stretching between them as they regard each other.

“I...must talk to Felix,” Dimitri says, and Byleth nods. 

“Then I will be in the training room for a whie,” she says, and Dimitri nods back.

There's nothing else to say, after that. Dimitri goes, Byleth goes, and though it is late already, there is still much of the night left.

.

(Felix lets Dimitri in, if only to get a better look at him. He crosses his arms and scoffs after a few minutes of scrutiny, even though he's satisfied with what he sees. 

“So a wild boar has regained some of its senses,” Felix says, his brown eyes hard. “What now?”

“Tomorrow I will make the announcement that we will march to Fhirdiad, to reclaim the capital,” Dimitri says, unwavering. 

Felix grunts. 

The two stand in silence, and Dimitri opens his mouth—

“I'm s—”

“Don't.”

He shuts it. There's a pause.

“Words are not enough. But I'm afraid I have little else to offer.”

Felix stares at him, face unreadable.  

“I'm not after words. I'm after actions. Glenn died for you. My father died for you. They both died for what they believed in, and that was you, and the kingdom that you'd rule. So show me what you can do...Dimitri.”

The use of his name isn't lost on him, even as the mention of Glenn and Rodrigue pain him. Since Duscur, Felix hasn't called him as such, and the fact that he is doing so now...

Dimitri will not forsake this show of...well. He's not entirely sure. It's something like trust, or confidence, or faith, but he knows that the relationship between him and Felix has changed since their childhood, and it will never return to what it was. But...they're moving forward. Felix is giving him a chance. 

“Of course,” Dimitri says. “It is my every intention to do so.” 

The two stare at each other in silence, before Felix brushes by him.

“Now get out,” he says, even though he's out the door himself.

Dimitri calls after him before he can get too far.

“The Professor said she'd be waiting in the training rooms for a while,” he says, and Felix stops and turns back to him.

“You owe that woman far more than just your life,” he says. 

“I know,” Dimitri replies. 

Felix smiles wryly, then turns on his heel and walks away. 

Dimitri closes Felix's door for him, and settles into his own room for the first time since his arrival to the monastery.)

.

Byleth turns and inclines her head in greeting when she hears Felix walk in. He doesn't return it, walking straight to the rack of training weapons, He deliberates a little; over the years, he's learned how to use axes, bows, and his fists in addition to mastering the sword. Byleth too is skilled in all of those, and so he has quite the range to work with, now. 

But in the end it's an easy choice; he picks up a sword, and so does Byleth, and the match begins without so much a warning. 

Felix picking up the sword was warning enough.

She drives him hard, and he meets the challenge she sets with enthusiasm. Her skills had been a bit rusty, in the beginning; the rest of them had five years of more consistent training on her after all, but she had caught up quickly enough; she had already been rather exceptional in her fighting prowess back then. Still their Professor, after all this time. 

Felix uses one combat art after another, and she counters them with ones of her own. It's always been a pleasure to fight against her; he's had a handful of wins since his student days, but she too is continuously improving. She may no longer be a mercenary, but the life of one cannot be discarded so easily; she hasn't given up her own training, and with the war...there's no shortage of actual fighting, either. 

She wins today, with a move he's never seen before. He raises an eyebrow, and she smiles faintly.

“I haven't worked it out completely yet,” she says. “I'll teach you once I have.” 

He nods. This one bout was good enough for tonight, and so they return the training swords to their places. Byleth doesn't offer any additional conversation, which Felix appreciates. 

“He owes you more than the life he has,” Felix says eventually, as they walk out together. 

Byleth glances at him.

“No one owes me anything,” she says. “I live according to what I want. It's harder now. My father...picked up where I lacked. But still.”

There's a pause.

“And I love him, I think,” she says, thoughtfully. 

Felix chokes, then turns it into a scoff.

“You wouldn't do as much as you are if you didn't,” he says.

Byleth looks at him, her eyes knowing. 

“Mmm.”

Felix flushes, and he snarls at her, but she smiles and he scowls harder. 

“As you will,” Byleth says, echoing a previous conversation of theirs.

“As I will,” Felix responds. “And as you will.”

Byleth nods. 

“Do not forget what I said at Gronder,” she reminds him, before they go their separate ways for the night. 

Felix stills, then nods. Byleth watches him go, but just before he rounds the corner, he turns back.

“…The same applies to you, Professor.”

He slips away after that. She smiles again, looking up at the moon before she makes her way back to her room. Briefly, she wishes Sothis were here the way she used to be. Byleth is—happy, she thinks, and wishes Sothis were here to share in it. 

She sleeps deeply that night. In her dreams, she hears a familiar voice—you've grown, I see—but once she wakes, she cannot remember what was said, only a sense of comfort that it was Sothis who had spoken. 

.

They take back Fhirdiad. 

Cornelia dies, leaving behind both new information and new mysteries with her last breath. It disturbs Dimitri, the revelation that his stepmother may have been the mastermind behind everything, and Byleth watches his eye cloud over. But he shakes his head and moves past his moment of darkness to focus on what needs to be done. 

“Come, Your Highness,” Gilbert says, “You still have some responsibilities that must be carried out. Your people have been patiently awaiting your return.”

Dimitri's eye goes wide.

“Do you mean...no. I can't bear to face them after all I—”

“You must face them,” Byleth says, before he can finish.

He looks at her with surprise, but nods after a moment.

“Professor...right you are, as ever. I am their king, after all...”

They walk towards the royal balcony, and Dimitri’s face is pinched as they do so. Byleth reaches out and pats his back, and Dimitri sucks in a deep breath before he straightens his spine and walks out to greet the citizens without any more hesitation.

The sight he sees shocks him—what seems like every person in Fhirdiad is crammed into the royal square and into every street he can see, cheering for him.

“What…is this?” he breathes, and Gilbert smiles.

“As you can see, the people are rejoicing at the return of their king.”

“Even though I turned my back on them, and fled the Kingdom in disgrace…”

Dimitri trembles, his voice wavering. 

“Even so, the spectacle before you does not lie. We are a Kingdom in need of a king, a hero to save the people from their long oppression. Your Highness…it is truly a blessing that you have returned.”

Dimitri swallows, his mouth opening and closing a couple times before he can get the words out. 

“Do I really have the right to stand here? Will they accept me as their king? Bloodstained as I am…am I fit to be king?”

His voice cracks, and tears begin rolling down his cheek.

“They’ve already accepted you,” Byleth says, stepping closer, just a little. “From here, you—we—move forward, together.”

He turns to her, and she blinks, reaching up a hand as if to wipe away his tears before she stops herself. Not here, where he is King, appearing in front of all his people. But Dimitri’s lips tug into a smile, eye bright with fervor.

“These are happy tears, my friend,” He explains, as he turns back to the crowd. “I am finally home again. Faerghus...how I missed you.”

He stands for a moment longer, then bows to the crowd before heading back inside. They roar even louder at this display of humility. 

The rest of the Blue Lions are waiting for him, most of them grinning from ear to ear.

“I think this, at least, calls for a celebration, don't you?” Sylvain smiles, his eyebrow raised in expectation.

“How can I refuse?” Dimitri says with a slight laugh, and the red-haired knight whoops. 

“Hell yeah! Let's get this party started!” he hollers, and the other soldiers who hear him begin cheering as well. 

Dimitri smiles. He doesn't even need to do anything to prepare—the soldiers and everyone else make the party happen, and so do the citizens outside the castle. They can't exactly let the place be overrun, but—they end up opening the courtyard, at least, so that everyone has more space for revelry. Soon, Dimitri is being plied with drink and food and swept alongside Sylvain's pace, and it is a little while before he realizes Byleth is missing. 

.

He finds her at the castle roofs, overlooking the city. 

She turns at his approach, smiling faintly, and he feels warm at the sight of it. 

“Hello, Professor,” he greets, “Have you grown tired of the festivities?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing,” she replies, tilting her head to motion him closer. He steps over, and they look out at Fhirdiad together. 

“It's more...that I find it difficult to be around everyone at the moment,” he confesses. “It's still hard to believe that I can...deserve this.”

She reaches up and he stoops a little so that she can cup his face with her hands. He smiles shyly at this familiar gesture. 

“You do,” she murmurs. “I know it will take time. But you do.”

He says nothing, only continues to look at her with a rueful expression, and she stares back willfully. 

“There are some things on my mind,” he says, after a while. “May I trouble you?”

“Tell me,” she insists.

He does. Dimitri tells her of his parents' graves, his thoughts about the upcoming battles and Edelgard. He confesses his concerns over being king—a good king, and his failures as a human being. 

“There are no instructions on how to be a human being,” Byleth says, her eyes distant. As the wind rustles her hair, Dimitri is reminded that this woman is Goddess-blessed, truly so, and wonders what her thoughts on humanity are. “So you can only try your best...and fight for what you believe in. You have your work cut out for you as king, certainly…but you are not alone. Remember that.”

There's something wistful about the way she says it, as if it doesn't apply to her. He reaches out for her, this time, to take her hand, somehow afraid that she might disappear.

“There is so much to do, it makes my head spin,” he says, “I will...need your help to do it.”

She blinks at him, seeming surprised, and for a moment he's—terrified, that he is overstepping his bounds, that she never intended to stay here, with him, with all of them. She tilts her head at him, and the silence drags on for a few heartbeats.

“I—forgive me, I didn't mean to trap you here, if you had wanted to travel—”

He lets go of her hands, but she reaches back out to grab them again. 

“A place,” she says, “Do I have a place here?”

“Of course!” Dimitri almost yells, scandalized. Her eyes widen at his expression. “How could you not? Always. With me, with all of us.”

Her smile is slow, and the warmth in her eyes is beautiful. 

“How strange,” she murmurs. “A place, a home.”

She lets his hands go after a moment, but she is still smiling at him, and he thinks, after the war, he should tell her.

A messenger arrives, bearing a plea for help from Claude, and the moment is broken, but there is nothing to regret. This is a war, after all, and there are things they must still do. 

.

The weeks fly by quickly, as they grow closer and closer to their confrontation with Edelgard until they day is finally here.

Claude leaves Fodlan after the battle in Derdriu, Dimitri and Edelgard speak in private to establish that there is only one way that this tension between them will end, and then they are storming Enbarr as their final battle. 

Edelgard's form in the throne room is—monstrous, strange, and there are too many questions to be asked with no answers, especially once she is struck down. Dimitri and Byleth are the only ones who bear witness, with their other friends and soldiers still fighting in other parts of the castle. 

There is no further conversation, as the demonic form melts away from Edelgard's skin and she falls to her knees. Dimitri reaches out a hand, she looks up at him and smiles faintly, and he is hoping, hoping—

Edelgard reaches into her cloak, Byleth puts a hand to the hilt of her sword, and Dimitri steps forward.

Areadbhar goes through the Emperor's chest easily, cleanly, and the childhood dagger in Dimitri's shoulder hardly even hurts. 

Edelgard tilts to the side with a dull thud. Dimitri removes the dagger and stares at it, the blade glistening with his blood. He'd given it to her as encouragement, so that she might carve a future for herself. She did, he supposes; or tried to. And now it has been returned to him. 

“Come,” Byleth says, her voice soft yet firm. 

He turns to follow her, feeling numb despite the victory. She opens the door, sunlight flooding into the room, but he stops short, turning back to look at his stepsister's body once more before he leaves her behind, should he even be leaving her behind—

Byleth threads her fingers with his, stopping him from walking towards Edelgard's remains. He hadn't even realized he was moving away from her side, and he looks at her, momentarily adrift. She doesn't say anything, turning once more and taking him with her. 

The daylight burns. 

Out on the balcony, he can see the continuing fights. He stumbles forward, looking to Byleth, and she nods.

“Go,” she says.

He goes. He grips the stone and pitches his voice as loud as he can.

“The Emperor is dead!” he yells, “Imperial soldiers! If you lay down your weapons now, we will treat you with mercy. Hear me, Enbarr! The Emperor is dead!”

The news carries slowly but surely through the battlefields, until the air is deafening with cries of triumph. Preoccupied with victory as they are, no one tries to look closely at their king's face; only Byleth is privy to his lack of smile. 

Dimitri is exhausted; he cannot muster up the proper joy that everyone else is feeling at the moment. Edelgard is dead, and so are several other students that he shared time at Garreg Mach with. So are thousands of soldiers that he does not know the faces or names of, and civilians as well. The war may be over, but there is still a staggering amount to do, and King Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd is so, so tired. 

His arm lifts not by his own volition and he looks down to see Byleth looping his arm over her neck as she ducks under and straightens, supporting his side. Because of her height and posture, it merely looks like he has put his arm around her. But he knows what the gesture means and is grateful for it; she is here by his side, she will weather what comes with him. 

“I'm here,” she says, as they watch the soldiers cheer.

“That you are,” he agrees. “Thank you.”

She smiles at him, and the sun feels less violent on his skin; it is warm and the light is energizing, as if it accepts him, as if he belongs there. 

.

She finds him in the Goddess Tower, after they return to Garreg Mach. The celebrations are still carrying on from the previous day, and Dimitri will not begrudge any of them their joy, but he himself is exhausted from and of the festivities. He wants—needs—quiet, and the topmost floor of the Goddess Tower is too troublesome a place for someone to merely stumble upon, even for a tryst. Byleth is either of the same mind or simply knows where to find him, but her presence is welcome, always so, and he smiles as she approaches. Encouraged that she isn't intruding, she comes to stand next to him, and Dimitri feels wholly at ease, now. 

“We find each other this way often, don't we?” he says, with a low chuckle. “Escaping big parties.”

She smiles at him, looking out at the lights. 

“I...don't think I'll ever like them,” she confesses. “They…overwhelm me easily.”

She never had cause for parties such as these, as a mercenary. But even Dimitri...

“I liked them more when I was a child,” Dimitri says, his eyes distant, “When I could spend them with Felix, Ingrid, and Sylvain. After we started growing up...I liked them less and less.”

Byleth looks at him, but says nothing. 

“In any case, the air here is refreshing. And the quietness here is...different...than the quietness on the battlefield. It is nice.”

She knows what he means. It's not silent; they can still hear the faint revelry, and the distant cheer is pleasant. Byleth watches as Dimitri closes his eye for a brief moment as a breeze passes, the air cool on their skin, and she shivers a little. 

“Forgive me. Are you cold?”

Dimitri unfastens his cloak and offers it to her. The air is chill but not unpleasantly so, but she likes his cloak and smiles a little as she takes it anyway, draping it around herself. He looks amused by how dwarfed she is in its folds, and when she buries her face in the fur, he laughs a little. 

It feels good to hear him laugh. 

The warmth from the fabric is immediate; the fur is soft, the garment smells like Dimitri, and she could fall asleep right here. She leans against the stone wall and closes her eyes for a moment, and she must have ended up actually dozing for a few moments because when she opens her heavy eyes, she realizes that Dimitri is staring at her, his emotions naked and vulnerable on his face, unmistakable.  

Her eyes widen.

Dimitri flushes red, from neck to ears. 

“I...I—” He stammers, bringing a hand up and turning away.

She reaches for him, fascinated, bringing his face back into view, and he turns redder, if possible. 

“Professor,” Dimitri squeaks, “It's just, I—”

“Dimitri,” Byleth murmurs. “Thank you.”

He blinks at her, confused, but she doesn't offer an explanation. 

“I...think those should be my words, Professor,” he says, shyly. “Much has changed, but you will always be the one who has guided me so kindly. My ally through all. My beloved...” He trails off, considering, then smiles. “Yes...my beloved.”

He takes a deep breath before he continues. 

“There is...something I wish to give you, before the coronation. Give me your hand, please.”

Byleth stares at the silver ring, the emerald bright even in the darkness of the tower. She stares at it so long that when Dimitri speaks again, he cannot hide his nervousness. 

“Please... I beg of you. Say something! If you do not wish to accept it, please just tell me. If so, I will face the truth and walk away.”

She shakes herself out of her stupor, and removes the thin chain around her neck, pulling it out of her clothes to reveal her mother's ring. 

“An exchange,” she says, as he holds out his own hand. “I love you,” she adds, if it wasn't evident, because he should know. 

His smile is—bright, so bright, and just as he finishes saying “And I, you—” she pulls him down to kiss him. It's quick and chaste but when she pulls away, Dimitri's eyes are wide and he picks her up and spins her, laughing. She smiles wide, and then she's laughing too as she puts her arms around his neck. He spins her round and round and they're dizzy when they kiss again, but as they do, Byleth marvels at this feeling, at the happiness that is so keen in her not-beating heart it almost hurts. 

.

A week before his coronation, she slips into his office, her face impassive. He rises from his chair and bends to kiss her cheek; she tilts up to meet him. 

“Will you forgive me,” she says solemnly, “If I leave for a while?”

He blinks and tilts his head a little in question, smiling slightly.

“I would forgive you for anything,” he says, and takes her hands. “But I'd very much like more details, if you could spare them.”

She smiles back, squeezing his fingers. 

“I will be here for the coronation, of course,” she replies. “But after that—I'd like to travel. Seteth and Rhea...you've heard they want me to be the new Archbishop. Five years ago, when they appointed me professor...I was not qualified for that. And now, as they want to appoint me Archbishop, I am not qualified either. But it is a position that could be used well, to go good, and better.” She looks out the window, eyebrows creasing slightly, her voice troubled. “I still do not understand the depth of their reasoning. Seteth would be a better choice, perhaps even Flayn. Yet, I am inclined to take it, even if it is not much a choice. But not now. I would travel first—a year, perhaps more. There are things that cannot be done from the walls of a castle or monastery.” she looks at him again. “Titles are no longer easily shed, now. You and the others cannot move so freely. But I can, for a bit. And I'd like to take advantage of that.” 

Very rarely has Byleth spoken so much at once, and Dimitri is mildly surprised to hear it. But he smiles again, and touches his forehead to hers. 

“After Fhirdiad, that night on the roof, do you remember what I said? I did not mean then to trap you here then; I would not trap you here now, or ever.”

“I know,” she says, leaning her head against his chest, her voice melancholy still.

“You do have my forgiveness, if you still wish it,” Dimitri tries again.

“I know,” she says, in the same tone. 

“I love you,” Dimitri says, quieter. “I will miss you.”

She wraps his arms around him and squeezes a little. She doesn't have to speak; he knows she means the same, and feels warm. 

He puts his own arms around her, and they stay there for a while, until the sun begins to dip and turns the room gold.

.

The weather is glorious, the day of the coronation. The sun is high, the sky clear and a brilliant blue. Excitement and joy crisp the air.

Supplies are scarce still, but those who can spare it scrape together what they are able to to furnish festivities—banners and little cakes and skewered meats, juices spiked with probably-contraband alcohol everyone turns a blind eye to.

Lady Rhea is pale and wan at the crowning but no less beautiful; Seteth and Flayn stand with her, as does Byleth. Though she will not be taking up the Archbishop's mantle quite so soon, the news of Byleth's eventual ascension in the next couple years has spread, and so no one finds it odd that she is there.

And Dimitri. He is solemn and poised at the ceremony, but when Rhea crowns him and he finally turns to face the crowd, his smile is bright, and radiant when the air vibrates with cheers. He relents to taking part in some post-coronation celebrations, sharing food and drink with nobles and commoners alike, dancing alongside the children and attempting their games.

Byleth smiles as she watches. She's never been one to mingle like this, but it feels wrong to slip away this time. She does, however, graciously accept the food she's being plied with by Ingrid and Annette and Flayn. Eventually, Dimitri finds his way over to her corner and takes her hands; the young ladies sigh, both dreamily and with slight disappointment, because any fool with eyes could see that what was between the new king and the eventual new Archbishop.

“Dance with me?” Dimitri murmurs, and Byleth tilts her head up at him, blinking.

“This, coming from someone who refused to dance in the White Heron Cup so strongly?”

Dimitri laughs; his friends turn to catch his expression, so light.

“Well...I never did manage to ask for a dance during the ball that year. I have regretted it since. Will you do me the honor of a dance today?”

Byleth smiles, bemused, and takes his hand as the musicians begin a ditty.

The King is a competent dancer, if lacking in grace, and his partner is stiff, though she eases up with more steps. Theirs is not an elegant nor impressive dance, but simple and natural and sweet.

“A dance!” someone roars, sounding suspiciously like Sylvain, and the guests laugh and pick a partner—anyone near and willing to participate, friends and family and strangers alike—and stomp their feet as the musicians pick up the tempo.

Dimitri and Byleth try vaguely to keep up but stick within the steps of their capability, watching the people around them swirl and clap and hop in time. Soon, everyone is laughing; the best dancers eventually are pushed into the middle where they and the musicians put their best skills to the test, and in the thrumming joy of King Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd's coronation, for the first time in years, it feels like everything will be alright.

.

She stays four days after the coronation, just enough time to share his bed and hold a council with their allies. The focused atmosphere of the room as they discuss matters of the Kingdom feels very much like their old war councils, though the subject matter is at least a little less grim. Still, there are bandits and pirates to be watched for, farmlands to revitalize, villages and towns and cities to rebuild. That, and alliances to be reforged, policies to enact, and people to bring together. The road ahead is daunting, but Dimitri finds enough comfort in his friends to keep putting one foot forward at a time.

All her former Blue Lions students see her off when she leaves, and though she is taking his heart with her, Dimitri stands proud. She smiles at him as he helps her up on her horse, and she faces all of them with a solemn expression.

“Take care, all of you,” she says.

“No need to worry about us, Professor,” Sylvain says, putting his hands behind his head in that carefree pose she knows so well. “We got this.”

“Don't get yourself killed out there,” Felix grunts, as if he doesn't have full confidence in her fighting prowess.

“Take care of yourself, Professor,” Ingrid says, smacking Felix for his remark, as usual. “Remember to eat.”

 “Come back soon, Professor!” Annette says cheerfully. “And write when you can!”

“I'll make sure to have some delicious pastries for you when you get back,” Mercedes adds, with a chuckle.

“Be careful,” Ashe says, faintly worried even though he knows he needn’t be, “Don’t be reckless.”

“Professor,” Dedue says, with a nod. “Travel safe, and swift.”

She smiles at all of them, her Blue Lions, and Dimitri takes her hand one more time.

“I will see you soon, my beloved,” he says, and Byleth nods.

“Soon,” she echoes, and bends down to kiss him before she canters off, not looking back to see the blush rise on his cheeks.  

Dimitri watches her go, in silence.

“Come on, Boar,” Felix says, not unkindly, as Sylvain claps Dimitri on the shoulder. “We've got our work cut out for us.”

“That, we do,” the King sighs, and he and his most trusted advisers walk back into the castle together.

.

Oddly enough, the months pass quickly. Dimitri does not have time to rest, though Dedue and Mercedes insist and take it upon themselves to be personal reminders. The rest of their friends have gone back to their respective territories for now, to handle their own more local issues; Dedue would never leave Dimitri's side, and Mercedes had chosen to turn her efforts to the churches and orphanages in Fhirdiad. Felix and Sylvain would be traveling back and forth every so often, their lands being the nearest, but it would probably be awhile until they saw Ingrid, Annette, and Ashe again.

It’s strange, to be distant from them all as a group, when they had spent the last couple years fighting a war together.

But. Times were different now, and it wouldn't do to get caught up in memories.

“Your Majesty,” Dedue says. The door is open, but he knocks once on the frame anyway. “I’ve brought you some tea, and a repast.”

“Thank you, Dedue,” Dimitri says, without looking up. “Please, set it down wherever there is space.”

Indeed, most surfaces are covered by paperwork now, as well as stacks of books and newspapers, and various containers of various samples from various regions. Dedue looks around before carefully nudging aside a small stack of journals on the low table, setting down the tray. He looks back at Dimitri, whose focus is directed at the report in his hand, eyebrows furrowed and expression grave.

“You are overdue for a break, Your Majesty,” Dedue says, and Dimitri still does not look up.

“Yes, I will eat after I finish this,” he says absentmindedly, flipping to another page.

Dedue is silent for a moment.

“It would be prudent to take your break now,” he continues, his tone even. “As you read this letter that has arrived for you.”

Dimitri’s head jerks up, his entire body snapping to attention.

“A letter? From who?” he says, his tone both hopeful and disbelieving.

Dedue merely smiles.

“It is time for a break, Dimitri,” he says, gesturing to the sofa, and Dimitri lets out a short bark of laughter before rising from his desk. Once he has taken a few sips of tea and two bites of sandwich, Dedue nods his head in satisfaction and leaves the room so that the letter may be read in privacy.

Dimitri’s hands are trembling as he slits open the envelope, his first name printed neatly and without adornment on the front.

The contents are a single small page, quite brief, but it brings a smile to his face nonetheless. He hadn’t expected a long missive—Byleth never had cause to write letters the way nobles did, with flowing introductions and roundabout ways to say what they wanted. The letter is short and to the point, but carefully thought out, very much like the way she speaks.

Dimitri, it reads, I think I have gotten used to the cold in Faerghus. But I miss your fur cloak, and sitting in it with you.

I am well. Reports of bandits should be dwindling. They too are displaced and desperate; I have sent those who will listen to Sylvain and Ashe. They’ll have work for them. Some have demanded to stay with me; I suppose we’ve become a mercenary group. I enjoy it; it reminds me of my father. If they turn out good enough and are still with me at the end, perhaps we can make knights of them, though I have not yet told them who I am.

I am due West next. There is a group of volunteer doctors I’d like to get ahold of.

Remember to sleep.

She signs off as Byleth, and he brushes his fingers over the letters. It is somewhat strange to see it printed there; Professor had become less of a title and more of a moniker over the years. And then, to him, she was Beloved. But she had a lovely name, and seeing her signature endeavored him to call her by name properly when she returned.

He smiles at the last line; even far away it feels like she sees through him. 

He cannot pen a response; she travels too much for there to be any reliability it would reach her. Instead, Dimitri finishes the food Dedue has left for him and lays down on the sofa; he puts the letter on his chest and closes his eyes.

He sleeps.

.

Recovery is a long and arduous road; Dimitri has good days and bad, though the former now outweighs the latter. Still, there are days Dimitri is choked by the mantle of responsibility he wears, as well as the ghosts that have never quite left.

(Edelgard is among them, now. Had she not been willing to sacrifice so much of what was not quite hers to sacrifice, she would have been an excellent Emperor. He is glad that he was able to speak with her towards the end, even though the answer was still the same between them. She was always strong, and bold in her methodology back at the Academy. Sometimes, he lets himself think that in a different world, he would have been pleased to ask her advice on occasion.)

There are days where he locks himself in his office, or chambers, and allows no one in for hours. Dedue and Mercedes leave food by the door; sometimes he takes it and sometimes he doesn’t.

But. He is improving, in these moments.

More often, now, he can gather just enough of himself to take out Byleth’s letters and read them over and over with shaking hands, until he has mind enough to unlock the door. Sometimes he will find Dedue, and ask to turn his hands in the greenhouse, or some other sort of manual labor. Sometimes he will seek Mercedes, and sit with her by a window and once more attempt embroidery, which takes every ounce of his focus not to break the needle.

He still sleeps badly. He still speaks aloud, sometimes, to those who aren’t there. He still retreats to a place where very few can reach.

But he remembers his friends, and Byleth, and the times he spent crying into her lap or her hands. How patiently she bore him, then. And without her here, how patiently he must now bear himself.

.

A year passes, and a half, and then two.

Dimitri sends aid where he can, writes decree after decree, bill after bill, fights tooth and nail against nobles who still too comfortable with their own power to have his plans instilled. 

It becomes common to see King Dimitri and his retainer in the market after especially difficult and frustrating meetings. He is still a sight to behold, with his height and eyepatch and frustrated countenance, as is his retainer who often accompanies him with his stoic face and solemn air. But the townspeople have also grown quite familiar with them as well. The children like to climb both of these tall men like trees and sit on their shoulders as they peruse the market, steering them to their own parents’ stalls; King Dimitri’s face is always softer by the end of these walks, and if they’re lucky Dedue will also grace them with a smile.  

The seasons are just about turning again, from spring into summer, and Garland Moon is upon them. The markets are teeming with blooms, carefully cared for to maximize their freshness; Dimitri smiles as he passes today. He stops in front of a stall with a bucket of small, light blue flowers; they have a slightly greenish tint as well, reminding him suddenly of Byleth’s hair.

“I know that look. Weaving a special garland, Your Majesty?” the older woman running the stall says with a kindly smile. “I’ll cut you a good deal.”

Dimitri laughs, brushing a finger against one of the petals.

“Perhaps I should,” he murmurs.

The shopkeeper looks at him a little pityingly, but he doesn’t mind. His beloved’s identity is well known, even though she hasn’t been seen in these past two years. Letters to Dimitri have also grown scarce, and he cannot help but worry. He misses her dearly, and is not ashamed for it.

He buys the green-tinted ones and a few other flowers at the shopkeeper’s recommendation. People smile at him as he makes his way back to his office, arms full of flowers, and he sets to weaving them into a garland with careful hands. He had been taught in his Academy days by Annette and Mercedes and Ashe, and last year Mercedes had given him a refresher course. He’d woven a couple lopsided garlands to place at the graves of his parents, and a few more for others whose graves were elsewhere. Glenn and Rodrique, in Fraldarius territory. And Edelgard, in Enbarr.

The last he makes with particular focus, using the almost-mint flowers and a few white ones. He’s pleased with the result—actually uniform—even if there’s no chance of him being able to give it to the intended recipient. Dimitri allows himself a wistful sigh before he gathers up all the garlands and begins making his way to the castle cemetery. 

Perhaps tribute is no longer necessary, but…there are still tributes he wants to make, in honor, in love, in respect.

.

(In the market a little bit later, the same shopkeeper who sold the King his flowers sells another bunch of the bluest blooms she has to a traveler in a well-worn cloak.

“For a garland, traveler?” the shopkeeper says cheerily, “I’d recommend these as well—the King himself bought some not too long ago.”

“Did he, now?” the traveler says, her voice quiet and lower than one might expect. When she lifts her head from the display, the shopkeeper blinks. There’s something familiar about the face, those bright blue-green eyes, the impassive expression. “I will stick with these, I think.”

The shopkeeper completes the transaction without attempting any further marketing, still trying to figure out who this person is. It bothers her that the answer is on the tip of her tongue—the eyes, the tendrils of hair peeking out from the hood, the face…just who—

By the time the woman’s identity hits her full force, the not-so-stranger is already walking away, in the direction of the castle.)

.

(The traveler lets her hood down as she nears the castle gates, and one of the guards recognizes her almost immediately. She supposes there aren’t many with her particular shade of hair and eyes, but plenty people don’t know who she is. This guard must have seen her at one of the few public events she was present for—probably the coronation, or the following festivities. His entire face had lit up at the realization; he waves her through with impatient movements, and she gives him an amused look as she passes.

She is not dressed properly for a visitor to the castle, but she still knows the halls well enough to look as though she has a purpose, and thus attracts less attention than she might otherwise. Those who recognize her do double-takes and gape; she nods her head in acknowledgement before moving on, and none of them stop her.

Dimitri is not in his chambers or his office; there are other places she could check, but instead she sits on the sofa of his office and begins weaving the flowers in her arms into a garland. It doesn’t take very long, and as she checks its shape, a startled clatter sounds from the doorway, and she looks up to see Dedue staring at her with wide eyes, having almost dropped the tray in his hands.

“You’re back,” he says, and though the words are blunt his tone is warm.

Her eyes crinkle in amusement; how rare it is, to see Dedue caught so completely off guard like this.

“I am,” she says.

There are many conversations to be had, so much to catch up on, but instead Dedue smiles and sets down the tray of tea and pastries.

“He went to the cemetery,” he says, reaching out to shake her hand in welcome. “But I suspect he’ll be back soon.”

“I’ll go,” she says, as he expected her to.

“I’ll have more food prepared for you upon your return, and send word to Mercedes,” Dedue says, and she nods her head in thanks as she sweeps out of the room.)

.

He is crouching by the graves of his parents when she finds him, speaking soft prayers into the air.

Dimitri turns when he hears the gate creak. It takes him a moment to process who he’s seeing.

He wonders if he’s dreaming.

She smiles at his shock, and as she nears, he reaches out his hand.

“A ghost?” he asks, voice trembling.

“No ghost,” Byleth responds, taking his hand, interlacing their fingers. “I’ve brought you a gift.”

She places her garland on his head, and he rises from his position slowly, as if she might dissipate if he moves too fast.

“It turns out I have one for you as well,” he whispers. He crowns her with his own garland that he didn’t think he’d be able to give her, then cups her cheeks gently. “You’re really here?”

“I’m here,” she murmurs, placing her hands over his.

He lets out a soft breath. Dimitri envelopes her in a hug, careful of his strength, burying his face in the crook of her neck, and she wraps her arms around him, squeezing tightly.

“I’m glad you’re safe,” he says against her neck, and she laughs softly.

“What have you been up to, these past two years?” she asks, an echo of a more bitter conversation long ago.

“Living, more or less,” he says as he pulls back, with some humor; if he thinks back on it, it’s been a blur of constant work. “May I tell you about it over tea?”

“Yes,” Byleth says, and tilts up to kiss him.

They’re both smiling when they part, and he hugs her again before lifting her up in his arms. She laughs softly and slings an arm around his neck, looking perfectly at ease with this carry. He’s shyer as they make their way back into the castle, but also proud and unable to stop smiling. They stop any passersby in their tracks—one, because the King is positively beaming, and two, Byleth’s presence is a surprise, whether they recognize her or not. Those who don’t know her learn her identity quickly; if the King himself wasn’t enough of a clue, the exclamations from those who had glimpsed her earlier fill in the blanks. Excitement begins to buzz in the air again as the news of Byleth Eisner’s return passes from mouth to mouth.

Dimitri and Byleth and Dedue take tea as all of this is happening; Mercedes rushes in just a few moments later, bearing handmade sweets that she’d made just this morning. The friends catch up as much as they can, but eventually Dedue and Mercedes beg leave to return to their own duties, though the controlled politeness of their excuses is telling. Byleth gives them amused looks as they leave; they smile back.

“Will you be staying?” Dimitri asks, and winces at the sheer hopefulness in his voice.

“I had not yet told Rhea and Seteth I would be returning,” she responds, smiling a little over her teacup. “And I am a bit new to the city. I will need a room.”

Dimitri laughs.

“I’m afraid my rooms are rather bare,” he says, “But may I offer you their humble space?”

“I think they will suffice,” Byleth says, and he smiles.

.

He wakes choking back a gasp, struggling to get his breathing under control.

It’s late into the night, though how late he’s unsure. A beam of moonlight filters into his room, and he relaxes a little more when he sees Byleth lying next to him, still sleeping. He lies there for another two counts or so before slowly slipping out of the bed, so as not to disturb her.   

He tugs on some loose pants but doesn’t bother with a shirt, quietly walking out to the balcony and gripping the balustrades, breathing deeply. The nights are still chill, but he is Faerghus-born, and so he feels very much at home in it. Still, it is only a matter of time before his skin begins to feel numb, and he retreats back inside, feeling at least a little bit calmer. He doesn’t remember what he was dreaming about in detail, but he often dreams of the same things—the Tragedy of Duscur, his imprisonment, any and all of the people who have died in his lifetime. Though his heart rate is slowing back down to a normal pace, his mood and shoulders are now heavy, and it will be a challenge to fall back asleep in this state.

Byleth sits up when he clicks the door to the balcony shut, the blankets sliding off of her body, and she doesn’t bother pulling them up to save modesty, her entire countenance exuding sleepiness.

“I woke you,” Dimitri says apologetically, keeping his voice low, “Please, go back to sleep.”

She mumbles something, sliding out of bed as well, to his dismay. She still seems half-asleep as she makes her way over to him, tugging him towards the chaise. He sits on the arm after some light pushing on her side, and she remains standing as she rests against him and hugs him around the neck, her cheek on the top of his head. A chuckle rumbles low in his throat, and he wraps his arms around her waist, sighing into the crook of her arm. His skin must be freezing if hers is so warm from the bed, but still, she holds him tight.

“Did I look so pathetic?” he asks, with a wry smile.

“Merely troubled,” she replies. “And lost.”

He sighs again.

“Only a nightmare,” he says, “Not unusual.”

She murmurs an acknowledgement, pulling away from him, and he stops a noise of protest from rising in his throat.

Byleth tilts her head and smiles, taking his hand, moving further back.

“Come back to bed,” she says, and stepping into the beam of silver moonlight, smiling as she is, standing unadorned and unashamed, she looks a dream.

Dimitri doesn’t have words; he lets himself be led back underneath the blankets. Byleth presses her forehead to his.

“I’ll guard your dreams,” she says, and he smiles.

“How can you do that?” he asks, with a slightly cheeky lift of his chin.

“I’m here,” she responds, brushing back his hair.

“Yes,” he says, closing his eye, “I am glad you are.”

.

It’s late morning by the time he wakes, and his body is heavy with sleep. He swims back up to consciousness slowly, focusing first on the fact that his hand is holding another, and he traces up the arm and shoulder and neck until he meets Byleth’s eyes.

She’s sitting with her knees drawn up, a sheaf of papers in her lap and one sheet in her free hand, partially dressed in a very loose shirt that he vaguely recognizes as his.

“Good morning,” she says.

“Good morning, Beloved,” he responds thickly, blinking a few times to chase the grogginess away. In his hazy, half-conscious state, he thinks idly that this must be what true happiness is, waking up to the one you love so dearly.

As he lies there, taking his time to fully come out of sleep, he slowly notices the strength of light filtering into his chambers—too strong—and rises abruptly.

“What time is it? I’ve overslept,” Dimitri says, looking around frantically, but Byleth reaches over to squish his cheeks together, tampering down his panic.

“You have,” she admits, “But the Kingdom is still standing. Dedue came to check not too long ago. We both agreed your prolonged sleep was necessary.”

“The reports—”

“The Kingdom is still standing,” Byleth repeats. “And will continue to stand. Will you take breakfast with me?”

He blinks at her.

“Of course,” Dimitri says, still somewhat disoriented, especially by the abruptness of subject change, but Byleth nods and gets out of bed first, stretching her arms.

“Help me dress?” she asks, looking back at him, and Dimitri softens.

“Of course,” he repeats.

Mercedes had sent up more court-appropriate clothing for her, and though Byleth is still unused to the length and style of the dresses, they are still undeniably beautiful garments. Dimitri brushes the tangles in her hair out with exquisite care, and zips her into her chosen gown of pale blue and gold. Afterwards, she helps Dimitri into his own clothes, tying back half his hair for him. They smile as they assess each other, and Dimitri opens the door for her with a gentlemanly gesture.

“Dedue said he’d prepare breakfast,” Byleth says as they walk together, “I have missed his cooking.”

“I expect he will provide us with quite the spread this morning, then,” Dimitri says, chuckling.

They cross a shadowed part of the hallway and Dimitri stops for a moment, realizing, suddenly, how easy this feels. Just as she had so many years ago, she’s slotted herself back in so neatly, as if nothing has changed, as if no time has passed between them. How happy he’s been since her return, and also, how carelessly carefree—

“Dimitri,” Byleth says, and he snaps his attention to her, though her tone had been soft, gentle.

She smiles, eyes knowing, and holds out her hand.

“Shall we go?” she asks, and Dimitri gives himself a little shake.

“Yes,” he says, as he moves forward. “I’m coming.”

He takes her hand and kisses her knuckles, offering his arm like a proper escort.

They descend the stairs together.

[writerfangirlbooks]

Memories

Castiel x Reader

Prompt: Castiel takes care of you, both fallen angels, after you were cursed and lost your memory.

Word Count: approximately 2150

Credit to gif owner!

"I need you to wake up, Y/N, please." A deep and masculine voice spoke above you.

The world shifted from darkness and opened to blinding lights for a few seconds and repeated for a few times before you were able to focus your view on a person above you. You felt yourself analyzing without thinking about it, sensing the worry from the being next to you. Familiarity filled the room as you worked to sit up, but unable to place a name on... well, anything.

"Wh-" You were unable to finish an out-loud thought.

Your throat felt funny. Scratchy? Maybe that was the correct terminology. You focused on what appeared to be a man next to you. The first thing you took notice of was the color blue. It was the brightness in his wide eyes. Blue. You got flashes and were able to name the views to specific words. Ocean. Sky. Some types of garments called jeans.

"How do you feel?" The voice asked confirming it was the man in the room.

Yes, it was a room you were in. What type of building were you in? You wondered. Descriptions floated across your brain: house, mansion, apartment, store, and many more.

"I feel... dizzy," you decided.

Dizzy was accurate. The earth seemed to be moving around you and when the man's hand moved towards you, there were a few hands shadowing it. You flinched when his warm hand touched your forehead. The last person that touched you had not been so gentle, this you were positive of. His eyebrows creased together. You understood this meant he was concerned.

"I am unable to heal you. I am incredibly sorry, Y/N," the man said, pulling his hand away.

"Y/N?" You questioned.

Talking made it difficult to swallow and your eyes welled with tears. Why on earth would you be crying? You felt no pain. In fact, you felt very little. The man's mouth parted slightly, indicating surprise or shock. He placed a hand in yours and you instinctively intertwined fingers. You gasped, embarrassed, and undid the last action, but left your palms touching. With his left hand, the man reached over to a table beside the bed you were lying in and handed you an uncapped bottle filled with water.

"That is your name. I'm afraid this means you are telling me you no longer know who you are." He paused before quietly asking, "Do you remember who I am?"

You shook your head. His eyes fell downcast. You began to sip the water before the majority of the bottle was gone. You took a ragged breath afterward, already feeling some strength returning. Yawning, you felt able to sit upwards. You held the man's hand tightly for support as you did this. He watched as you did this, seeming to be momentarily at a loss for words.

You stretched forward and set the bottle in its previous spot. Looking around the room, the walls were a calm gray. The closed-door was wooden. There was nothing personal that you noticed. It was simply a bed, the chair the man was sitting in, the bedside table, a closet door, and a door to the hallway. You swallowed a few more times for practice until you felt comfortable to use your voice again.

"I can tell that you are very familiar to me. I feel like I should be able to trust you. I can remember a few events. I have no recollection of who you are. I don't even know my own name," you told him.

The last statement brought the tears back to your eyes. This time it was not because of the physical pain from your body but an emotional sorrow. You didn't understand why that was happening. One thing was clear to you and that was an immense sadness that you could not claim to know who you were or how you knew this person. You felt empty. The understanding of concepts large and small made perfect sense. You were able to picture yourself on a beach, relaxing, but were unable to make out anyone that was next to you. You could smell your favorite coffee and put a name to it. Objects and events were becoming clearer yet names and people remained unknown.

"I-I'm sorry. That must be very difficult to experience. My name is Castiel and yours is Y/N. I would like to assist you with rediscovering yourself. I understand it's only been a few minutes, but have your conditions changed?" He asked.

"I do feel better, physically, at least. Not as weak. Or dizzy," you added.

Castiel nodded and appeared to be pondering a new idea. You mouthed your own name a few times to get used to it. Nothing clicked. You did the same with Castiel. Shaping the word on your lips seemed easier than your own, almost more comfortable. You were positive you had said it a lot. You decided to push your luck and attempt standing. Using his hand for extra strength, you tossed your legs over the side of the bed and wobbly stood up. Castiel stood up with you, moving his other hand to your back for steadiness.

You took a few breaths and blinked back a few more tears, working to control the shaking your body was tempted to let control you. Refusing to let that happen, you pushed your feet forward and moved a few paces. Castiel let you go.

"I can do this," you muttered.

You walked over to the door and successfully made it back. Only somewhat satisfied, you sat back down on the bed. Castiel asked for permission before sitting down on the bed next to you. He pushed the chair away. Wordlessly, you held out your hand and he took it with a kind smile.

"You did great," he assured you. "This will be strange to hear so I ask you to remain calm. Before I propose my idea, I think it is imperative that you know not just who we are, but what we are."

You could not figure out how to process that sentence because of how strange it was.

"That was very vague and I do not understand. I believe I should trust you, so please do not disappoint me. I am as calm as can be given the circumstance," you told him.

Castiel nodded again. He anxiously ran his tongue over his lips. His blue eyes flickered to the right before going back to you. This made you want to reach over to cease his worries, but the unknown was strong enough to convince you his hand in yours was enough for the time being.

"You and I are angels of the Lord. We have been good friends for a very long time, centuries in fact. Not too long ago, there was a Fall, and we became human. During that time, I experienced real love for the first time, and I believe you did too. I became involved in working with some humans that hunted monsters, and you joined me occasionally. About a week ago, there was a messy case that involved a clan of witches... I wasn't fast enough to get to you. You were cursed and rendered unconscious. Our grace, that we possessed as angels, is only available in fragments now, so I hoped I would be able to reinstate your health, but it appears that is not the case. I cannot imagine how much this is to take in, so before you say anything, I am going to offer an idea. Two, actually. I would like to jog your memory using the places we have visited. This can be done broken into increments where I can access your brain, something I have gained access to do recently, and show it to you here. Or we could actually go visit them, which would take quite a bit more time. As angels, we had the ability to simply think of where we wanted to go, and within one blink, we were there. That was one of the many things we no longer can do. I know that this is quite a lot to process, so I understand if you won't have a decision right away."

Castiel spoke to you, slow and sincerely. He believed each and every word he said, which made you want to do the same. What he was asking of you had to be absolutely insane. Go through your brain and access memories you don't remember experiencing or traveling with someone you don't remember knowing, or apparently loving, and reliving these adventures? They were both very exciting and intriguing options while being wild and surprising options.

You waited a few minutes in silence. Castiel's hand remained firmly in yours, patiently waiting. It was shocking how at ease you felt at making this decision quickly. It was simple. After another deep breath, you were able to communicate your answer.

"When do we leave?"

-

After more rest, hydration, and a shower, you felt rejuvenated and prepared to discover who you were. As disappointing as it was that you weren't getting memories back quickly, you felt reassured knowing you weren't going through this alone.

Your first stop was to tell the hunters what the plan was. Well, Castiel was, anyways. He informed them he would be gone for a while and did not know yet when he would return. Castiel admitted to you that he was new to driving and sheepishly said he was not the best. You assured him that was okay with you and that it was probably for the best you did not drive. He smiled at that.

Soon the pair of you had traveled all over, mostly by driving. You experienced trains, planes, and rollercoasters. Your favorite form of transportation was the simplest. It was the two of you walking together.

You were camping nearby a lake and had just bought a new swimsuit. You were surprised by your comfort of the body. Castiel often reminded you that the bodies you inhabited were vessels, not your true form. At some point, they became one and the same when you fell from Heaven. Castiel was in a white shirt and dark swim shorts and some silly looking sandals. At your last stop, the two of you bought a camera, insisting on a way to store the new memories. Although it had only been around a month, nothing new had appeared yet. Sure, certain smells and places reminded you of something from before your curse, but nothing substantial.

"Y/N, do you want to stay on the stand or go in the water?" Castiel asked.

His sunglasses were propped on the top of his head. Rather than using them, Castiel squinted around. You were surprised by how tan his skin had become. Yours had not changed much. You pretended to blame it on still figuring out life once more.

When you stopped staring at the light water with strong waves and turned to Castiel, your brain stopped seeing the man in front of you and saw images from a long time ago. You could tell it was Castiel, though he appeared much different. The two of you were hardworking friends, no longer surrounded by water, but something softer, that you couldn't feel. Clouds... the two of you were in Heaven.

"Castiel..." Your voice trailed off, trying to focus on the present and hold onto the past.

You watched as he moved towards you and gently placed his hands on your shoulders. For a few stressful seconds, you were unable to speak or move. Being an entity in your mind and a weak human was not a good crossover. When one of his hands fell down your arm and stopped at your elbow, you let out a breath of air and stared into the bluest eyes imaginable. There was a time, that you were certain was no more than a couple of years ago, that was the first time a tingle ran up your spine when Castiel touched your arm. You saw him in a nice outfit with combed hair. He was much shyer then but had grown enough courage to finally kiss you. The ghost of his lips on yours remained as you focused back on reality. As profound as these memories were, it was the feelings they brought that was more powerful. This was convincing enough to have your touch his cheek before kissing him slowly.

When the two of you parted, you saw the question forming and shook your head. You had burst of energy from the excitement of having memories once again. You smiled brightly with the first real hope.

"I looked at you and I saw us in Heaven, before the Fall. Then you touched my arm and I was brought forward in so many years to, to our first kiss," you said, somewhat exhilarated.

Castiel returned your smile with a tint of pink in his cheeks. He excitedly hugged you. "That's fantastic. What do you want to do?"

"Let's go into the water. It was only two, but it was still something. We've got a lot more to explore!"

[katehuntington]

Title: Ride With Me (part six) Fandom: Supernatural AU Characters series: Reader, Dean Winchester, Bobby Singer, Ellen Singer-Harvelle, Jo Singer (Harvelle), Benny Lafitte, Ash Miles, Garth Fitzgerald IV, Castiel Novek, and many more. Timeline: 2008 Pairing: Dean x Reader (eventually) Word count: ±1900 words Summary series: Y/N is a talented horse rider who is on her way to become a professional. In order to convince her father that she deserves the loan needed to start her own farm, she goes to Arizona for six months, to intern at a ranch owned by Bobby and Ellen Singer. Her future is set out, but then she meets a handsome horseman, who goes by the name of Dean Winchester. A heartwarming series about a cowboy who falls for the girl, letting go of the past and the importance of family.  Summary part six: Y/N is getting lost in the feelings that she’s developing for Dean, and it doesn’t take long before Jo takes notice. Warnings series: NSFW, 18+ only! Fluff, angst, eventually smut. Swearing, smoking, alcohol intoxication, alcohol abuse. Mutual pining, heartbreak. Crying, nightmares, childhood trauma. Description of animal abuse, domestic violence, mentions of addiction. Financial problems, stress, mental breakdown. Description of blood and injury, hospital scenes, character death, grief. Music: Check out ‘Kate Huntington’s Ride With Me playlist’ on Spotify! Author’s note: Thank you @kittenofdoomage and @girl-with-a-fandom-fettish for helping me. You girls are awesome betas.

Ride With Me Masterlist

     Okay, maybe the tequila last night wasn’t such a good idea. Neither was that margarita the previous night, or the drinking game the night before that one. Or was it the other way around? Y/N cannot seem to recall, but today is Friday, so at least tomorrow she can sleep her way through the headache. Never ever did she drink as much as she did this week. Normally that would bother her, especially considering she’s not here on Spring break. But when the drinks are offered in a time when she needs a little something to stop thinking about that damned Dean Winchester, she couldn't care less about the increase of alcohol consumption.

     She found the balance quite quickly, too. Intoxicated enough to let go of the complexity that comes with growing fondness of the head wrangler, but sober enough to stop herself from doing anything stupid. The consequence is, however, that on this morning ride, her brain feels like it’s trying to expand beyond the size of her head. Thank God her stomach isn't acting up, because Joplin is trotting under her nervously. Seems like Y/N is having trouble finding the ‘walk’ button this early. The hot-blooded mare fails to respond when her rider asks her to slow down by saying ‘ho’ with a calm voice, but when Y/N breathes out, relaxes her legs, and shifts deeper in the saddle only by a fraction of an inch, the black horse transitions to walk.

     “Good girl,” Y/N compliments her.

     Three days without riding were more than she could handle. Meadow needed some time to recover from the long journey and to get used to her new home, but Y/N needed to restrain herself from climbing on the mare’s back anyway. She imagined this was a glimpse of what it would be like to kick an addiction cold turkey, going into withdrawal from the lack of her drug. As if not being able to train her own horse wasn't enough, it took another extra day before Y/N got onto any horse at all. It wasn't until yesterday morning that the supervisor decided that she deserved a shot at proving herself as a wrangler. She had to earn that by mucking, shit scooping, cleaning tack, and turning horses in and out. Which she gets, of course. Dean and Bobby wanted to see what she is made of before they let her ride one of their animals. But boy, was she frustrated. She even got to the point that Garth almost caught her muttering a promise to herself that if she had to clean up some horse’s massive dump one more time without a reward, she would be out of here.

     Yesterday she finally got to accompany a few guests on a trail. It was amazing to feel the horse move under the saddle again, the experience of the communication that she established within a second, and how the perfect fit on his back felt like home. Apparently, she did well, because on this morning ride, she is allowed to come along too.

     Content, she looks ahead at the large group of inexperienced riders, who find their way down the hill with some difficulty. The respect Y/N holds for the trail horses has grown, because their patience and ability to keep their clumsy passengers in the saddle hasn't ceased to amaze her. Bruce, a draft horse mix, has halted several times already, waiting motionless until his overweight German load has pulled himself back into the saddle after slowly tipping to one side. It's quite entertaining to watch.

     As she smiles at what’s playing out in front of her, the sound of hoofsteps close by on the rocky surface reaches her hearing. When she glances over her shoulder, a beautiful buckskin is just about to transition to an easy walk after catching up. Her eyes glide up until they meet his rider.

     “So, how are you this morning?” Dean wonders, a playful smile on his face.      It takes a short moment for her to answer, taken aback by her body’s response to the sight of the wrangler. A whirlwind starts to twist in her stomach, yet the headache suddenly doesn't seem as tormenting as it was a minute ago.      “I'm okay,” she claims.      He grins. “Sure about that? You had quite a few drinks last night.”      “I can handle myself,” she returns defensively, narrowing her eyes at him a little.      “Oh, I’m sure you can.”

     He chuckles, the warm and low sound rumbling deep in his throat triggering Y/N to peek at him from the corner of her eye. Was that a nervousness she detected? Did she just make him uneasy? He looks down, his lips drawn in a small smile. The sun from the east outlines the sharp lines of his jaw, edged by a scruff; apparently he didn't take the time to shave this morning. Boy, is she glad he didn’t.

     “Okay, I'll admit,” she says, trying to take away his insecurities. “My stomach might be a little… unsettled.”      Y/N isn’t lying, although alcohol has nothing to do with the butterflies that came to life inside of her. He doesn't know that, thankfully, yet he keeps a hold of his intern’s gaze for a little while longer, reading her. As if Dean’s horse wants to help love a little, the Quarter sways closer to her horse Joplin, the two of them now riding stirrup to stirrup. His knee slightly brushes against hers every other step and despite that it's barely a touch, she’s highly aware of the physical contact.

     “Don't throw up on your horse if you want to leave a good impression with me. Believe me, it ain't pretty,” Dean half jokes, half flirts.      She throws her head back in a laugh. “Don't worry, I won't. But please don't tell me you have seen that happen.”      “More than once, I'm afraid,” he remembers, turning in his saddle to face his younger cousin. “Ey, Jo?”      The blonde cowgirl, who is about thirty yards behind them, throws him a confused look, since she hasn't picked up a word of their conversation. Puzzled, she watches, inducing the riders further up to laughter.      “No way!” Y/N cries out.      “I ain’t kiddin’,” Dean sniggers. “I'll save that story for another time. Y’know, when your stomach isn't ‘unsettled’ by the same tequila that started Jo’s tale.”

     He spurs his horse, who canters forward to meet the group of guests up ahead. She observes Dean as the morning sun portrays the cowboy and his horse in a romantic light. Out here, away from the city, the Arizona landscape would have anyone believe that they traveled back to the time, when the Wild West was still the real deal. Cacti surround them, peculiar mountain peaks shaped by ten thousand years of wind erosion obstruct the far edge of the world. And in this perfect portrait rides a handsome cowboy, one with his horse, clouds of dust in their wake. An amused smile allows a glimpse of Y/N’s true feelings to shine through. There it is again, that tingly sensation in her belly. Sure, Dean. Blame it on the tequila, she thinks to yourself.

     “What the hell was that?”      Now that Dean left his spot next to her, Jo has caught up, gently pulling the reins as she sits back to bring her horse’s pace down.      Feeling caught, Y/N looks at her, brought off balance by the spite in the cowgirl’s voice. “What do you mean?”      “Oh, c’mon, Yankee. I wasn’t born yesterday, and neither were you. You just completed your master in business, don't act like you're stupid,” Jo counters. “You and Dean, what’s going on?”      The cowgirl eyes her in shock, her jaw dropping unpleasantly surprised. Was it really that obvious? How is she going to talk herself out of this one?      “I - I don't--” she stutters, blood rushing to her face. “There - there's nothing--”      She’s not sure if it’s her shameful expression or the fact that she lost her tongue, but Jo knows enough. She closes her eyes and sighs deeply.      “Y/N…” her friend starts, a mixture of disappointment and pity present in her voice. “Please don't go down that road. He will hurt you so bad you're gonna wish you never gone on that flight that got you here.”      Now the intern sighs too. Denying will not do her any good. Jo is smart enough to see right through it.      “Listen, I really like having you around. You're good company, you're a hard worker, you're great with the horses, and I don’t wanna lose my sis,” the ranch owner’s daughter says genuinely. “I would hate to see you leave because of my heartbreaker of a cousin. I've seen this play out so many times already, don't walk into that trap.”      “I think that ship has sailed,” her friend admits out loud.

     The words startle the woman who speaks them just as much as they stun Jo; she didn't intend to share that with her new friend already. But now that the comment is hovering between them without a way to take it back, a part of her is glad it’s out there. Dean has been about the only thing on her mind since she first saw him. Not being able to talk about that with anyone was driving her mad. She needs to vent to someone, someone she can trust.

     Shocked by the bombshell that Y/N just dropped, Jo turns her head to orient her big eyes towards the man in question. That son of a bitch..      “Well, that didn't take long…” The cowgirl shakes her head, then looks her in the eye after her confession. It's clear she feels sorry for her friend. “I'll talk to him.”      “No! Jo, please don't. Look, I didn't forget about your warning and I’m surely not going to act on these... feelings,” she guarantees, barely able to get out the word. “But I can't shut this off. It caught me by surprise as well.”      “He tends to have that effect on women,” Jo mutters.      “I won't do anything stupid,” Y/N assures her.      Jo glances at the intern from under her hat. “Promise?”

     She looks backs at her new friend. Honestly, she isn’t sure if she’s strong enough to resist Dean, but this agreement might help her stick to the plan. The plan to complete her internship successfully and return home to start her own ranch. It's all she ever wanted, it has been her life goal for as long as she can remember. Is she really going to let some cowboy stop her from fulfilling that dream? A very handsome, sweet, and utterly irresistible cowboy, but nonetheless. She will reach for the stars and she will have her wish, nothing will stand in her way, not even him. And so a reassuring smile forms on her lips.

     “I promise.”

Well, the cat’s out of the bag. Thank you for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to like or reblog my work, shoot me a message or buy me coffee (Link to Kofi in bio at the top of the page).

Read part seven here

[lilithsgayadoptednephew]

Holy Hands

Fandoms: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!   Not Rated Graphic Depictions Of Violence F/M, Other Complete Work

Chapter List

Chapter 32

Even his home was foreign to him now.

Micheal stood in the largest hall of the largest Celestial realm house of worship. He'd been there multiple times a day every single day from the day he was created. It was the closest thing he had to call a home, but it held no joy for him now. No sanctuary.

He only thought of the human. The protective stance over their sister. The wild eyed stare through his. They stood against the ground with the strength and purpose of an oak, and threw the weakness the world forced on them to their feet like a scornful gift to a kneeling beggar.

It was said He created man in His own image. Only now did Michael see the resemblance. And those demons...those vermin of the realms, betrayers of the Father… they dare to corrupt one so holy. One so perfect and complete in their self and their heart.

How could one be so flawed? So inherently pure yet unfathomably corrupted that it draws an angel in like a month to a dangerous flame?

How could He have made someone such as this?

The answer came to him like shock of cold water.

For Michael.

It all made sense, the human was created for him. Michael had served and loved and obeyed the father so closely for so long that the father made someone just for him. Someone to test his faith, and reward him when he was successful in restoring them. Someone so beautiful they were fit for an angel such as himself. Someone he could keep and call his own for the rest of time.

MC was his Father's gift to him.

He was suddenly light-headed. Giddy like a child on Christmas morning. A human just for him, and not just that. A viable king among humans. The most incredible gift, a gift from the Father directly.

Quickly he left the cathedral, he had to tell them the good news. He had to find them and save them so they could finally come home to him. Come home and put his racing mind to rest. No longer would they be in servitude to the underworld, to Lucifer .

They would be in their rightful place, on their knees before him.

0The first priority after Micheal left was making sure Luke was ok. He was burning only a few moments ago, a fall from grace was never pretty after all. But he was gone, dissappeared like ashes on the wind.

They didn't have time to find him.

There were plans to make, people to gather, hideouts to find. They had to get moving, reluctantly, they had to leave Luke to whatever fate he found.

Returning to the Devildom was pointless, if they wanted to disperse the swarm of angels there they first had to address the leader. Michael had fled to the Celestial Realm.

The climb to the Celestial Realm wasn't easy for the demons, and it was even harder for the humans, but Micheal had left the gates open just a crack during his swift retreat. It was a mistake that would be their entrance.

The boys were so overjoyed to be back...it was hard to keep them on track.

Mammon almost never looked where he was walking, always with his head stooped downward to admire the gold paved floors. He held Acacia's hand as he ooh'd and ahh'd all the expensive and ornate decoration around them.

Acacia and MC had to shield their eyes from the sheer white light that permeated the realm. It was probably for the best, some of the things around them were not for human eyes to witness.

Even Lucifer was pulled from focus, his head whipped around and back to get a view of everything he'd missed. MC had never heard him so excited and unabashed as he described every landmark and told stories of his time as a young angel.

"I told each of the cherubs they could commit one sin so they could know to avoid it" he gestured wildly, almost like Acacia as he spoke fondly. "Ever diligent, they all went off to complete their task and I asked them what they did for their sin. They were so ashamed, but I told them they were forgiven and told each one to drink from the holy water. Right there at that fountain."

MC squinted through the light at the direction Lucifer pointed. They could almost make out the very edge of a large structure, but recognizing detail was futile. Lucifer was snickering, actually snickering, as he continued.

"Imagine my surprise when I asked the last Cherubim what sin they'd committed, and they said they'd peed in the holy water .

Acacia almost fell over laughing, who knew Lucifer had funny stories.

MC made a mental note to paint and write some of his stories, they were quite vivid.

Eventually they had to give up sightseeing in favor of finding a place to hide. If they were spotted the punishment would surely be worse than just being banished to the Devildom.

In the end Lucifer decided to contact an old friend.

Knock knock knock

"Hello sorry I'm very–"

"Hello Raphael."

The angel stared up in shock at the friends he'd thought he'd never see again. Raphael was a small man, almost as short as Acacia in fact, slim build that seemed to bend under the weight of the many scrolls he carried. He had long, curly black hair he wore in a low bun and round gold glasses that sat slightly crooked on the bridge of his nose.

"Wha– but I thought...Lucifer?" He asked awestruck.

"Raphael we need a place to stay, we cannot be found." Lucifer placed a hand on the angels door to keep him from shutting it on him. Raphael blinked before shaking his head to clear it.

"Lucifer you know I can't, no one can side with you since your fall." He readjusted the scrolls in his arms, almost dropping multiple. "Please I'm very busy with these medical records, I have to document everything you know." He started backing away from the door but Lucifer just took a step forward.

"I've never known you to turn someone away, it is what is most admirable about you." He pressed. The angel looked physically pained. "Please, I'm not asking you as an old friend, but as a desperate fugitive trying to keep his family safe." He indicated to his brothers, and the two innocent humans.

Rafael closed his eyes and let out a heavy sigh, and Lucifer knew he had won.

"Very well...you may rest here." Rafael walked away from the door leaving it open for the brothers and humans to follow.

0Rafael's house turned out not to be a house, but a hospital. An ER to be precise. Even in the large building there was hardly enough space for them to sit down. It was so crowded with patients in need of care. Rafael didn't speak to them for the rest of the day, mostly because he was too busy running from place to place answering call bells and ordering around fellow nurses.

Where Raphael looked small and almost frail when he'd answered the door, he exuded purpose as he fell into his element. Barking orders and bouncing from place to place.

As the night fell over the Celestial Realm the hospital seemed to only become more hectic, and Raphael showed no sign of slowing.

"When is the day done for him?" MC asked Lucifer from the corner of their mouth.

"Oh Raphael doesn't sleep" Lucifer laughed as if it was a silly question.

"What a life" they mumbled as they watched the LPNs buzz around like bees in a hive.

"He wouldn't have it any other way" Lucifer smiled.

By the time they found a place to rest a ways away from the commotion, the night had reached its apex. A familiar softness floated on the air and the distant cooing of an owl could be heard.

MC was getting better at sensing Michaels presence.

"Just show yourself and stop wasting my time" they sighed. Michael appeared from behind one of the sterile white walls of the building, wings still missing.

"Tsk tsk" he said as he approached. "Thinking you can hide right under my nose? MC this is my backyard."

"You gonna turn us in?" They shot back quickly, they knew the answer.

"No...I can't have your demons caught before you denounce them, then you'd be in trouble too and that's just not fair." He circled them as he spoke. "None of this is your fault, MC, this isn't you."

"You don't know who I am." They said matter of factly.

"But that's the beauty of it!" He raised his voice in childlike joy. "I do know the real you! Better than you do, you're but a fledgling after all. Because you were made to belong to me." He pulled a strand of their hair lightly as they spoke, admiring the shade as one might admire the teeth of a dog at a show. They were genuinely thrown by this statement.

"Belong to you?" They said incredulously.

"Yes, it all makes sense.” He closed his eyes as he explained his logic. "You're a test for me, a trial of my faith and my ability to save others." He looked at them far too fondly. "And the reward?" He tilted their chin up and they flinched. "You my Lamb. The scripture tells you to submit yourself to me, as is fitting in the Lord."

MC actually almost puked, they felt bile rise in their throat, but instead of letting it become vomit, they spat onto Michaels shoes. The decorated angel stepped back in shock.

"I will submit to neither, " they said coldly. He glared down at them.

"For now." He said simply "don't be afraid dear, you will understand in due time." With that he left them to their sleep.

[thatfriendlyecho]

Sanders Sides AU: Modern Kingdom of Imagineria

Finally I make one of these! My 8 month writer’s block has finally diminished for now and I’ve decided to make an AU I’ve been working on for about a year (among other things).

This is a Modern Fantasy AU, where technology and real life bullshit exists alongside magic. As all good Sanders Sides AUs go, there will be ships. If you want a non-ship esque AU, leave now because there is a whole lotta LAMP.

Anyway, let’s get right into the character descriptions!

Roman Olivers (Dragon-Hybrid, 16)

Roman was born in Manchester, and even after moving to the modern Kingdom of Imagineria at the age of six, he still has a slight English accent.

Roman and his twin brother, Remus, were adopted after their mother was found dead curled around her children in the Endless Forest, just on the outskirts of Manchester. Their adoptive parents, a pair of now ex-dragon hunters, found the twins and took them in as their own.

They moved a few years later, after their mother’s scent vanished and they could leave without the twins remembering her anymore.

Roman’s mother was a fully-grown ruby-scaled dragon (presumably the last of her kind, according to his parents), and he has visible scales of his own on his shoulders, back of his hands, cheeks, neck and forehead.

He is not a full dragon, and he and his brother are half-human. (Or dragonborn, for all of you D&D buffs. Except that he’s mostly human in appearance)

Roman is insecure about his dragon heritage, and as such he grew a slight hatred for dragons. He has often stated that he would slay dragons that ever even set foot near his family.

He doesn’t have wings, but instead has a scaly tail that sprouts from his lower back.

He trips people sometimes, but don’t tell his mother.

All in all, he has serious body dysphoria.

He’s overly protective of his loved ones.

He’s been suspended twice, once because someone made fun of Remus right in front of him, and another time because someone was bullying Virgil.

Roman can create small flames from his mouth, though those have mostly been by accident. This usually occurs when he laughs too hard.

Roman and Virgil didn’t get along for a very, very long time. He eventually started catching feelings for him when he showed up to his front step on his birthday with a woven blanket that he still has not washed to this day.

Roman met Patton and Logan at a library, where Logan snapped at him for flirting with Patton while he was working.

He sings Disney songs on the regular as a coping mechanism.

He’s currently a sophomore in high school that works as his neighbor's babysitter.

Patton Hazir (Harpy, 16)

Patton was born in the Endless Forest, and when he left it for the first time, he appeared in Imagineria.

Patton’s name is actually completely different, but he doesn’t go by it because it’s too complicated to pronounce.

His nickname was Pat because that was the only part of his name that Logan could pronounce. The last name was a random sound he made after stubbing his toe, which kills his friends to this day.

Harpies become independent of their parents after ten years old, and as such don’t have the obligation to return home every night. Since he wanted to go to school, though most harpies don’t want a modern education, he still lives with him.

His parents are very sweet, and naturally they don’t mind.

Patton looks mostly normal, as harpies disguise themselves to present normally to the human eye. The things that seriously stand out about Patton is the fact that he has no ears, he has a few small feathers in his arms that he can’t conceal, and he has talons for feet.

When Patton is in his true form, he has eagle-like feathers sprouting from his arms in varying shades of soft blue. His waist down morphs into the bottom half of some large eagle, tail feathers and all. His torso and head remain as is.

As time progressed, harpies became more docile, and are now not such predatory monsters. They are still extremely territorial and it is unwise to cross a flock, but they are actually very friendly in comparison to a century ago.

Patton is the prime example of the kindest harpies to ever exist in the history of...ever.

He literally smiles at the sun when he wakes up what kind of-

Many people, especially those who are much older, still regard him with a watchful eye.

Patton thinks basically everything is cute. You could show him an imp and he’d pinch its cheek. (He's done this before and he regretted it immediately after)

The biggest challenge for him was Virgil, who we’ll get to in a moment.

They have some really cute moments together.

He can sing, though he’s really shy about it so it rarely ever happens.

His voice sounds enough like music that nobody complains (often).

Patton also has an insane love for sugar cookies, and whenever he’s stressed, he stress-bakes.

Since he doesn’t have a “modern home” in the forest, he usually shows up at Roman's or Virgil's house with a bunch of cookie ingredients.

He has a tendency to steal food, and can’t go into a grocery store without being closely watched.

He received a joke book from Logan on his birthday, and he regrets it. You cannot say anything without him making a pun.

He’s currently a sophomore in high school, and he assists the librarian at the Public Imaginative Library. He doesn’t get paid, and simply loves helping out. That’s how he met Logan.

Logan (Dryad, 14)

Logan was born in the Endless Forest without true parents, being as he is a tree nymph, or a dryad.

Logan was sorely misguided after he was birthed from Mother Earth, and as such he became very curious very, very quickly.

Mere minutes after being born, he wandered to a riverside and was almost killed by a hungry, stranded mermaid.

Luckily he morphed into a tree right at the bank of the river right before she could fatally injure him.

He has a bite mark on his side, which has healed into a scar from the mermaid attack.

Logan was not born naturally smart, and was in fact very naive at birth. He was curious, and never thought of the consequences of his actions until he left the forest and entered Imagineria.

When Logan left the forest, he hid in public parks, where he changed into his tree form for extended amounts of time.

Logan is a dryad, meaning that in Imagineria, if he wished to pursue an education, he could enroll for school on his own. When he learned how to read (he was 3), he became addicted to knowledge, and enrolled himself.

He skipped a grade, which is why he's so young.

The first word that he learned was "falsehood", and he found it very useful after he became friends with Patton, Roman, and Virgil. It is now his favorite word, and he gets very happy when he reads it somewhere.

The library became his home away from home, which is where he met Patton.

Logan is really book smart, NOT street/survival smart. He knows how to transform into a tree when faced with danger, but he doesn't know how to fight per sey.

Logan's appearance is humanoid in nature (no pun intended), and he has the palest skin tone of all the others. There's a slight green tone to his skin, and he sometimes grows small blue flowers that appear in his hair. He also has pointed ears and long claws that he can retract.

He can see well enough, but after meeting Patton, he grew envious of his glasses and made his own out of branches. Don't tell Patton that.

Logan gave himself his name. He doesn't have a last name because he finds it unnecessary.

Logan is a full-blown vegan, and the others need to take this into account whenever they eat together. He doesn't eat often, but he loves fruit and berries.

He's currently a junior in high school.

Virgil Anansi (Arachne, 14)

Virgil was born with the Curse of Arachne, as his family were a mischievous bunch of practicing witches and wizards. This basically means that they angered the ancient spider spirit and she cursed each generation's first born with the Curse.

Virgil was homeschooled until he was of high school age. He's extremely anti-social and insecure because of it.

Much like Roman, Virgil has body dysphoria, though not as badly due to his family.

The Anansi family is a pretty wild and close family, though they experiment with questionable black magic often. They were shunned from society after crossing Arachne.

Had it not been for his curse, Virgil would be classified as an Anansi Witch.

Virgil has three little sisters (triplets), a baby brother, two really weird fathers, a feral uncle who lives in the basement, a grandmother that drinks enough alcohol to poison a large pony, and a familiar for each of them. That makes 9 people and 9 familiars living together.

Virgil's familiar is ironically a spider, a palm-sized tarantula named Kisa.

Virgil had never felt different until he grew up and had to go to school. He was never bullied physically until he showed vulnerability in public.

Virgil's bangs only cover a little bit of his forehead, where three extra pairs of eyes are. They're a pupiless, orchid purple (as Logan dubbed them), and he can't make them vanish like his extra limbs and abdomen. He has fangs, but they're pretty small and elongate when he's hunting. On his back there is a "tattoo" of three purple diamonds.

Often times, when Virgil is being sulky, he makes spider silk blankets and scarves in his room while he listens to classical music.

Depending on what kind of music he listens to effects the sturdiness of his webs. Classical isn't his favorite genre of music, but he can't exactly listen to My Chemical Romance while trying to make an intricate design.

Virgil is an absolute sass master, and normally wins verbal arguments. (You can probably guess who he argues with the most.)

He convinced Patton to sing with him in the school talent show, and they sang Lovely Night from La La Land.

Virgil and Logan are the youngest of their friend group, though often times they feel like they're the ones reeling the oldest ones in.

Virgil's the youngest, and he's treated like the group's baby more often than not.

He and Patton were not super close at first because the harpy was afraid of spiders, and Roman hated his guts for reasons he still won't confess to. He had a hard time making friends with Logan because he was just as awkward if not worse.

He and Patton got really close after an incident caused Patton to break his arm, and Virgil nursed him back to health with potions and a whole lotta cuddling. It was cute.

Virgil met Roman first, which was the worst first impression he had ever given off. Especially since he immediately thereafter had a gay panic.

Virgil is a freshman in highschool, and eventually creates a job in which he creates spider silk blankets and sells them online.

These are the main four's character descriptions, but I can go into depth character appearances, character stories, the modern Kingdom of Imagineria, the Endless Forest, etc. I'm planning on writing the main plotline on AO3, but I haven't decided yet.

I guess I'll have to see. Mkay byee~