#imagine killing him. taking his life in the most violet way you can manage. imagine not entirely being yourself in that moment

[bonnielunkas]

fic posting again, whoops!! consider this a little taste of what's to come, i guess

[ethereaiin]

Stigma | genshin impact

synopsis; Despite the numerous attempts to end each other's lives, one thing is for sure; you're the only person he could truthfully call his rival.

features; you and scaramouche

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ 

      Fighting her was always interesting.

       Whether he was taking it seriously or dueling her just for fun, there was never a time when his fellow Harbinger hadn’t tried her absolute best to bring him down. He could feel it in each swing of her sword; the determination to beat him burned almost as brightly as the cracked pyro vision dangling against her hip.

       There was never a clear winner when it came to their duels and he would have it no other way. Her constant calls to challenge him kept him from feeling the boredom the lack of any action brought and ruining it now proved to be nothing short of disadvantageous for him. Besides, as much as he hated to admit it, he never had it easy in facing her. While her technique was nothing too remarkable, it was the strength behind her every hit that had him reeling and struggling to deal the final blow against her.

       In the end, it didn’t matter. He’d get rid of her eventually. The moment she can no longer entertain him is when he’d finally kill her. It was bound to happen soon, no matter how much her strength appalled him.

       “Scara!” The shortened call of his name exclusively used by the tenth Harbinger caught his attention and with a tightened frown he turns to face her.

       She stands before him, a grin spread across her face and eyes bright with a look of unique hunger. Although she approaches him casually as if she were greeting a friend, the slight flex of her arms exposed by her revealing blouse and the twitch of her fingers suggest otherwise. He knew better than to take her relaxed demeanor for granted. Beneath her cheerful exterior lied a wolf in hiding. The moment he let his guard down would lay claim to his end.

       “Ready for round two?” Her eyes twinkle with a certain look that has him slightly on edge. Usually, he wasn’t one who’d refuse a fight especially with someone he considered strong enough to entertain him, but the expression she wore suggested she had something hidden up her sleeve, and if there was anything he hated more than boredom it was being taken by surprise.

       With a frown still marring his delicate features, he fully turned towards her with navy eyes hardened into a withering glare. Most people, especially those beneath him, would have visibly flinched or even lower their gaze yet the girl standing before him was never one to back down. Instead, her grin grew wider and the excitement she felt at finally garnering his full attention showed itself in the form of flickering flames licking the ground she stood upon.

       Her uncontrollable power was yet another thing that made fighting her all the more fun. Unlike most vision holders, she was never one who overly relied on her elemental abilities, and instead, it was her own personal strength that won many of her duels. It was impressive, to say the least, to not only gain the attention of the Tsaritsa but to become one of her eleven faithful Harbingers without the reliance on a vision. Though all of this was not something he’d never be willing to admit aloud.

       Her hand raises from her side and only a second passes before the length of her arm engulfs in flames and her favored sword appears in her grip. Her grin never fades and instead grows when she noticed the moment she armed herself so had he.

       “So you were expecting me.” An amused laugh escapes her lips as she twirls the sword in her hand to assume a familiar stance. “To think you actually enjoy our little fights.”

       Instead of saying anything, he merely scoffed with a look that suggested spending any time with her was utterly repulsive. And it was, at least that’s what he thought before he found himself almost impatiently awaiting the moment she’d appear in front of him to demand a fight. When weeks passed without her showing up even once he felt an odd sense of unease and even slight disappointment. Now that she was here before him once again, those muddled feelings seemingly disappeared and his current expression was a betrayal of what he truly felt.

       “Instead of wasting so much time talking, how about you actually try and beat me?”

       At his words and the smug quirk of his lips, she snarls before quickly throwing herself at him. Her sword is raised, silver edge emblazoned in a glowing crimson that signals an incoming blast, and just as it is about to strike his shoulder, a crackling vine of violet electro deflects it. Though she doesn’t back away from him like he had expected her to and instead she takes him by surprise and raises her non-dominant hand, engulfed in orange-red flames, in an attempt to deck him across his face. He grunts, his lips slightly agape from her surprise attack, as he twisted away from her and out of her range.

       Despite his quick reflexes, the heat of the explosion could still be felt against his cheek and even the pyro vision holder herself was affected by her own ability. Her hair was slightly singed and the right side of her face was reddened from the tiny licks of fire that managed to touch her skin. Though she didn’t appear all too bothered with her failure to land a hit and simply gritted her teeth. Her hand, the one she tried to use to hit him with during her initial attack, was charred; the skin blistered and torn from the uncontrollable intensity of her flames. It looked painful, and the thought of her hurting herself to get to him made him momentarily hesitate in his attack.

       Her own vision was turned against her which subsequently made her abilities dangerous not only to those she attacked, but to herself as well. For a moment he wondered just how far she was willing to go to prove herself.

       At her side, he could see her injured hand tremble slightly though it’s quickly stopped when she visibly clenches it. When his eyes meet her own, her gaze is hardened into a fierce glare and her lips were pulled into a tight frown.

       “Scaramouche,” She starts, and among the use of his full name her tone is also missing the characteristic cheer that he had become so used to her addressing him with. “Today’s the day we’ll finally put an end to these duels.”

       “One of us will emerge as the clear victor. . . and the strongest.” She continues and as her puzzling words continue to spew from frowning lips, her sword once again glows with crimson flames. “No matter what I don’t want you to hold back, even if that means you killing me.”

       He wasn’t used to this side of her. Her overly serious expression lacked any of the excitement he was more accustomed to seeing on her face and with the added dread of her words he couldn’t help but stare at her as if what she said was the most outrageous thing in the world. The flash of shock that crossed his face was quickly obscured behind his glower and with more resolve than he possessed during previous fights, he readied himself to attack.

       The day he anticipated from the start has finally arrived. He knew their fights, no matter how entertaining they were, would eventually come to an end. Although he expected it to be on his terms rather than her own. For him, things felt too unfinished to call it a satisfying end. Her death now wouldn’t give him that sense of achievement he anticipated when he defeated her.

       “Do you honestly think I care about killing you?”

       His words were purposely spoken in a cold tone to distance himself from his internal unease. There should have been no hesitation, he knew that, and yet that was all he could come up with to explain deliberately stalling their fight with talking.

       Why did he not want to kill her when he was once so eager to in the past?

       “That’s too bad,” A smile rose to her lips though it appeared far too somber to be created out of her usual joy. “I. . . thought we were closer than that.”

       There’s a moment her smile persists before her eyes flutter shut and the flames running along the edge of her sword continuously grow in intensity until spiels of fire fell off the sword to the melted snow beneath her feet. The heat was almost unbearable from the little distance he stood away from her and he couldn’t even begin to imagine just how painful it had to have been to her who stood directly next to it. Yet she looked completely unbothered as if there were nothing at all that could slow her resolve.

       Her chest rises and falls with a deep exhale and before he could even blink, she’s charging at him once more with steely eyes and unbroken determination. It felt as if the world slowed to a halt. The chilly breeze of the frigid mountaintop they stood upon seemingly faded from existence, all he could feel was the heat of her flame; the fire of her will. She was never one he could ignore as he did with those he saw as beneath him. No matter how much he attempted to get away from her, she was always there to force herself into his life and into the small world he confined himself to. Despite his intense dislike for all things that stray from his interest in conflict, he found that blazing fire of hers to be beautiful.

       The sharp clang of her sword colliding with his electric barrier disturbed the silence of the mountain before being shortly followed by a decimating explosion. The force was enough to knock him off his feet and noticing there was not a follow-up attack to his obvious falter, he knew it had to have been the same for her, if not worse. He winces slightly at the prickling sensation that climbs the length of his arms and legs. The dark marks that stain his porcelain skin is an indicator of her fire’s strength and for it to have even pierced through his shield meant that she must have suffered even greater injuries than his own.

       The melted snow beneath the palms of his hands does little to soothe his burns and as he looks around the small clearing he sees that her fire overtook much of the area. The enclosing trees around them were set ablaze and the blanket of snow that covered the ground was effectively melted in a perfect circle in proximity to their clash. The ends of his clothes were singed and his hat lied strewn behind him, yet despite his disheveled appearance his gaze couldn’t help but focus on finding the familiar figure of the pyro vision holder.

       Ash, emitted from the trees around him, obscured his vision and the smell of smoke was heavy in the air. He scanned the area before him with an unfamiliar sense of anxiousness and when he finally spotted her collapsed figure a bit of distance away from where he landed, he had to keep himself from breathing a sigh of relief. Never had he ever felt such trepidation in regards to the safety of someone he once considered to be nothing more than a nuisance. Though the thought of her earlier attack, the obvious fierce strength she put in both her fire and strike; he knew there was a chance she would not survive it. She was more than aware of her unique predicament regarding her vision and the repercussions it had on her, yet she was still willing to put herself at risk in order to do what? Kill him? End the rivalry they had once and for all?

       At his side, his fist clenched in anger at not only himself but at the unconscious girl who lied inches away from his approaching form. Sure, at first it might have been fun to push her to the edge; to see how far she was willing to prove herself to him after his continuous jabs at her lack of control over her own power. He thought of her as pathetic when he first heard of her. For a pyro vision holder to not even be able to summon their own flames was unheard of and for that very same person to join the high ranks as a Fatui Harbinger only made him question the very organization he joined. Though he quickly learned there was a lot more to her than the fact that she was unable to use her damaged vision correctly.

       She was strong. Not only in a literal sense, but her willpower was insanely resolute. No matter what he said or the injuries he caused her, she wouldn’t back down not even when he clearly prevailed over her with his electro abilities. Throughout Teyvat it was relatively accepted that vision holders were favored by the gods and therefore blessed with abilities that made them almost superhuman, so for her to have that part of her denied and still exist as someone he couldn’t refute the strength of; he couldn’t help but feel nothing other than impressed with her.

       These were things he could never say to her aloud and though he couldn’t allow himself to be honest with her, the thought of her death only continued to heighten that incomplete feeling he felt in the pit of his stomach. He couldn’t allow her to die and although he couldn’t completely understand his own reasoning, he knew it wouldn’t bring him satisfaction for her to die by her own hand rather than his.

       Once he makes it to her side, he finds her eyes hazily focusing on him as he kneels beside her fallen form. Her hair is fanned out behind her head, the color deeply contrasting the white snow beneath her and her skin is paler than he remembers. Burns as well as scars mar her face caused from the earlier explosion and the clothes she wears is ripped and singed, exposing her skin to the frigid temperatures of the mountaintop.

       “It looks like I failed, huh?” She breathes a mirthless laugh and hissing through her clenched teeth, she manages to sit herself up. “Going all out like that wasn’t my greatest idea. . .”

       "It was foolish." He agrees and his frown returns to display his disapproval of her risky move. "You were close to killing yourself."

       "That was the point. If I couldn't kill you I was hoping my fire would do the job." She explains as her eyes flit across his face for any signs of aggression, though he masks his expression well behind a glare. "There's no reward without some risk. Obviously my plan didn't work out too well anyway."

       Noticing the slight sway of her body, he reaches out towards her, his arm stretching across her back to rest his hand against her shoulder as a means of support. She glances up at him, her brows creased and mouth agape. Her confusion is apparent on her face though he pays her little mind and instead his attention is taken by the shattered remains of her pyro vision.

       “It’s. . . broken?”

       Her voice is once again in a different tone than what he was used to and her expression was nothing short of what he could only describe as true despair. While she was never the best at controlling her flames, especially after the initial damage her vision took, now that it was completely destroyed; it meant she no longer possessed the ability to even call forth the pyro archon’s fire. Usually, the visions were meant to be indestructible; unable to be destroyed by normal means, yet at her side he could clearly see the crimson shards of her once glowing vision.

       He wondered if this meant she was no longer recognized by the pyro archon.

       “Well, it was only a matter of time before that happened.”

       When he glances back at her, she’s no longer wearing a sorrowful look. Her eyes weren’t as bright as they once were and the light smile she wore on her face wasn’t at all convincing. He couldn’t understand why she would want to conceal her true feelings towards the loss of her vision when it was clear that she never anticipated it. He lightly squeezes her shoulder, forcing her to look away from her broken vision to meet his gaze.

       “We’ll get you another one.”

       His words are to the point, rough and spoken without too much thought. Yet it attracts her attention and something akin to hope glimmers in her eyes that distinctly reminds him of the light he remembered them once holding.

       “We. . .? I-” She pauses for a moment. “Don’t you want to kill me? Why would you help me?”

       Logically, it was the opportune time to finish her off and declare himself the winner of this little duel once and for all, yet the idea lacked appeal. To kill her now felt as if he were robbing himself of something he couldn’t quite comprehend and nothing bothered him more than not knowing something. With some time he hoped he could find the answer to his hesitation when it came to her and maybe along the way their rivalry could reach a satisfying end.

       “If I kill you, I’d rather it be on equal terms. There’s no fun in ending you in this pathetic state.”

       She laughs, a cough interrupting her half way though her smile persists even through her small fit. “Of course you’d say something like that, Scara.”

       He purposely looks away from her grinning face, the small flutter felt in his chest adding onto his confusion. Where he was once certain of his hate towards her, he no longer knew what it was he exactly felt. It wasn’t hate, he was sure of that now that the idea of even sharing the same space as her didn’t repulse him, but it wasn’t as if he liked her either. For now, he could only think of her as nothing more than neutral. Someone he didn’t hate, nor like, but tolerated. She was his rival and for the time being that would be the title that best encompassed her existence to him.

       She was a person strong enough to be worthy of his respect. Nothing more, nothing less.

       His hand that rested on her shoulder lowers to her waist, grasping it as he lifted himself up along with her. He could feel her burned hand gripping his clothes and in a sense he could also feel the trust she was beginning to place into him. Bit by bit, he was sure their relationship would change and soon enough he’d know just what these odd feelings towards her meant.

       Even if the pyro archon abandoned her, he wouldn’t. Not until he got the answers he sought and the fight he wanted from her.

       “Once you’re all healed up we’ve got pyro visions to hunt.”

[authenticcadence18]

Butterfly pt. 1

Here’s the pre-Battle For Mewni canon-divergent Starco fic I wrote in 2017!!!

Have a note from my younger self to give context to the story:

“I'm not quite sure what events lead up to this or what happens afterward...this story is just a piece of what I imagine could happen during Toffee's eventual attack on Mewni. This scene takes place on Mewni, and Marco obviously used his dimensional scissors to get there.....duh 😜.”

(Also I wrote this four years ago, when my writing style wasn’t nearly as developed/polished as it is now. I could spend hours editing it, but I‘d feel kinda bad doing that to my younger self😂.)

...

AO3

...

"STAR!!!!!!!!!"

Marco struggled relentlessly against the green chains of energy that prohibited him from moving, but there was nothing he could do but watch, horrified, as Toffee drained the life out of his best friend

"STOP!!!! YOU'RE HURTING HER!!!!!"

Piercing green magic gushed from the severed crystal imbedded in the villain's hand and swirled furiously around Star, whose electric blue eyes were growing dimmer by the second. The princess lunged at Toffee, wand-in-hand, in one final attempt to subdue him, but his magical assault had weakened her body beyond repair. With a shrill moan, Star collapsed to the ground and lay motionless, the light in her pupils now almost completely extinguished.

A sob tore through Marco's throat as he struggled against the magical shackles binding him for the umpteenth time, only to discover that he was now able to move freely. He scrambled to his best friend's side and frantically began checking for a pulse, for breath, for anything that indicated she was alright. All the while, he continued to assure her, "It's okay, Star, you're fine, it's going to be fine, please be fine, you'll be just fine, Star, PLEASE be fine!!!!"

But he felt nothing.

Star Butterfly—crown princess, heir to the throne of Mewni, and Marco's best friend—was no more.

"......you killed her......" Marco uttered blankly, staring into the sunken black eyes of the girl who'd radically changed his life in such a short amount of time. Trembling, partially from despair and partially from fury, he inclined his head to meet Toffee's watchful gaze and repeated, "....you KILLED her...!!"

Toffee chuckled, the chilling timbre of his voice not quite clicking with the spindly bird form he still had possession of. "Well, not technically," the former Ludo corrected Marco smoothly, hovering above him with a smile that could have been perceived as understanding, had he not already revealed his hand. "I've merely drained her magical life force. It would be possible to restore it and revive her if you had any healers around, but..."

He smirked.

"I believe the Chancellor is still...out of commission."

Marco's eyes narrowed. "Alright, fine! You've got Star! What about me? Are you going to suck the life out of me too before I karate-chop you into the next multiverse???"

Toffee tisked, an almost fatherly expression appearing on his face. "Oh Marco," he crooned gently, as if gently chiding a disobedient child. "There's no point in that. Without her?" He gestured to Star's broken form. "You're nothing."

With this, the villain cackled menacingly and snatched up Star's wand before zooming out of the cave and slamming a rock in front of the entrance with a wave of his hand, leaving Marco alone with the shell of the coolest girl he'd ever known.

With Toffee gone, the reality of the situation slowly began to sink in....

Star was gone.

And it was his fault.

"....STAR!!!!" Marco wailed, tears blurring his vision. "THIS WASN'T SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN!!! I—it's all my fault..... If it weren't for me, you wouldn't have had any reason to cleave your wand in the first place!! You...you'd be alive..."

He took one of Star’s cold hands in his, despair weighing him down so heavily that he doubted he'd ever be able to stand again.

"You trusted me with your friendship, and I hurt you. You trusted me with your life, and I let you die....

"...you trusted me with your heart...." he managed to choke, the final lyrics of Ruberiot's song reverberating within his skull, "...and all I did was push it aside......"

He knelt near Star in silence for a few minutes, grasping desperately for answers within his head. How could this have happened? How could he have let this happen??

"You know," Marco murmured weakly, "Jackie and I decided to stop dating pretty soon after you left Earth. I knew finding my best friend and being there to support her was more important than focusing on a girlfriend, and Jackie agreed....but I also think she was convinced that I'd fallen for you..."

He winced.

“...but I guess none of that really matters now, huh?"

Marco gazed down at the princess's fallen form, wishing beyond belief that he'd done things differently in Star's time on Earth, wishing he knew what he could have done to prevent her from ending up like this, wishing he'd been able to see the truth before it had been too late to act upon it.

"I'll finish what you started, Star," he vowed, determination seeping into his voice. "I promise, I'll do everything I can to protect the citizens of Mewni and defeat Toffee. And I promise that I'll never stop looking for a way to bring you back and that you'll always be the best, most amazing friend I could've ever hoped to have, and that..."

His voice cracked.

"...and that I'll always love you."

Gently, Marco brushed a rebellious strand of blonde hair off of Star's forehead and planted a soft kiss on her brow.

"Goodbye, Star."

With this, Marco's resolve shattered, and he broke down in gut-wrenching sobs, shoulders quaking and chest burning.

So it made sense that he didn't notice when the two hearts stamped on Star's cheeks began glowing faintly.

Slowly, translucent webs of purple began weaving themselves around the princess's form, lifting her up bit by bit as they did so. Star herself did not stir, but something within her most certainly was stirring.

When Marco felt Star's fingers shift away from his, his eyes shot wide open. Out of instinct, he jerked back upon observing her continue to rise off of the ground, still unconscious. As the webs grew thicker and thicker, encasing the princess's entire body, the rosy glow emanating from them only grew as well. Marco watched in awe as the chrysalis began to vibrate when it rose to around five feet off of the ground. Faster and stronger it writhed, until at last, with a searing flash of light so bright and pink that Marco lost his vision for a couple of seconds, the figure within burst free.

"......am I dead? ..... Marco, is that you?? Are we both dead???"

Marco, unfortunately, was currently incapable of offering any sort of response. He simply stood, gaping, with his eyes set upon the girl hovering a few yards away from him.

Star waved her hands in Marco's direction, only to recoil when she found more than eight fingers—and purple ones, no less!—at her disposal. "Yikes!!" she shrieked, recoiling.

Her eyes narrowed as she examined her two newly-formed sets of limbs. "....wait a minute."

Tentatively, she craned her head back--and gasped with joy at what she discovered.

"MY MEWBERTY WINGS!!!!!!!" Star giggled gleefully, twirling circles in the air on a pair of intricately-patterned lavender wings. "THEY'RE ALL GROWN UP!!!!!!"

And indeed they were. Star Butterfly had at last unlocked the full heritage of the Butterfly dynasty coded deep within her DNA. Unfolding from her back were two massive butterfly wings adorned with shimmering hearts. Six arms extended from her torso now, and a pair of dainty antennae bobbled above her head. Her hair, now also a shade of dark violet, had shortened significantly as well, so as not to get caught in her wings.

"This is so cool...!" Star breathed. "Marco, what do you think??"

The sound of Star repeating his name finally snapped Marco out of his stupor.

"....STAR!!!!!!" he proclaimed elatedly, hastily rushing over to her with a luminescent grin on his face. "You're okay!!!!! Well—more than okay, actually!"

Beaming, Star scooped Marco up in a six-armed hug and spun him around in the air a few times, the two of them laughing and celebrating as if the events of the past month or so had never occurred.

But just as quickly as Star's mood spiraled upward, reality set back in as she began recalling where she was. Quickly, the princess set Marco down before planting her own feet on the floor.

"Wait a minute..." she voiced with uncertainty, cocking her head at her best friend. "Didn't Toffee, like, drain my powers and more or less leave me for dead? That's the last thing I remember..."

Marco nodded with a little shiver. “…yup.”

"So...how am I prancing about on newly-grown mewberty wings now?"

Marco shrugged. He had to keep blinking to assure himself that Star’s transformation wasn’t just a cruel trick of his heartache-addled mind.

Star stared at him for a moment, perplexed. Then, without quite knowing why she was led to do so, she tentatively raised a hand to her forehead and touched it—in the very spot where Marco had kissed her only minutes before.

Instantly, a wave of understanding pummeled Star, and she staggered back.

"...it was you!" she gasped.

But before she had the chance to elaborate on this, the stone guarding the entrance to the cave groaned and started shifting to the side.

“You know something, Marco?” Toffee called out as he pushed the stone away. “I’ve been thinking...maybe you have some potential after all! You see, I’ve been meaning to find a new—erm, shall we say, host? And what better person to destroy Mewni as than the former princess’s best fri—“

Toffee took pride in having mastered a distinctly precise ability to mask his emotions. It was one of the qualities that kept him on his toes after centuries of plotting against the Butterfly family. But even he, the immortal monster of legends and tapestries, could not contain his bewilderment at the sight awaiting him.

Star Butterfly was fine. More than fine, actually. She had never appeared more powerful. And Marco Diaz, the seemingly-useless karate boy, was standing right beside her.

Heroes and villain stared wide-eyed at each other, each wondering how to gain the upper hand. After matter of seconds that consisted of Toffee darting his gaze between the princess and her prince, understanding suddenly dawned upon him. He chuckled, quickly regaining his composure.

“Well well…” the monster crooned with a smirk, directing his gaze towards Marco. “Looks like you aren’t as much of a disappointment as I thought.

“And Star! Why, you look just like your mom did the last time we fought. It's a shame to think of her discovering that her dear little princess finally earned her wings but tragically had the life re-drained out of her before she really got to use them…I’ll be sure to dispose of her before she has to find out." With these words, Toffee fired a blast of green magic at the currently-wandless Star, smiling wickedly.

Star, however, wasn't going to give herself up so easily this time. Eyes and hearts igniting, she thrust her hands forward as searing pink magic gushed out of them like a waterfall and formed a bubble around her. Toffee's blast fizzled and sputtered away as soon as it touched the force-field.

Toffee's eyes widened in shock and then narrowed in disdain. He fired another shot at Star, and then another, and then another, but the warrior princess deflected every blast as effortlessly as if she'd been doing it for her whole life. When Toffee realized that he'd lost his chance to defeat her, he made a last-ditch attempt to gain the upper hand by manifesting a giant, luminescent green limb and snatching Marco—who'd been soaking up every second of the battle from the sidelines, awestruck—with it....not realizing his action would have the opposite effect of what he intended.

"NO."

The next thing Toffee knew, he was lying flat on his back with the wind knocked out of his host's puny lungs. He could vaguely make out the hazy form of Star Butterfly hovering over him with a venomous glint in her eyes.

"You can try and kill me all you want, but touch Marco....and I'll destroy you," she declared in a razor-sharp whisper.

For the first time since he'd lost his finger to Moon, all those years ago, Toffee's stomach--though, technically it was still Ludo's stomach--lurched as an unpleasant chill seized his body.

He was afraid.

With the last of his energy, the villain rose from the ground and frantically fled the cave, leaving Star's wand behind in his haste.

Star remained hovering in the air, glaring after him with the same stone-hard expression on her face.

".....Star?"

Tentatively, Marco approached the princess and grabbed the hand that was nearest to him.

"You can calm down now. He's gone."

Star's shoulders relaxed, and she gently sank to the ground, her wings and extra arms folding up and disappearing as she did so. Marco immediately knelt beside his best friend and helped her to stand, supporting her weight while she re-adjusted to her normal form.

Star winced, holding one of two hands to her now-pale forehead

"Ugh....Mom didn't tell me how draining it is to earn your wings...." she grumbled.

Marco, on the other hand, had never felt more alive. "Star, that was amazing!!!!" he exclaimed. "You just took down Toffee, the same guy who managed to defeat the entire magic high commission and drain their powers in less than two minutes!!! And after he'd drained your power, too!!!!! You still managed to beat him!!!!!!"

Star stared at the ground for a bit, the gears in her head whirring. Finally, she raised her gaze to Marco, hand still poised at the top of her head.

"But I couldn't have done it if it weren't for you.”

"....what do you mean?" Marco asked—though deep down he suspected he understood what Star was getting at.

"I--I'm not sure..." Star replied sheepishly, shrugging her shoulders with a meager chuckle. "It's just...it's like....you replenished my power source. I can feel it was you. But I can't figure out how!!"

Marco bit his lip, uncertain as to how he could be more anxious in this moment than he'd been when Toffee was about to possess him.

Then, he spotted the royal wand, which was still strewn on the floor. Swiftly, he scooped up the heirloom and held it out to Star, who seemed to snap back into focus upon seeing it.

"You're right, Marco," the princess decreed, reclaiming her wand from her best friend. "We'll talk through this later."

Grinning mischievously, Star sprang into the air and raised her arms, and suddenly she was a butterfly again!

"Right now, we have a kingdom to save!"

...

Thanks for reading!! I actually wrote part of a continuation to this back in the day but I never quite finished it...soooo I’m going to try to finish it and then post the conclusion sometime!

(And AGAIN there’s a lot of canon-divergent stuff in this fic, I know Star isn’t ACTUALLY biologically a Butterfly😅. But I didn’t know that four years ago, lol!)

[stop-breaking-my-heart-telltale]

It would be cool if they did another 400 days type mini series with some characters. like showing us the beginning/middle/different parts of the apocalypse from the perspectives of: Marlon, Louis, Violet, Sophie, James, and Lilly. I think it would do well

I think something like this would do well, too. We talk about this a lot and I keep hoping that if we continue to talk about it, they’ll somehow hear us and actually do it haha. 

Just think of the possibilities- a game with each episode dedicated to following a different protagonist during a different time in the apocalypse, telling a previously unheard story. They could even do more character-driven stories that focus more on that aspect rather than the walkers and outside dangers, y’know? 

Really the only downside I could see if they actually did this is that people outside the fandom would be whiney about it? I mean, people who casually played Telltale games would look at Skybound like “Rehashing old characters who aren’t muh Clementine? Pass.” Y’know? And to be fair, I could see people within the fandom being disappointed, too. 

But a majority? I think we’d all be happy to just have another twdg installment if Skybound wanted to make one... as long as they leave Clementine alone. That’s my one condition haha. 

Leave her alone, Robert. 

I’ll even throw out a bunch of possibilities for episodes-

Carley and Doug - I would love an episode that starts with Carley working as a reporter just as the walkers come. We could meet her crew, go through when they were attacked and explore the trauma she experiences after watching her producer get eaten alive in front of her. 

Then, in comes our hero: Doug. Doug saves her life, and the two of them manage to escape and hideout. This is the perfect time to explore Doug’s character, too, as well as the relationship he and Carley had before they met up with the drugstore crew. 

We can learn more about how Carley came to be so good with firearms and more about Doug’s technical background. Not only that, but it would be interesting to see these two actually interact since, y’know... they canonically have romantic feelings for one another. 

Then the episode could end with them meeting Glenn outside, who brings them back to the group at the drugstore. 

The St Johns - Here me out, but I would totally be on board for an episode about these people and how they starting picking off their farmhands for food. We don’t even have to play as any of the St Johns, we could play as a farmhand that actually escaped that fate after discovering what these people were doing. 

It could definitely be more horror based, too. Like a cat and mouse sort of chase scene with the protagonist and Andy or Danny with them escaping with their life at the end and journeying off. 

We could also see more of the bandits and how that agreement came to be with them. We could see more of Jolene, too. 

Lilly - Okay, I want to know what the hell happened to Lilly between s1 and s4. From what I’ve gathered and inferred, Lilly wandered alone for years before finding the delta, the first place she ever considered home since... well, the motor-inn. Which... is nuts. 

Then there’s all the trauma of losing Larry on top of what a piece of shit he was. I know I laugh at her for being all “No more ice cream, no more hair dryer” when she was telling Clementine about Larry cutting their power but we don’t know much about just how abusive Larry was. 

Plus, we don’t know what happened to her mom. Larry still carried her wedding ring even into the apocalypse and died with it in his pocket. There’s just... a lot of things. 

So I think an episode about Lilly by herself could be an interesting exploration of her being her own enemy, y’know? When I say character-driven, I mean solely character-driven with Lilly having flashbacks or nightmares or talking to herself or even hallucinations. Think Michonne, but even better executed. And with no ghost children. Maybe a ghost Larry, though. Which is arguably worse. 

And it could end with someone from the delta finding her. 

Christa and Omid - I feel like this is an obvious one since everyone loves these two and we’re still salty that they never brought Christa back. So it’d be cool to see these two either before meeting Lee’s group, or their time with Clementine between s1 and s2.

This is the only time I’ll allow Clementine to be here. If they feel they have to plop Clementine into this, then do it this way. We could explore Clementine’s guilt of what happened to Lee and the trauma she suffered while with the stranger, we could explore Christa’s pregnancy and learn more about her and Omid’s relationship. 

We could see some dad moments with Omid as he and Clementine bond, perhaps dive into the fear and anxiety of a baby that’s coming, too. 

Kenny and Sarita - So... while Kenny’s not my favorite person, I can’t deny that I’d be interested in seeing him after he apparently escapes the walker horde after killing Ben and what he went through before he met Sarita. 

Hell, have an episode where we play as Sarita as she stumbles upon Kenny and how she saved him from the restaurant he was hiding in. We could get a glimpse into Kenny from Sarita’s point of view and what they went through during their time together. We could learn about Walter and Matthew, too. 

Honestly, I just want to know more about Sarita as a character rather than a plot device to die in order to further Kenny’s development, y’know?  

Bonnie - Yeah, yeah, I know. No one likes Bonnie and “who wants to play as Bonnie again?? she sucks??”, but damn it... I want them to redeem how badly they fucked up with her story in 400 Days. 

I want an episode about her struggling with her drug addiction and how it affected her when the dead started walking. What she was willing to do to get her fix, y’know? Bring back Leland and Dee and how they helped with her road to recovery.

Leland himself even said that when they found her, she was still so stuck on those drugs. I think exploring that could be a fascinating experience. 

Jane - An episode about Jane and Jamie? An exploration of Jane’s struggle with keeping her sister alive while having that internal survival instinct trying to take over all leading to her finally giving Jamie what she wanted- to leave her. Then how that guilt and loss took a toll on Jane and hardened her.

And like, I know Jane is kind of in the same boat as Bonnie where a lot of people [specifically Kenny followers] absolutely hate her and would whine about an episode dedicated to exploring her character, but I don’t care. I’d play it, I’d love to understand Jane more, even if I don’t particularly like her. 

David - This one is here for selfish reasons. I want an episode all about David. I don’t care what you do, but I want to see David’s struggle of literally losing his entire family in a single night, as well as losing the world to the apocalypse and having to move forward.

Like... seriously, remember what Kate was all “I bet David was happy when the world ended” or some shit? I actually disagree, Kate, since the day the world ended, he lost his father, mother, brother, uncle, his fucking children, and you, his wife within a night.  He spent years thinking you all were dead while traveling with Ava and his unit, fighting the dead and trying to survive.... but no, the day the walkers came was probably super great for him. Ugh. 

The bonus is we get more Ava, too. Also, I don’t think anyone would oppose if you threw in the whole “David and Lingard might’ve had a thing”... just sayin’. We stan bisexual David. 

Javier - Throwing this one in there because I think an episode about Javi, Kate, Gabe, and Mari would do incredibly well. Everyone misses the Garcia’s, everyone was bummed that we ever got a follow up to what Javi was up to after ANF. 

Y’know... since ANF was a mess, they probably didn’t feel they could do a follow up because people wouldn’t play... but I’m telling you, we’d play another adventure as Javier Garcia. I don’t know what kind of story you’d tell, but it doesn’t matter. Well, it does... but ya get me. 

Plus, more Gabe and Mariana content. C’mon. 

James - *slams fists on table* I want my James and the whisperers episode damn it!! And I’m gonna keep saying it until someone either makes it or pays me to shut up. 

I don’t care if you like James or not, you can’t deny how fascinating it would be to have an entire episode dedicated to the whisperers. On top of that, we’d get to see James and Charlie and how their relationship suffered during their time with the whisperers, as well as James realizing what a monster he became. 

Maybe we could have a scene where James actually makes his famous mask, or a scene of James escaping them and leaving Charlie behind. It could end with James in his camp until he hears gunshots one night. When he goes to investigate, he finds Clementine and AJ trying to escape Lilly and Abel and we get him intervening from his perspective. 

There ya go, there’s a second Clementine cameo that doesn’t fuck everything up. Ta-dah. 

Sophie and Minerva - A popular one that most of us would want. Them after they were taken away and how they suffered within the delta. It’d be cool to play as Sophie, and tragic since we know how that would end. But we could be the one who acts out and tries to escape all while doing our best to keep Minerva from giving into them... which again, imagine the heartbreak. 

The Ericson crew - Like with the twins, this would be a popular one that most people would want to play. While I’d rather they kept their fingers off Louis and Violet since they’re bound to fuck them up, I can’t deny that I want to know what happened at the school during the first days. 

We could even play as Ms. Martin as she chooses to stay and take care of all these kids, how she bonds with them before inevitably meeting her fate in the greenhouse. 

And c’mon, you know you want to see baby child versions of our Ericson kiddos. Imagine Louis and Violet at these young ages? Seeing other kids we never got to meet? We’d eat it up! ...Well, assuming they did a good job with their characterizations. Y’know. 

---

Those are all the major ones I’d like to see, but hey, if any of you had other ideas for episodes following characters I didn’t mention, feel free to share! 

[illyrian-lover-flower]

My little mischievous partner ~ part 2

It felt all too slow. How Cassian opened his door, how he ran over to Rhys room on a mushy ground - where normaly cold,even marble should have met his naked feet.

With cold sweat cloaking his forehead and chest, he flung open the dooble door to Rhys and Feyres bedroom - locked it shut and jumped under the heavy blanket his brother slept under.

To Cassians luck was Feyre still out together with Mor and Amren. Just great, now they had to fight off Bryaxis on their own.

Cass would rather wait for Nesta than do this now. No hundred Illyrians could get him out there to this horrible creature.

Rhysand stired slowly awake by the constant shivering of his blanket. At first he had turned to his side and had hugged the round bundle, nuzzling into it as he mumbled “Oh, Feyre darling, you don’t need to purr for me.”

If the thing waiting outside the door wouldn’t have been Cassians worst nightmare he would have perhaps laughed, or thrown the blanket, over his together rolled form back. Making it obvious that he isn’t Feyre - but he was motionless. The shivers that wrecked through him already too much movement for him.

And so he wasn’t able to do anything as his brother pulled the heavy blanket aside. Rhys sleepy face was enlightened by the soft hue of moonlight as he looked down at him with a lust stretched smile and something dark welling in his violet eyes.

But all that was gone as he suddenly noticed the form of his shivering brother. A  yelp escaping him as he hurriedly skidded back to his side of the bed.

The soft midnight blue blanket between them a strained bundle, as both gripped onto one side of it.

“What in the mothers name are you doing here Cass!” The commander swallowed hard, not answering as he only asked “Can I please stay here? Feyre won’t be here before sunrise anyway. Like that you won’t be lonely.”

Rhys only glared at him before heaving a sigh, dragging a hand through his already sleep mussed hair “Fine. Just don’t tell Feyre of this - you know just as much as I do that she will not let us live this one down.”

Cassian only nodded - fine with whatever his brother wanted from him, if it prevented him from having to step out of the room.

For a long time there was only heared the rustling of the blanket, that shifted back and forth between the two of them until they settled. Both their naked backs turned at each other.

While Rhys closed his eyes again and his breathing started to even. Cassian was far away from finding sleep again. His heart still beating like a thunderstorm in his chest, his wings slowly closing in around him. Every movement outside, the sway of one of the trees, a bird or a bat fluttering past the window -every motion that caused the shadows to move made him shift. His nerves strained to the point of snapping at any moment.

The ticking of the grandfarther clock in the cornor had him wince with every tick. Still he managed to calm down, thinking that all the things he had seen in his room were probably just an imagination because of his drunken state.

Maybe it was just that.

Still with an unerving feeling in his guts, did he close his eyes. An exhaused sigh leaving his bloodless lips as he nuzzeled into the pillows.

The dancing shadows in the room, that had danced around his vision and had frightened him, were now a soothing black blanket behind his closed eyelids.

Sleep soon wanting to drag him down into its cloudy world - that was until he heared it again. That meatallic sound of a laugh.

“Hihihihihi!”

His body moved on its own accord as it sat up straight. The sweat that had once vanished returned as his gaze hurried around the room. His brother was snorring beside him and everything seemed normal, that means almost normal.

There was a dark shadow, just by the door.

A pitch black clawing fog that swirled around aimlessly on the wooden double door.  

His heart beat spedup at the sight, the metallic laugh a screech in his ears he did never want to hear again. Cassians breathes came uneven as he shook his brother awake - this time not taking his plate wide eyes off of the shadow, that slowly started to take form.

Rhys growled as he was once again dragged out of sleep, but as his grumpy glare saw Cass ,almost porcelain white skin - he did not question his brother -that looked straight ahead.

With a tired puzzeled gaze did the High Lord follow the view of his Commander, after he sat up. His thick black eyebrow furrowed as the question was written all over his face. The clawing fog that now formed into the stature of two persons was not at all familiar with him. Wait a clawing fog?!

Rhys violet eyes slowly widened as he came to the realization - still he breathed to his brother “I’m pretty sure there is a reasonable reason behind this.” 

And it would most likely not the reason of a company searching Bryaxis, that had killed off dozens the last time they saw them.

Cassian only stared further at the fog, as the metallic laugh was heared again.

And the black mist started to lift. Strand for strand it unwrapped two persons. At the sight of those two pairs of legs, was Cassian glad - knowing it was not his worst nightmare, but who were then the intruders?

Rhys slowly scooched closer to his brother as he ,too, saw the two pairs of leggs. One pair, the more delicate and smaller one, covered in a pair of shiny grey harem’s pants. The tiny feet covered with a pair of silver ballerinas. While the other one seemed more masculine, a long turquoise sheet of fabric dangling over a pair of white pants.

And soon the two frightened brothers were greeted by their little angry, ancient friend. Amrens silver eyes swimming with an emotion both did not want to know what it promissed, while her blood red mouth formed into a twisted smirk as she looked up at Varian.

Varian beside her, was quiet as always. His face seeming a bit more grimm, but also lighter as a smirk, too, layed on his lips and he picked up the tiny female.

Her short legs wrapping around his middle imedeatly as his lips found purchase on her red painted ones. One of his large hands wound around her behind, to keep her steddy beside him - while the other tangeled and ruffeled her silky short black hair.

A growl escaping the two of them, while they did not seem as if they noticed the confused and quiet disturbed gazes of the two brothers, that were frightened for their life at the view.

They both were happy to call someone like Amren their family and that she found herself Varian, but both did never want to find out these specific things. Seeing how their chests pressed into one another, her hips grinding into his. There would have not even fit a sheet of paper between them. It seemed like as if the two wanted to become one right infront of Rhys and Cassian.

And it might have been that the two accted like little boys, that just had cought their parents in the middle of something, but they did not want to watch this unfold even more. A shiver running down both of their spines as they thought about it. And so Rhys took the bravery to clear his throat - loudly.

But the pants of the two were louder as they broke appart. Amrens arms wound thightly in Varians hair, their eyes only snapping away from each other as they heared Cass massive frame coliding with the floor.

The commander did not want to see this unfold any longer, but the blanket had cought his legs at the attempt to flee. All pairs of eyes on his form on the cold floor. Annoyed by the reason for his fall he snapped “You two having your fun?!”

Amren only smirked, as her whole body stayed wrapped against Varians. Her blood red lips one devils smirk as she answered: “Thank you very much Cassian, it is actually quiet fun for the both of us, yes.”

Varian had the decency to turn a bit red as he nudged his dark nose against her almost white cheek. But the smirk that formed on his lips as well, had the two brothers shaking.

Rhys slowly crawled to Cassian as to not caugh the attention of the two smirking lovers and leaned down to him. Freeing his brother all too slowly from the silky fetters around his ankels. “We run at three, got that?” Cassian only nodded. Bracing himself on his forearms as to slowly get up.

But before Rhys had even got the chance to say one, went Amrens attention back to them. That words that left her smirking mouth had them flying for the door behind them. “Would you like to join us?”

They both moved fast as lightning for the door. The heavy wood flinging wide open at the force Cass used to open it up with. This was worse than Bryaxis! decided Cassian for himself as he bolted down the hallway to the living room.

There was no way in hell he would open up that cursed chamber of his. Afterall they both had already been in his room. Oh gods he did not even want to think about that!

And while both, Cass and Rhys, ran down the stairs to sleep on the couch. They did not hear the metallic laugh that left Rhys and Feyres bedroom.

None of the two carred about the sound, as they both ran to get their eyes as far away, from the two, as possible. Rhys not carring at all that his bedroom was used for their fun.

There were plenty of rooms in the riverestate. He and Feyre could simply move into one of them, though the explanation might be a bit difficult.

Even though both Illyrians did not know why Amren showed up in the middle of Rhys bedroom - they were horrified. The few pictures that they had seen in the dimm hue of moonlight, enough for the rest of eternity.

The fire in the fireplace to source of warmth as they , both, layed under a pile of blankets on the couch. Sleep without a nightmare hard to find for the two of them.

*****

As the two drunken and sleepy Illyrians stumbeled out the room, was the seer in need of biting her bottom lip -hard- to prevent herself from bursting out laughing.

And it seemed that even the stoic shadowsinger beside her, had to pull hard on his leash of restraint to not burst out lauging too.A light snicker escaping him.

Elain nudged his, brown painted, arm with hers. A smile on her lips as she gazed up at him. Him and his turquoise eyes.

She pounted.

Bold in her drunken state did words leave her mouth, she would have never said if she was sober - but that whole plan of hers was something she would have never done in a sober state.

“I like your hazel eyes better.” was all she mumbled

Azriel grew stiff for a moment at the comment, before he lifted his scarred hand and pulled the two contact lenses out. Revealing his hazel eyes onse again. The emotions inside of them, that made the green and brown appear like one swirl of color - as if they had been painted by Feyre herself with her oil paint, a true master piece. Making the seer lose her breath.

And so did the Shadowsinger as he heaved a sigh once the two foreign bodys were out of his eyes.

The kind smile he offered his friend was something breathtaking, but Elains breath was knocked out of her lungs for another reason.

Her still silver eyes widening at the red smeared lipstick on his sinfull lips.Those lips that had touched and caressed hers like a real lover, wrapping her soft cold lips into the warm blanket of his.

Even though the act, they just had put up, seemed wild and full of passion and like something that was clearly created by Amren and her lover.

But it wasn’t.

It was a song that was sung by the uniting bodys of the Shadowsinger and the seer. A symphony that only their soul and body could create, but that was something that could only be felt by the two of them.

Two drunken ones not even able to notice the difference between those who played infront of them and those which were the real ones.

The hight difference between ‘Amren’ and ‘Varian’ , that stood in the middle of Rhys and Feyres bedroom, gazing at each other with such warmth and intensity that could melt ice, was a lot lesser than the original one.

Something the make up skills of Elain could not make up for.

As well as the bulkier stature of ‘Varian’ and since it was dark, it was also not noticed that his entire backside was covered in shadows.

The black swirling whisps little snakes around Azriels wings, covering everything up like a cloak. Something he had already done many times - mostly durning spies and visits to the mortal lands after the war.

And Elain needed to admit, her eyes taking in every inch of Azriels disguised form, that she would never want anyone else besides the shadowsinger.

His tan, but not ebony skin. His hazel eyes - not quiet brown but also not grey or green either. His touseled soft black hair, instead of white flowing one.

Elain realized with shock, as she lifted her hand to cup the Shadowsingers brown cheek, that there would never be anyone as beautiful as Azriel for her.

Body and Soul. Of course did he have cracks and weired habits of his. Scars covering his body, his hands mostly, but also his heart. His kind heart that seemed for most cold, but was in truth the hearth of a fire to which, at least, sweet Elain wanted to come home forever.

Her pale hand that rested on his dark cheek and tried to smear away a bit of the color on his gods crafted face, did nothing. She only caressed his cheek. And the Shadowsinger could do nothing more than close his eyes - leaning in to the soft touch of hers.

A chuckle escaping his relaxed face as he realized what the intensing swipes with her thumb attemted to do. “You do remember, El, that you yourself had put smearproof make up all over my skin, right?”

Elains eyes widened slowly “Oh.”

Azriel burst out full laughing at her short memory, that usualy remembered everything from the start of her fae life, her tipsy state having clearly infected her a bit too much.

Both probably too tipsy at this point that they did not care at all, that they were laughing like maniacs in the middle of darkness. Bold words leaving their mouthes as a fire ignited between the two.

Elain innocent smile, seeming all weired and twisted in Amrens form. But Amrens looks fit her wicked tongue just right. 

A gleam in the silver contact lenses of hers. “Well I guess that I have to remove it all again then.”

Azriel did not know how he would have reacted if he had been sober, but all he remembered in his tipsy state, was that he closed the little distance between them. One of his scarred hands holding his lenses as the other lifted to the seers soft cheek. 

The distance between them, the distance that was barely there - was unbearable as Azriels already red smeared lips were only milimiters away from hers. A soft whisper of them and his words everything against them.

A few little words, a touch all it needed for Elain to shiver from delight. Gosepumps appearing all over her body. 

“You would not be capable of what you unleash, little seer.” 

Elains breath was cought in her lungs. There were only a few times were he called her with such names. She mostly knew in which situation he used which nickname for her, but with these she never knew. 

His gaze always holding, in such moments, a stronger intensity. 

“I think you’re underestimating me, Spymaster.” 

And just before she closed the milimeter between them, breathless words left her lungs. 

“Because I know I could handle you, Azriel. Forever.” 

Those were the words that unleashed the Shadowsinger. Never in his life had he heared such sweet words and for the first time of his life did he want to taste these sweet words on her lips.

Every mother damned syllable of them. 

A dance of soft lips fighting against each other, erupting in the soft hue of moon light before they were gone in a shadowy breeze.

_______________________________________________________________

Taglist (please contact me if you want to be added or removed from the list):

@heirofthrnightcourt004

[antihero-writings]

Before It Kills You Too 

Fandom: Lore Olympus (Webcomic)

Fic Summary: Anger was a fire, it burned white hot and devastated the world around it. But then it faded...This was more than anger. 

Hera goes for a drive after a fight with Zeus, and has some time to think. Her internal monologue and memories, using Blackpink's "Kill This Love" as a prompt.

Character Focus: Hera

Notes: If you haven't listened to, and/or watched the music video for Blackpink's "Kill This Love" (I’ll put a link in the replies!), I highly recommend you do so either before or after reading, as the fic is based on the lines, and a few of the visuals of it!

Also, fyi, I am very new to the world of kpop myself... I deeply apologize if I didn't do the song justice!

I am a big fan of Greek Mythology (though I don't know it super well), and adore retellings of it, (as well as retellings of classic literature in general). But the two characters I've never liked in other retellings + the original myths are Zeus and Hera. But Rachel does such a great job with the characters in LO she managed to create a version of both Zeus and Hera not only do I like, they are in my top favorite characters of the series. 

I've wanted to write a fic for Lore Olympus for a while (as well as something using "Kill This Love" as a prompt), and I decided to write one about them, both because I don't think there are as many fics about them, and to honor what a great job she's done with these characters, and how much she made me like them (and because the song fit too well with her!)!

Chapter 1: I Owe It All to You 

Hera kept glancing from the road to the speedometer, the dial sneaking steadily upwards: sixty miles an hour to seventy in seconds.

She leaned over and took a cigarette from the pack, putting it between the fingers of the hand on the steering wheel. She took out the lighter and clicked it open, lighting the end, then closed it again and set it back down in the cupholder while she breathed in.

Smoke never tasted so sweet as when she was angry with him.

Eighty, ninety.

“Good to see you again, Bunny!”

“It’s only been a few days!” She laughed, “And who’s Bunny?”

“You are!” Zeus took her hands and gave her eskimo nose kisses. “Who else?”

The golden girl smiled, big and bright—

—the kind of smile one can only give when the world itself is big and bright. When one lives in a realm of hope, where beings keep their secrets, and their promises, and no one lies, or steals, or cheats.

She breathed out, smoke billowing like her mouth was the gates to the Christian’s hell—(they say hell hath no fury right?).

Sometimes she wished she had Zeus’s power; that she could set the world on fire with a glance.

A hundred.

The world was nothing but streaks of light across her vision. Not trees, people, and buildings; not distinguishable as life or meaning, just lines of color as she flew by. Maybe things were better that way. She could dance in the in-between, reach up and grab the ribbons, twirl around with them in beautiful absurdity. Only absurdity was beautiful; truth and sanity were far too ugly.

“Bunny I—”

“Don’t ‘Bunny’ me!”

She took another long draft, letting the smoke’s medicine filling her lungs.

And out.

Breathe out, feel the negative emotions leaving your body, all the meditation gurus say.

What a load of bullshit that was.

For every soothing inhale there was always an exhale that felt like it was clawing its way out of her throat. For every sweet hello there was a bitter goodbye, full of curses at his back, in return. For every incredible high there was a unfathomable price. That was the rule to life; what goes up, must come down.

And she had risen too high, once upon a time.

The test of life had no answer, let alone a right one. Even the gods were slaves to fate, and emotion.

The tires screeched hellishly as she rounded corner.

Hera walked around the corner.

“It just—I feel like the world’s on fire when I’m with him! You know?”

The queen stopped. It was that nymph’s voice. The one who came by earlier.

“Ahh I’m so jealous! Tell me more! Tell me!”

“Well he just…I don’t know! When he kisses me the whole world just kind of…stops. You know? And when he listens…I feel like he’s actually listening.”

“Ugh, too sappy! Tell me the dirty stuff!”

“Oh stop! I’m not gonna tell you about our sex life!”

Hera rolled her eyes, beginning to walk away when—

“Well he is the king of the gods. You’re right; It’s better if I imagine.”

The queen froze.

“Eugh I don’t want you imagining me in bed with him!”

“No, I’m imagining me in bed with him!”

Hera couldn’t hear them anymore. Couldn’t see the world in front of her. She was staring at a space before her eyes only she could see; a space, a memory, where the world was wide and she and Zeus were the only beings in it.

That space was shattering piece by piece.

Her breath was shallow in her chest, her blood pumping her ears.

“Mama?” Ares’ little voice brought her back to the world. “Mama, you’re hurting me.”

She immediately let go of her son’s tiny hand. “I’m so sorry sweetheart!” She crouched down and took his hand in both of hers, this time with the most gentleness she could muster, and kissed his fingers. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah…‘m okay.” He took his hand back and rubbed it.

He looked at her apprehensively.

“…Are you okay, mama? …Are you angry?”

She whizzed passed broken stop sign, catching her reflection in the rear view mirror; her hair in tattered locks like rags about her face, eyebrows permanently furrowed, lip permanently pursued, blue eyes dim and hollow, with nothing of the brightness they once contained; only a few lingering sparks of electricity in an abandoned power plant.

‘Okay’. ‘Angry’.

Such ugly words.

“I just…” the golden girl pushed her hair behind her ear sheepishly, her eyes bright, “I feel like the world’s on fire when I’m with him…you know?”

“Can’t say I do,” Aidoneus muttered softly.

She put her gently hand on his. “Don’t worry, I know you will one day.” She grinned.

And what made it better was that she really meant that.

He tried to smile back.

“So what’s that…like?” he asked softly.

“Well…when he kisses me the world kind of …stops. It feels like there’s nothing and no one in the universe but him and me. We can talk about anything. And when I talk it feels like he actually listens. He always makes me laugh. When I’m with him…it feels like nothing else matters…”

She hated that word: okay. It was too simple, too easy; one could always throw it out as an answer. It didn’t mean, I’m doing very well, or I’m doing poorly—(though it could mean either depending on the context). Okay was just, ‘fine’, ‘alright’. Okay could mean you were doing wonderfully, having a great day, and okay could mean you would rather be dead, and either way people would smile and say good! I’m okay too!. Okay was never truly satisfied, never fully living. Just existing. ‘Okay’ was a word for ghosts; for those who are neither dead nor really alive, neither sinners nor saints. Just floating through the world, caught in between.

She was always okay…and she was never okay.

She rolled down the window, cool air rushing in to the car and scooping up all the smoke, taking it out into the night, giving it to some other lonely Goddess who needed it.

“Ugh, this again? I thought we were done with this…Just leave it for now. You’ll feel better after lunch.”

And, anger, anger was a fire that blossomed like a rose high, and bright, and scorching for a while, eating everything it saw. Then it dwindled. Sometimes it could be lit again by a passing breeze, if the embers were still fresh enough. And sometimes that relight could touch a passerby leaf or bush, and from there desecrate forests and cities. But often, even then, once it had finished blazing it would wither and die. Anger burned white hot and violent at first, but eventually it would fade, and the world would be left to deal with everything it blackened in its wake.

She sometimes had a vague image of smashing Zeus’s head in, of him clutching his big ugly skull, golden trails of blood intermixing with his violet hair, draining down his cheeks. And there she was, holding the stem of glass, half of the vase, in her hand, the rest of it in pieces all over the floor before them. Sometimes. Sometimes it felt good to take out all that anger out on innocent paintings. Sometimes she had to destroy something, before it destroyed her.

“You’re acting crazy.” He had said.

Crazy, was she?

Crazy for believing visions in her head, which were always right in the past? Crazy for being angry? For kicking him out? No.

Crazy for staying with a being like him?

Yes. If she was crazy, that was why.

If I’m crazy, well, then…

She smirked, taking a long draft, and letting it out, grey wisps filling the air around her.

Thanks, baby, I owe it all to you.

She had a faint recollection of being sane once. Before him. He always made her crazy, be it when she was first fell in love with him, or when she rose in hate for him. But there was a time, when, before all this, she was a sweet, naïve little golden girl in the forest, with her sanity in tact, who loved animals, and taking care of broken things, her innocence still put together.

He thought he knew crazy. He hadn’t even scratched the surface.

But then that impulse would fade as quickly as it came, and she was left with guilt for even thinking that way. She’d never do that. She might burn his picture, but she wouldn’t actually hurt him…would she? She hoped it would never get that far.

No. That was anger. The boiling thing rising inside her that made her want to smash, and spit in, his face, and burn paintings, that was anger. Anger rose, vehemently, but in the end it dissolved.

This was more than just anger.

This, this feeling; this dull resounding ache at the back of her consciousness like an unending death knell; this thing that bored a hole in her stomach, making her feel constantly sick; this thing that hung as a weight in her chest; this thing wrapping around her, chaining her wings; this thing that stained her eyes with sleeplessness; this thing that broke into her mind and ransacked her thoughts, tainting all those happy memories, making them seem diluted with lies, and sickening to think of, and never, ever left her house—

This was heartbreak. Eternal, infernal, heartbreak.

She was on a long stretch of road now, out where nature still bloomed and she didn’t have to look at anyone’s faces or talk to anyone. The ribbons of light still outlining the air—(was it two hundred now? She’d lost track.).

Lucky me.

Everyone always told her she was lucky. Not everyone got to be the wife of the king of the gods. Just her. She was lucky she had a husband who was powerful. Who was rich. She was lucky she had a husband who adored her. Who doted on her. Who listened to her. Who she could talk to. Who made her laugh.

Not everyone had that. Some had husbands who were poor. Who were weak. Who didn’t love them, and whom they didn’t love. Husbands who didn’t dote on them, or give them so much as a wanton kiss. Who fixed a permanent scowl on their faces. Who they couldn’t talk to. Husbands who lied to them, and cheated on them.

She was lucky she didn’t have that.

Not everyone got to be queen.

Lucky her. So lucky he chose her. So lucky she got the crown. No one else.

No one but her.

So lucky she had that handsome face to wake up to every day.

(Every damn day)

So lucky could talk to him every day. So lucky could kiss him, and hug him, and make love to him.

(Sometimes she couldn’t even look at him.)

So lucky she had Zeus. That goofy, dumb, brave, arrogant king as her better half. So lucky she had a husband who was so sweet, and kind, and gentle, and funny, and patient, and forgiving. So lucky she didn’t have had a cheating, lying, conniving, backstabbing little weasel for a husband, who put that crown on his head, and walked into his office like he owned the world—!

And he was the one person who could say he did. Including her. Sometimes she couldn’t say a word against him.

He owned the world. Along with every fucking girl in it.

And he did fuck them.

After it all, what would he say?

We all lie, so what? Something like that.

So what.

Him; the illustrious king with his throne, and his lightning. Her; a jealous queen with a stolen crown.

The only one to blame was herself.

“I just feel like everyone’s lying, everyone’s—!” the golden girl cried, her hands over her eyes.

Someone took her arm, someone whose grasp was gentle.

He put his finger on her chin, tipping her gaze up to him.

“I’d never lie to you.” Zeus said, giving a gentle smile.

And what made it better was he meant it.

She returned the smile, placing her hand over his. “Nor I to you.”

That naïve little ray of sunlight darkened by his moon.

We’ve both lied, so what? That would surely be his excuse.

“You know what?! Why don’t we talk about you for a change?”

He’d said he was sorry before. He’d promised to be better.

And she believed him, then.

He’d spent enough time telling the truth that she believed he meant it when he apologized. When he made promises. When he spoke to her, she thought he meant the things he said.

I cheated on you, I’m sorry.

I lied to you, I’m sorry.

Now she questioned everything he had ever said. His apologies, his promises, his compliments, his kisses. Were those words so long ago just another lie? His promise to never lie to her, was that just the first lie of a thousand? As numerous as the hours they spent together. Did he ever intend to keep his words back then?

That was the unfortunate thing about lies; they could reside in even the most sincere of promises.

I’m sorry.

(I’m not sorry.)

Long ago she’d wanted him to apologize. She’d been more than desperate to hear those words falling from his lips.

Now she knew they meant nothing. They could, and usually would, be just another lie. And, even if he meant them, they wouldn’t fix this aching hole he’d left in her chest.

She remembered herself at her wedding; them, the picture of a perfect, royal couple, his violet a compliment to her gold. Both of them practically shimmering, wearing traditional wedding attire—(though impossibly embellished and adorned)—and those goofy, light-filled smiles. The whole pantheon applauding, smiling, wiping away tears at their back.

In other countries, at weddings, they said they’d be together in sickness and health, till death did them part.

Did this count as sickness? As death?

Didn’t he break that promise? Did her promises matter after he broke his? Was her faith and faithfulness worth nothing anymore?

She now imagined herself in a black dress, standing at the back of that ceremony with a bow, and an arrow made of adamant, laced with the venom from a certain many headed monster, its gleam reflected in darkened gaze. She breathed out as they spoke, and loosed that arrow, shooting that girl in the back. Olympus shouted in vain, as she watched all that gold flow out of her past self, those blue eyes fade to a cool grey, keeping her from making the biggest mistake of her life. And she’d look at Zeus’ horrified face and think

I’m sorry.

(I’m not sorry.)

That was surely better than this. Better than dying slowly, the blue in her eyes dimming day by day into lifeless grey still animated somehow, better than that gold leaking out of her with each forsaken sunrise she woke up next to him.

Would he be happy then? Without her? He could fuck around with whoever he wanted.

Would she be happier, dead, without all this?

There was no way she could have known, back then what their lives would become after a few millennia. How that god who held her hands and said he’d never lie to her, who hugged her and kissed her, and seemed so in love, could become dissatisfied. That lust would overtake him; he’d keep wanting more and more, gorging himself on it. She had no way of knowing that she wouldn’t be enough one day.

She was young, and innocent then, and didn’t know better.

She couldn’t forgive herself for that.

Something flashed gold in the headlights before her, and for a second her mind manifested before her; she saw that golden girl still, her own hair draining down the street like liquid, that white wedding attire—old, ragged, covered in burns—her own naïve eyes, still full of light and life, staring up at her, terror overtaking their innocent frames. And her own eyes boiled.

The sound of breaking glass was like a cooling rain upon a fire that had been left raging too long.

*****

Zeus was doing important business work. Focus was imperative.

Someone knocked on the door. “Your majesty.”

He fumbled with the spinner he was playing with, dropping it on the floor, sitting upright. He folded his hands on the desk, clearing his throat, trying to look professional.

“Yes? If it’s Hermes wanting to install racing tracks in the sky again—”

“Uh, n-no,” the messenger poked her head in the door, looking nervous, “It’s… about your wife.”

He blinked, then sighed, leaning back in his chair. “…What’s does she want this time?”

“Um…” she swallowed, avoiding his gaze, “S-She’s been in a car accident.”

*****

Notes cont.: Do you guys have any ideas for what song I could use for Zeus for the next chapter? (I want the next chapter to be framed like this one--based around a song, but for him, and from his perspective.) Let's see...In the simplest terms, I'm looking for a song about someone who knows they've made mistakes and/or hurt someone, and wants to do better. It doesn't have to be kpop, it can be anything XD

I'm not sure if this fic makes it seem like I hate Zeus and think she should ditch him or something...I really really don't. That's kind of the point; I actually like him a lot, and am very excited to write his chapter. Hera is just (understandably, and rightfully so) really angry with him for treating her so poorly. and I was trying to convey that to the best of my abilities...but it does make him seem pretty douchey (and, let's be fair, he definitely can be). Their relationship is broken indeed...but I hope it's not beyond repair. (though...the myths don't give me much hope...).

Speaking of the myths, I know Zeus and Hera might not have been in love in the way I describe in this. I'm not very familiar with their early relationship in the myths, but let's just say I know them getting married certainly wasn't all sunshine and roses. And Rachel's been pretty accurate to the myths in her own way, so it may be true of them in LO too. But when LO Hades was talking about them in the past I kinda got the impression maybe they were at least somewhat in love, so I decided to go that route. Also, I don't know if using Ares' in the memory places things to early, I might change it to Hebe later...I just like the symbolism of using Ares, especially as I have him acting very differently then we know him as. I might decide to alter parts of this fic if and when she reveals more about their early relationship though, especially if this ends up being super inaccurate...

Sorry, I'm rambling now XD

Anyways, I hope you enjoyed the fic!! I'd really apprecaite it if you could leave a comment and/or reblog to show your support!!!

[luci-cunt]

Pad Thai / Fuck Off

[ @moonsandstarsaregay​ I’m sorry this took so long but tada! here’s your ficlet, just a lil mini from Carter’s POV. WARNING: RAVENSONG SPOILERS! but just barely :D <3333333

This is Homesong canon btw so it’s not exactly like the actual books.... there’s a bit of a..... twist >:3 you can also read it on AO3!

Enjoy!!!]

------------

Contrary to the apparently popular belief, Carter did actually take his position as mayor seriously. 

So jot that one down, Joe.

If he didn’t he might actually get more sleep in his actual bed, but as it was it felt like he spent most nights slumped over the desk in his office. Well, that was actually only part of it, and most nights Carter had the forethought to move to the couch by the door. In all honesty he didn’t mind sleeping at the office, in fact he did it regularly because he didn’t mind it. 

Living in the same house with your mom and your brother and your brother’s boyfriend and the weird wolf that won’t stop following you around is--shockingly--not all peaches and cream. Besides, his office was sick, the couch was the most comfortable thing he’d ever owned and he had an entire wall of windows he usually kept all the way open so he could pretend like he was outside. 

Sometimes he missed living on his own--how it had been when he was in college--but that hadn’t exactly been alone, which was the problem. Carter couldn’t stand the idea of living completely alone, even just moving in with his roommate--a guy named Joshi--had been like getting dunked in ice water after living with his family--his pack--for his whole life. 

But even that he was sure he could get used to, no--that wasn’t the real reason why he refused to get his own place. 

Before he hadn’t quite been able to pin down why it had felt so weird to think of moving out, and then it had hit him when Kelly moved. 

He didn’t have a mate. 

Both his brothers and his Uncle had all lived in the house until they found their mates. Technically Joe was still living in the Bennett house but he’d moved in with Ox first and then moved back in to leave the house to Kelly and Robbie later. Even Mark hadn’t left until Gordo finally let him move in. 

Carter just... didn’t have that. 

Instead he had his office, and the wolf that wouldn’t leave him alone. 

Speaking of… 

“Get your fucking nose out of there,” Carter snapped, kicking the mini-fridge door closed to stop the wolf from eating the thai-food leftovers he was saving for lunch. The wolf growled at him, nosing it open again so that Carter had to stop what he was typing on his laptop to hold the door closed with his foot. “I said cut it out, peanuts make you gassy as hell and I’m not dealing with that,” he said. They stared each other down for a moment, and Carter held up a finger. “You get in there and I’m kicking you out.”

The wolf huffed a breath like a laugh and then used his paw to shove Carter’s foot away. “Fucking cunt--” Carter said as he left his desk to tackle the wolf. They rolled over the fancy rug that had been a gift from some official Carter couldn’t remember the name of, both snarling and growling at one another loud enough that Cynthia--Carter’s secretary--could probably hear them. He could imagine her rolling her eyes and turning up her radio in the room next to him, but she was more than used to this by now. 

Eventually Carter managed to get a grip on the wolf’s middle and he shoved him into the couch, scrambling over and planting himself down in front of the fridge. The wolf jumped up, growling as he stalked over. 

“I told you to fuck off, and look--now instead of writing important emails I’m playing fridge guardian,” he said, scowling back at the wolf, who blew an annoyed breath out his nose into Carters face. “Wow, you’re so persuasive,” he mocked. 

There was a pause, and the wolf sat back and seemed to melt as it shifted, and then Gavin was sitting in front of him. His face scrunched in a pout and long, tangled black hair spilled over his shoulders. 

“Ass,” he said. Carter flipped him off. 

The first few times that Gavin had shifted out of the timberwolf Carter had thought he was being haunted. It started with little things, like books moved around and cups emptied when he swore he’d left them full. He hadn’t really thought much of it--maybe it was the stupid-white-person part of him but if his office was haunted that just made it so much cooler. 

Except then the things had gotten more noticable. If he fell asleep at his desk he’d wake up with one of the stupidly oversized couch cushions under his head, and the windows would open and close themselves while he was sleeping. He’d first suspected Cynthia, but she’d just given him a weird look when he brought it up. 

He didn’t catch on until one day when a bat flew into his windows and woke him out of a dead sleep and he’d caught Gavin before he could shift back. After that he was still reluctant to shift out of the wolf, but he’d stopped doing it in secret when Carter promised not to tell anyone he’d seen it. 

He didn’t actually talk to Carter until about a month after he started shifting out enough that Carter kept a spare pair of sweatpants at the office. He spoke oddly, like he’d never actually been taught how to. It had taken some getting used to but now Carter hardly noticed. 

“Not wolf,” Gavin said, pointing to himself and then the fridge. 

“Yeah well, I lied, I just don’t want you eating it because it’s mine,” Carter said, making Gavin’s scowl deepen. 

“Hungry.” 

“We literally just ate.”

Gavin shook his head in frustration. “Stupid ass,” he said.

“Right, because you’re a real Einstein,” Carter said, he pushed himself up enough to grab the sweats out of a drawer in his desk and toss them over. “And put some pants on--” 

Gavin rolled his eyes, mockingly quoting, “Man of position, blah blah,” as he did. 

“I’m the mayor, naked people in my office is frowned upon,” Carter said. “And not nearly as hot as it could be--you should grow tits.” 

Gavin flipped him off but pulled on the pants and laid on his back on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. After a moment Carter leaned his head back so it bumped against the fridge. 

“You still haven’t given me an answer, you’re like a fuckin’ fortune cookie written by a beetle.” 

Gavin wrinkled his nose. “Bugs are not good,” he said.

“Thank you for that wonderfully insightful answer, give me four to seven business days to process it properly and get back to you o-wise one.” Gavin pushed himself up so he could glare properly, Carter squinted at him. “You know what you are?” 

“No, please--tell,” he said flatly.

“An STD,” Carter said, leaning back again. “You just won’t go away.” 

Gavin frowned and shrugged like he did when he didn’t understand something. 

“A disease you get from fucking,” Carter explained. 

“So you had fun getting me?” Gavin said, with a grin. 

Carter rolled his eyes. “You were trying to kill us, I almost killed you.” 

“Yeah,” Gavin agreed, laying back down. Carter waited for him to explain more, but he didn’t. He breathed a laugh despite himself. 

“I think you’re the only one who manages to actually piss me off so much,” he said. 

“Lucky me.” 

“Beetle.”

“Man-baby.”

“Well that one’s new, where’d you get it?” 

“Mark.” 

“When were you hanging out with him?” 

“My business.” 

“Oh fuck off, like you give a damn about privacy.” 

“You are stupid, it’s different.” 

“No, actually it’s not--I managed to survive almost three decades before you showed up, I think I can make it a couple of hours without supervision.” 

“Wrong.” 

“Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve fucked anyone. Hard for that to happen when I’ve got the worlds biggest, dumbest ankle monitor glued to my leg at all times! No--you don’t get to look smug about that, your possessiveness is not cute in any world. Don’t shrug at me--I will skin you and use your pelt for aftercare.” 

Gavin growled at him, eyes flashing violet, but it wasn’t nearly as intimidating while he was human. Hell it wasn’t even that intimidating when he was a wolf. It was a little surprising when Gavin suddenly lunged at him, successfully knocking him over and sitting on his chest so he could rifle through the fridge. 

“Hey! I just said--god how the hell do you weigh so much get--off--fucking--!” He groaned and stopped struggling as he realized it was useless, Gavin grinned down at him and slurped noodles obnoxiously. 

“I cannot stand you.” 

“Yum,” Gavin said as he dropped a peanut on Carter’s face. Carter smacked his hand away, and then sobered a bit. 

“Are you actually ever going to explain anything? Because if you’re just going to keep being cryptic let me know so I can rub it in your face when you finally crack.” 

Gavin chewed thoughtfully for a moment. “No explanation,” he said, then he grinned. “My business.” 

Carter scowled, reaching up and flicking his forehead. “Ass,” he said. 

“STD,” Gavin corrected, already focusing back on the stolen pad thai. 

“At least tell me why you won’t shift in front of anyone else,” Carter said. Gavin’s jaw clenched, “You stole my lunch, you owe me,” Carter pointed out. 

“Hard,” Gavin said after a moment. “Too many things, easier to handle as the wolf,” he went on. “And, it’s bigger--better teeth.” He bared his teeth to prove his point and Carter rolled his eyes. 

“Yeah, it’s way harder to rip out throats as an omnivore,” he said dryly. 

“You don’t like the wolf because I can drag you,” Gavin said with a laugh that made Carter roll his eyes. 

“You caught me,” he said, forcing himself to keep his mouth shut to keep the rest of his thoughts in his head. 

“Stupid,” Gavin said, smiling dopily. 

Carter opened his mouth to retort, but he and Gavin heard the sound of Kelly talking to Cynthia outside. Gavin dropped the box of pad thai and shifted before Carter could blink, and he scrambled up, growling and brushing noodles off the front of his shirt. 

“Fucking asshole,” he snapped, tossing the box at Gavin’s head. He just made a whining noise almost like a laugh and then jumped on the couch as Kelly opened this door while knocking. 

“I picked up a sandwich from Oasis, Robbie ate a few bites but--” Kelly cut himself off as his eyes landed on Carter, who was picking himself up off the ground and glaring down at his stained shirt. “Did you trip?” he asked, unsuccessfully hiding a laugh. 

Carter glared. “Something like that,” he bit out with a significant look towards the wolf on the couch, who was pretending to be sleeping. 

“Well, I’ve still got a few minutes of lunch--Tanner dragged Robbie back to the shop because apparently Gordo set the computer on fire, want me to grab you a shirt?” Kelly asked, still smirking.

“While you’re at it grab me a knife and a tanning rack,” Carter said. “Cynthia!” he called, and she poked her head in the doorway, one brow raised. She scanned the office and followed the trail of noodles from Carter’s shirt to the empty box on the floor by the couch and gave him a flat look. 

“You don’t pay me enough to clean up after you,” she deadpanned. 

“Fuck off,” he snapped, “Just get me a broom or something.” 

“That’s carpet,” Kelly said, dropping the tinfoil wrapped sandwich on Carter’s desk. 

“I didn’t ask you, did I?” 

“Your office is going to smell like peanuts for the rest of your life.” 

Cynthia wrinkled her nose and then wheeled away. 

Carter glared at Kelly. “Weren’t you getting me a shirt?” 

His brother laughed, already turning to leave. “Have fun scrubbing!” he called over his shoulder. 

“As soon as I’m done with this asshole I’m coming for your ass!” Carter snarled back. He turned to the wolf on the couch, who was watching him with one eye open. Carter jabbed a finger at him. “That’s not an empty threat, if this shit doesn’t come out you’re the replacement carpet.”

Gavin just closed his eye and curled up more. 

It made Carter wish he could actually follow through on his threats.

[nat-roman0ff]

lover - pt. 1

lover, pt.1 - the first wedding there’s a dazzling haze, a mysterious way about you, dear. -- words: 2k warnings: fluff, weddings and string lights

There was always something about a wedding that was just plain magical. The mix of love in the air and an open bar brought out the best in you. It was a cool early October evening when your childhood best friend married the love of her life. Crisp red and orange leaves lined the picture perfect vineyard as you watched her walk down the aisle. The air was just cool enough to prickle your skin when a breeze ran through, causing the hairs on your arms to stand at attention.

It couldn’t have been a more perfect day for the occasion; the weather was flawless, your shoes surprisingly weren’t killing your feet, and you found the perfect shade of lipstick at the last moment that matched your burgundy bridesmaids dress. The ceremony went off without a hitch, and as the glow in the sky faded into the horizon and tiny nighttime stars popped up in their place, shining down on the couples dancing you were strikingly reminded of how single you were.

The other bridesmaids all brought their significant others, and you were stuck at the table with the groomsmen you’d walked down the aisle with. You weren’t unfamiliar with him, of course, he was, after all, one of the most famous popstars on the planet currently. But to you he was just the cousin of the dude marrying your best friend. He sits across from you at the circular table, his navy suit jacket unbuttoned, tie missing from around his neck and the first few buttons of his black shirt undone. You swipe your bottom lip with your tongue as your eyes trace the chest hair that peers from above the collar of his shirt. 

 “Are you drunk or checking me out?” He asks.

 You snap back to reality, cheeks immediately flushing, “both?” 

 Shawn chuckles and washes back the last of what’s in his glass, “good, because so am I.” 

 “Checking yourself out?” You jest.

 “Clearly,” he scoffs.

 Shawn stands and moves to the chair beside you, “so you’re the bride’s best friend, right?” He asks.

 You nod and fold and unfold the place card in your lap, your mind was always calmer when your hands were busier. A terrible trait to have, really. 

 “Shawn,” he thrusts his hand towards you to shake, “sorry we didn’t get to hang out much before the rehearsals and stuff. Work has been crazy.”

 “I can only imagine,” you pip, “almost done with a world tour, eh?” 

 He smiles and scrunches his nose in that way that makes you sense his discomfort, “yeah, almost there. Always fun being on the road but always better coming home.” 

 “I couldn’t do it,” you sigh, “first of all I couldn’t bear being away from my cat for that long and secondly...aren’t you tired? When’s the last time you slept?” 

 “Probably 2015.” 

 You snort, “sounds like you need a nap,” you fold your arms across the table and rest your head on them, closing your eyes.

 “What are you doing?” Shawn asks. 

 You yawn, “taking a nap. Try it. It’s cathartic.” 

 He looks around to see if anyone is watching. 

 “Don’t worry about anyone paying attention. They’re either too busy being drunk or too busy trying to get laid.” 

 Shawn follows suit and rests his head against his arms on the table, his face just inches from yours, “and where do you fall in that?” 

 You ponder for a moment, “somewhere in the middle.” 

 He laughs and stifles it in the crook of his elbow. 

 “You laugh at me a lot, I’m really not that funny. So thank you for inflating my ego” you say. 

 Shawn lifts his head to rest his cheek back on his arm, “but you are funny. Not with what you say but how you say it. I don’t know how to describe it.” 

 You roll your eyes, “I think you’re drunk.”

 “I’m most definitely drunk,” Shawn says, “but I’m also right. Fuck - this is the first normal conversation I’ve had in months.” 

 You snort, “this is normal conversation? Shit, I am so sorry for you.” 

 Now it’s Shawn’s turn to roll his eyes, “you know what I mean. It’s hard to be me and still talk to normal people about normal things without it turning into an interview.” 

 “Ah yes, the peasants shalt dare not speak to thine King Mendes.” 

 He rolls his head to rest his chin on his elbow and glares at you, “you’re simultaneously the best and the worst at the same time.” 

 You follow suit, moving your head a little too fast and blinking the stars away, “I jest. I get it, you write mediocre pop songs for the masses and now all anyone cares about is who you’re dating this week and when your next album comes out. It all must be incredibly boring, especially when you’re rubbing elbows with Taylor Swift.” 

 Shawn’s eyebrows furrow, “I take that back, you’re the worst,” he says, shifting his body away from yours and turning his head to the other side of the table, “let me nap in peace. Maybe I’ll dream up some more mediocre songs.” 

 You ruffle his hair, “I’m kidding, Shawn. Your songs are lovely. In fact, I go super hard to ‘There’s Something Holding Me Back’ in the shower.”

 He turns to look at you and glowers.

 “I’m still fucking with you.” 

 “And you’re still the worst.” 

 You laugh and punch his shoulder, “c’mon, let me buy you a drink and I’ll make it up to you.” 

 Shawn sits back up and presses at the wrinkles in his shirt, “it’s an open bar.” 

 “Two drinks then!” You exclaim, standing and pulling at his arm. 

 Something happens when he holds your hand and you can’t quite explain it. Your fingers fit and lock like your hands have been searching for each other your whole life and there’s a warmth that spreads inside of you like the way a lava lamp ebbs and flows under the glass. It’s all warm and blobby and all over the place and you can feel the heat rise in your cheeks when Shawn notices it too.

 “Two drinks still makes it an open bar,” he says, breaking the tension. 

 You tug on him to follow you, following the zigzags of the threaded bulb lights against the murky midnight sky. You weave him through crowds dancing, reminiscing, taking selfies. Past the low orange leaved trees adorned with dimly lit lanterns. The hazy warm glow of everything masks the pinks in both your cheeks but can’t hide the wonderment behind both your eyes. Perhaps it’s the promise of something different, or the universe telling you this was the beginning of something new, but all you did know was that this wasn’t the first time you’d be crossing Shawn’s path again.

 ---

 After too many drinks, three rounds of karaoke, two dance offs and one sloppy makeout session in the mens room, you and Shawn found a quiet place to be. Now, your lipstick was worn off (mostly evidenced by the smears of burgundy across his neck and chest that he had no interest in hiding), his suit jacket long gone (now wrapped around your shoulders) and the sleeves of his button up rolled to his elbows.

 The reception seems to go on forever, and you’re not complaining. It’s reached a point in the night where everyone stops looking at the clock, and the party lives in its own timeless bubble where the sun never rises and everyone was effervescent in their own beautiful existence. The night was free to be whatever it wanted to whoever it wanted.

 It’s an abandoned little area, where you’re at. It had been the spot of the cocktail hour after the ceremony and now had about a dozen or so high top tables adorned with wispy white tablecloths that blew in the night breeze. The tiny bulbed lights thinned out here, and it was almost too dark to make out the strong features on Shawn’s face, but you do your damndest to memorize them in the darkness as he sits beside you on the grass.

 “Okay, give me your worst.” 

 Shawn takes a deep breath, “violets are red, Roses are Blue. Guess what? My bed has room for two.” 

 You choke on your lost count of a gin and tonic, tucked somewhere in the back garden of the venue. The music from the reception is faint and overpowered by the booming laughter coming out of your chest. 

 “Something in that is wrong,” you manage, “and violets are blue, dumbass.” 

 “Hey, I’m drunk, I’m trying here,” Shawn slurs, leaning in, his face getting almost too close to yours. 

 The smell of gin radiates off of him, his pink cheeks liken him to a sort of porcelain doll and the string lights in the trees around you reflect off the glassiness of his hazel eyes, “that has to be the worst joke I’ve ever heard. It doesn’t actually work does it?” 

 Shawn moves closer and brushes his nose against yours, “you tell me.” 

 You gasp, clutching your chest and leaning back away from him, “you’re fucking brilliant,” his face cortorts in confusion, “it wasn’t the joke at all that you use as the pickup line - it’s the follow through.” 

 He grins wide and takes another sip of his drink, partially missing his mouth as a dribble falls from his chin and soaks into the collar of his shirt, “you caught me,” he opens his arms out, “I wouldn’t say I’m a master, but I’m pretty goddamn good.” 

 “You’re tricky,” you swirl the liquid in your glass, “and you’re deceiving.” 

 He scoffs, “I’m deceiving. You’ve been playing all night like you haven’t been checking me out, bought me a drink at an open bar and you touched my butt. Twice.” 

 You purse your lips, “the second butt touch was an accident.” 

 Shawn narrows his eyes, “you’re a terrible liar.”

 You shrug, “maybe I am.” 

 A breeze rolls through and chills your spine and kicks up the leaves around your feet. You look at Shawn, all faded out and glossy eyed. His lips are pressed a little too hard together into a wet pout and his half hooded eyes stare right back at yours. 

 It’s quiet like this for a while, the crickets chirp along to the faded big band music from the reception and you find yourselves in a comfortable fog. Shawn’s fingertips play with yours as you try and busy your fingers to slow your brain. His face droops slowly with the mixture of drunkenness and sleepiness. 

 You reach out, running your fingers through his hair, “what are you thinking about?” You ask.

 Shawn leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours, interlocking both of your fingers together. His lips brush past yours softly like you hadn’t been biting and tugging on them barely an hour ago, “the rest of my goddamn life.” 

 He presses a kiss against your lips but as soon as it starts it fades and his head drops to your lap with a soft thud. Tiny snores emit from his lips and you chuckle to yourself as you play with his curls, twirling the soft strands of hair around your fingertips. 

 You let your fingers trace the sharpest points of his face; chin and jaw. But you also make it a point to reach the softest, like the dulling blush high on his cheekbones or the softly etched scar on his cheek. It’s not until you’ve run out of canvas on his face that you realize his hand is still holding yours tightly. Shawn moves ever so slightly when you shift, but nuzzles himself closer in. 

 There’s a creeping gnawing feeling coming on and you know this has to end eventually. Soon the party will be over, everyone will go home and the sun will rise to a new day and this encapsulated bubble of love and warmth will be nothing but a memory on Instagram feeds and yearly anniversaries. Frankly, it makes your heart sink into your ass and your overwhelming warmth is replaced with overwhelming sadness. It’s the high of happiness and a surge of endorphins followed with the crash and burn of the reality of tomorrow.

 Even though you hadn’t realized it yet, that was the very first time you ever felt the pang of missing someone who was right in front of you. 

 But it wouldn’t be the last.

[dokuhebi]

[ snowdrop ] :)

Angst Meme: Flowers [ snowdrop ]: one of our muses is near-frozen from the cold, and the other finds them. // @snakereign Few opponents could stand up to Voldemort, it is why there is only a small degree of worry when the man leaves without them at his side. Knowing full well he could banish any threat from his lands, likely without any genuine effort on his part. But the storms could not be predicted, nor countered with such ease. Only those of mortal flesh proved movable obstacles. As it would turn out, fates cruel sense of humor lead to a rather lethal combination. When curtains of snow started to descend from the skies and drown the frosty plains in white. When the air turned icy and the view became distorted by winters falling debris. It has the serpent growing restless, knowing Voldemort was meant to return hours ago, knowing delays were unlike him. It doesn’t take incredibly long to abandon the warmth of their current refuge in search of him. It takes even quicker to detail the route he had informed them he would be taking, and to track down his movements until arriving at what must have been a final destination. Final indeed. If the storm had been bad back home, the winds and cold here may well kill someone. Voldemort does not fair well in the cold, it was one of the first ways the serpent had acknowledged they were so similar. If this weather was chilling their bones, they imagine his prolonged stay here would be devastating. But the reason he hadn’t retreated to safer grounds and temperatures becomes rather apparent too. When the cloaked figures of wizards and witches can be sighted surrounding fallen bodies. Death Eaters, laying limp around the sole survivor, though Voldemort barely looks worthy of being considered alive. Pale skin is somehow more ghostly now, drawn by cold and looking more corpse than man. Dark hair hangs limp from the dampness of the snow, clinging to the fine bones of his jaw and cheeks, his eyes cast in a haze that showed worrying degrees of distance. Hypothermia reaching dangerous levels. He’s beautiful even now, even in his darkest hour, if only in the most macabre sense. No doubt those attacking had no way of killing the Lord, only ways of preventing him from leaving, only able to keep him trapped where the storm could do all their work for them. Did they not know it would take more than this to kill a god like him? Still, snow is dusting his dark clothes, is falling atop his raven hair and weighing him down with every icy touch. Cold hands of winter pulling him like gravity with every slow breath he takes, with every slowing beat of his fast falling heart. His opponents must be relishing in it, in this torturously slow demise. In this pathetically cowardly form of battle, of never giving him much of a chance to retaliate. Ambush tactics done tastelessly. While the serpent had sought out their lord with a handful-following of Death Eaters, the group behind them would hardly be offered the chance to step in. Not when anger greets the viper, not when their instant sense of disgust etches its way in to their golden eyes. It would be easy to kill their opponents in the same manner, from the shadows of the snowed in forest. Ambush. But why give them such mercifully quick deaths? It would be clear the situation was changing the moment the ground can be felt shuddering under foot. The moment snow moves about as if the floor was starting to slope, tumbling away from a great weight. It would be hard to see porcelain white scales in the deep snow, the only easily decipherable feature the golden eyes that pierce through the storm. But by the time the leviathan has drawn a defensive circle around Voldemort with their serpentine body, the basilisks jaws part to reveal a pink inner maw, making it easier to determine what this emerging monster was. Easy to read their lightening coloured gaze, warning the traitors who had the first strike, that they would have to kill the colossal serpent first. And from within that large dark throat, able to swallow these men in one bite, a flicker of red begins. A bubbling of orange, crimson and yellow. Until a rumble is all that is heard and flames thick as lava begin to blanket the area. Pouring out their jaws like a dragons might, rolling over the land and engulfing the screaming bodies. Snow begins to melt in the heat that is created, their body protecting Voldemort from their own flames, and the debilitating cold. There were undoubtedly less chaotic and destructive means of killing those around them, but the serpents fury at seeing the young male like this serves indominable, as if they feel the very soil must atone for letting their chosen king fall. Only a handful of opponents manage to escape the catching fire, but the serpent has no room for mercy, no tolerance. An unsettling noise, grating like unnatural thunder, sounds in their throat once more. Before the leviathans jaws open next for ashen violet streams of lightening to pour from the depths of their throat next, deafening sounds akin to bomb fire. Sharp shrieks like a thousand birds calling. They can see the small body in their coils wince from the noise, the involuntary reaction of jolting discomfort. He must be all the more sensitive to stimuli now that he has reached such a critical low. While only allies remain left in the field of ruined forestry, the serpent is still in a volatile mood. How many times had they seen traitors rise only when a leader showed a glimmer of weakness? Like animals turning on the sickest member to emerge the new strongest. A low hiss is all that is needed, for the surrounding Death Eaters to know better than to approach the fallen Lord now. Where the serpent turns those lethal jaws instead to pick the man up, quickly shifting from deadly to gentle, as they scoop his smaller figure carefully, before disappearing beneath the earth. Able to shove away the tightly packed dirt with their snout, the ground easy to burrow beneath without a moment of disturbance. It would be more tireless a battle when arriving back to safety. When the mans state of health had reached worrying lows. His chamber is forbidden now, for while the serpent has returned to their human self for the sake of tending to him, the threat of their presence lingers. They do not leave their Lords side once, having been trained for war to know basic emergency care, and having studied further in pursuit of their science. The human body and all its weaknesses was no mystery to the viper these days. He is rid of his damp clothes for warmer ones, his chambers alight with candles and a burning fire place, to keep the room as warm as possible. Keeping his organs from shutting down due to the radical drop of his own body temperature had been the truly touch and go part of this ordeal. However they would soon be pleased to know that Voldemort had not ascended this far by being easily run down. His body fought. No matter how unfavorable the circumstances were. He would remain in and out of consciousness for an entire day, and most of the next. He would be in constant discomfort, a numbness that didn’t offer relief trying to dominate his slender form. But whatever opposed their Lord, hypothermia, a storm, or the many faces now buried face down in the snow beyond their abodes walls, would surely meet the serpents displeased wrath. It is with great relief when his eyes open once more, dark pools of midnight searching the environment he likely barely remembers getting back to, that they see progress. They see the return of that intelligence, that perceptive spark of life and ambition. His body was far from recovered yet, but it would, and that was all that truly mattered now. He would awaken to the serpent sitting elegantly a few feet away by the fire. Their chair evidently moved so that they could always keep him in their line of sight, idly paging through a book that lays in their lap. One hand guiding their long hair out their face, the other keeping the book balanced, while their legs are elegantly crossed. But his shift of movement snaps their attention away from the book, and after a moment of inspecting whether he was truly awake, or merely stirring for temporary consciousness, they find the relief they had been waiting for. Getting up from their seat and abandoning the book without thought, to cross the short distance to him and find their seat instead on the side of his bed. “What possessed you to ever wander so far from home without me?” they say, and despite their light chiding, they sound more relieved than upset, “you’re powerful dear, the most powerful in the lands, but that only makes the witch hunt for you grow more ravenous,” they say, before they bring a hand to lightly caress under his jaw, where they can lean down and place a kiss to the top of his head, “scare me like that again my Lord, and I might end up killing you myself.”

[ficsandcatsandficsandcats]

Could I request a fic of Jask and the reader on a quest (Geralt too if you feel like it) but theres an ambush. The reader sees they're lining up an attack on Jask, so without even a weapon, she throws herself between him and the killing blow. After the threat is taken care of she admits shes loved him enough to die for him for a while. I'll leave it up to you if you want a happy ending or angst

Fandom: The WitcherPairing: Jaskier x ReaderWord Count: 1,026Rating: T for violencea/n: I ended it happily because I am rooting for these two. Hope you enjoy!

It wasn’t supposed to happen.

Geralt had scouted ahead and been certain the way was clear. No one was supposed to even know of this secret pass through the mountains which would cut your travel time to the next village short. Geralt was ahead on Roach while you and Jaskier walked a bit behind, him serenading you with a funny song he was working on about an otter and a beaver, rife with innuendo. The moment was light and so incredibly normal that you didn’t realize what was happening until the first arrow struck Geralt in the shoulder.

They descended seemingly from out of nowhere, running out from behind crevices in rock that had looked like natural formations instead of the hideouts they were. Three men, all armed to the teeth and running straight for the Witcher who jumped off of Roach and unsheathed his swords. Jaskier pulled you close to him, holding his lute up defensively and trying to keep your body covered with his. Two of the men engaged Geralt in combat but the third turned his eyes on the both of you. You watched him knock the arrow and aim it straight at Jaskier, still stubbornly pulling you behind him and totally oblivious to the threat.

You spun Jaskier around an instant before the arrow was loosed and hit its mark, burying deep in your back. Jaskier was covering you one minute and the next he was staring into your eyes as you gasped and fell forward into his arms.

“Geralt!” he cried, helping you down to the floor, careful not to let you fall on your back and plunge the arrow deeper inside. Your breaths were shallow and strained and he brushed your hair out of your eyes, his tears clouding his vision as tried to form words. In the background Geralt hewed the man who had shot you in half, far blooder and violent a dispatch than his comrades had been given.

“Why did you do that? What did you do? What did you do?” Jaskier’s brain couldn’t form anything but these questions, confusion and horror combining to devastating effect as he pulled his hand away from your waist and saw blood. Geralt knelt behind you and said something that neither of you caught, staring into each other’s eyes as you fought to stay conscious.

“Why did you do it?” Jaskier asked again.

“Isn’t it obvious?” you asked with a little laugh that twisted into a sharp inhale of pain as Geralt pulled the arrow out. Jaskier shook his head no, hands trembling slightly as he kept brushing back your hair from your face, tender even at his most devastated.

“I love you,” you said. You’d imagined this moment a hundred times but in none of them had you seen it like this, Jaskier weeping while your lifeblood drained from your body, Geralt working quickly to try and manage your wound.

“What?” Jaskier asked, “How long?”

“Oh, ages,” you admitted with a little laugh. “It had seemed like such a scary thing to say. It’s funny how your perspective can change, huh?”

“You couldn’t have just used your words like a normal person?” he asked. You laughed and clutched him tighter, the salve Geralt applied aching worse than the arrow had.

“I’m sorry, Jaskier, I’m so sorry for the time I wasted. Let me make it up to you now. I love you, I love you, I love you,” you repeat the words as he peppers your face with kisses, his tears wetting your face as he cradles you until your words fade to silence.

You wake someplace you don’t recognize. The ceiling a soft, azure color that’s as beautiful as it is foreign to you. You try to sit up but a pain in your bad halts your progress and elicts a sharp gasp of pain.

“Y/N?” a voice from your left says and suddenly Jaskier is kneeling next to you. His hair and clothes are rumpled and there is stubble covering his usually clean shaven face. The dark circles under his eyes speak to sleepless nights.

“Oh Jaskier, are you ok?” you ask.

He laughs as tears fill his eyes and he shakes his head at you.

“You nearly die and the first thing you ask is if I’m ok? Incredible. You’re a ridiculous woman,” he says but his eyes are full of affection. He takes your hand and kisses it before holding it close to him, leaning in to be as near as possible without moving the bed you’re sleeping on.

“She’s awake,” a voice you don’t recognize says from the other end of the room. A beautiful woman with long dark hair and the most striking violet eyes walks into view, Geralt next to her.

“Y/N, it’s good to see you awake. We were about ready to slip Jaskier a sleeping draught to make him get some rest,” Geralt says. Jaskier’s eyes stay focused on you and he doesn’t rise to the bait.

“The wound is mostly healed, you will need to rest a bit before you are well enough to continue on your travels,” the woman says. You know that Geralt can’t afford to take that much time and suddenly you realize why you’re here. You’re going to stay here while they go on ahead without you. As though he can see the words written on your face Jaskier quickly reassures you.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says fervently, as though someone were trying to tear him away. “I’m going to sit here with you every day until you’re back on your feet and then I’m going to walk or ride or swim or however you get around, I will be there with you. I owe you my life.”

“You don’t owe my anything,” you say.

“And yet,” he says, a shade of the roguish man you’d grown to love coming over his face, “It seems my life is still yours to keep. Or at the very least, my heart.”

“I think that’s our cue to leave,” Geralt mutters to the woman next to him and they walk away to leave you and Jaskier to talk of the future in peace.

[slow-smiles]

The plan to tell Emma’s parents about her relationship with Killian gets derailed when she is kidnapped by the Dark One. Captain Duckling. Revelations, reunions, adventures, and smut ensues. ~6.8k

The grand finale to the My Princess, My Pirate series, which was originally just supposed to be PORN but this definitely has way, way more plot than porn. Enjoy? This is part one of four. Reading the predecessors isn’t necessary, but would probably be helpful. Also just... ya know, screw the canon timeline, use your imagination.

Read on AO3. Read on tumblr Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4

The Swan of Misthaven. Part One.

The lazy morning on the ship turns into a relaxed afternoon on horseback in the woods. They’d decided, wrapped up in bedsheets and enjoying each other slowly and lazily once more before they dressed for the day, that they will tell her parents about them tonight. No matter how busy they get, the king and queen always make time for a family dinner on the last evening of the week, and Emma had thought that it would be a good time to introduce him.

“No use waiting anymore, right?” she’d said, breathless as his lips traced across her belly.

“A capital idea, love,” he’d agreed before his mouth descended on her quim with hunger and tenderness both, and conversation had become one word responses after that.

Now, Emma glances over at him and cocks her head to the left. “It’s just right this way,” she says and bears her horse in the direction she’d indicated, and Killian follows. His talents at navigation are more aptly suited to seafaring than forest tracking, so he is glad to allow Emma to take the lead here.

They crest a gentle rise, and Killian finally sees a break in the trees ahead. “C’mon,” Emma says and nudges her horse to a canter, and he follows on his own steed. Even before they reach the treeline, it’s possible to see the bright colors in the clearing Emma’s led them to.

A truly impressive array of wildflowers blanket the small valley, more of a gentle dip in the earth sheltered by hills than anything else. The stunning range of color is almost shocking in it’s vibrance—bright blues and violets, mixed with some softer reds, creams, and yellows, a dash of firelight orange here and there. It’s the type of scene that if a painter captured it, critics would call it unrealistic in its gaudiness.

“It’s beautiful,” he breathes, and then dismounts.

Emma’s answering grin is wide as she follows him off her horse. “My parents used to take me here a lot when I was younger.” She makes a turn, rotating and squinting at the treeline.

“What are you looking for, love?”

“Ah!” she exclaims, dropping her horse’s reins and flitting over to a fat-trunked cottonwood. “This is the tree where my mom first taught me to shoot.” Killian follows and notices the red rings that have faded with time and weather, but the many arrow-sized gouges in the tree, clustered around the center, are the true indicator of what this used to be.

He runs his fingers over the worn wood at the bullseye. “Looks like you were a natural,” he says.

Emma laughs. “Hardly. Most of those were Mom showing off, though she kept saying it was ‘for demonstration purposes.’ Don’t get me wrong, I’m pretty good now, but I was always better with a sword.”

“Pirate,” he says fondly.

She laughs again. “Maybe when we retire.”

It occurs to Killian then that once they tell her parents and follow through on Emma’s plan, he will become royalty. Merely prince consort, but royalty nonetheless. There’s still a part of him that chafes at the concept of monarchy, of privilege and power being born into rather than earned with painstaking work and bloodshed, of corruption unchecked by any other authority—

But then he looks to Emma and she challenges every notion of royalty he has ever had. She is kind and generous, compassionate and courageous; she is capable of doing great things with the tremendous power that will be handed to her when her parents eventually step down. He will be only too happy to serve at her side. 

“Imagine that,” he replies, turning towards her. “We’ll call our ship ‘The Crone & The Codger’ and we’ll show all the young up and comers how it’s really done with our white hair and rickety joints that we keep in order with regular sword fights.”

Emma snorts and steps into him, putting her arms around his waist and just holding him close. He buries his hand in her hair, stroking through the strands. It’s warmed through from the sun, and it glints off the shining strands between his fingers.

“I like imagining a future with you,” she murmurs into his chest.

“And I, you.”

“Especially when it means we’ll end up as old, saggy pirates.”

“Oi,” he says, “who says we’ll be saggy?”

She pulls back enough to meet his gaze. “That much direct sunshine on our faces all the time? We’ll be saggy for sure.”

“Well, with that attitude—”

She disrupts him with a kiss, which he gladly returns.

When she pulls away, she maintains her grip on his neck and on his lapel. “I can’t—I don’t know how to tell you how much it means that you’re willing to go through all this royal garbage.”

“I have a hell of an incentive,” he says. “An empty life on the high seas where in all likelihood I’ll meet my maker at the end of an enemy sword? Or a life lived with the person I love?”

“You make it sound so simple.”

“Because it is to me. Your title, your duties, the court, whatever else—they’re… I can’t say inconsequential, but they aren’t nearly the hurdle you think they are. You’re worth any pain or inconvenience. You are remarkable, Princess Emma White, the Swan of Misthaven.”

Emma closes her eyes and bites her lip to keep from laughing. “You’re cheesy at shit.”

He barks out a laugh. “My grand declarations, met with naught but scorn? You wound me.”

“Sorry,” she says, tone not matching her words, and leans up to give him a peck. “I love you.”

They end up on a blanket in the midst of the clearing, sharing a small package of salami and aged cheddar between them, talking and giggling and kissing. They keep making plans, silly ones, serious ones, ones that involve Killian repainting the entirety of the palace bright purple, ones that make excited anticipation solidify in his gut. After nearly six years of secrecy, silence, hints of fear if they were on the cusp of being discovered, to revel in the possibility of openness is intoxicating. The bubble of happiness and love they’ve found themselves in is almost tangible, like a shield that makes them untouchable, invincible.

Oh, how wrong they are.

Killian hears him before he sees him.

The giggle that haunted his nightmares and fueled his revenge for hundreds of years echoes through the clearing like a pistol shot.

Emma’s gaze fixates over his shoulder, a look of horror taking over her face.

“Well isn’t this a picture.”

Emma and Killian are both on their feet and facing their intruder in an instant. Both of their hands go to their hips where their swordbelts normally are, but Killian curses when he realizes they left all their weaponry on their horses, grazing on the other side of the clearing.

Rumplestiltskin stands not five paces away, looking for all the world like he is having a grand old time. He looks the same as Killian remembers—the wide, predatory grin; the metallic, gold-hued skin; the dark, scaled vest; the gnarled hands; and perhaps worst of all, the light in his eyes that flares at the promise of cruelty.

Killian can’t help but growl, “Crocodile.”

This is true: Killian has not thought much of his old nemesis in the last six years.

This is also true: Killian has never forgotten the grief and rage rotting and fermenting in his gut, fueled by the image of Milah being murdered by the man who was her husband while he had no choice but to scream and watch someone else he loves die while he can do absolutely nothing about it.

This is the most relevant truth: Killian is terrified that it is going to happen again.

Emma bends down, and when she stands, she has a small knife in her hand. It was probably tucked in her boot, and Killian feels like he is going to be sick because he loves her, he loves her, he loves her so much and it’s going to happen again, just like Milah, just like Liam, and he’s—

“Emma, run,” he whispers urgently. He can buy her some time if he can just get close enough to rip out the Crocodile’s throat with his hook; that will at least slow him down.

He charges forward without waiting, hoping that he can rely on the element of surprise, but he’s frozen in place before he takes a second step, his body enveloped in translucent red magic that tickles across his skin like a breeze.

“You already tried that once, dearie,” Rumplestiltskin says, wagging a finger and grinning. As though letting her in on an inside joke, he says to Emma, “He stabbed me right—” he dramatically jabs a finger into his chest, right over where a heart would normally lie, “here. In case you can’t tell, it didn’t work.” He giggles in that maddening way of his once more.

“If you touch her I will end you,” Killian hisses, “I will—”

“Oh save it,” the Crocodile says with an impatient wave of his hand. “You haven’t managed to kill me for your last love, and it’s been what, a few hundred years?”

Between one heartbeat and the next, a knife flies through the air and embeds itself right in Rumplestiltskin’s left eye.

The creature screeches, blood spilling from the wound. He bends at the waist, turning away from them slightly, his hands going up to his face. Killian is flabbergasted because Emma just hurt the Dark One with nothing but a knife, how can that be possible—

Then Emma is at his elbow, pulling him despite the magic keeping him frozen. “Emma, just leave me,” he says, desperate and hoarse. “Go.” The Crocodile might be hurt, but Killian knows it won’t be for long.

“Fuck that,” she says, and pulls harder. “How strong can this magic really be—”

Emma’s startled shout cuts him to his core when an unseen force yanks her off her feet and away from him.

The Crocodile has straightened again, one hand extended towards Emma as his magic drags her struggling form closer, her bloodied knife clenched in his other. His left eye is unrecognizable and blood pours down the side of his face. In truth, Killian hadn’t known until this moment that he bled at all.

Emma comes to a stop next to the Crocodile, and he pulls her to her feet with magic. She’s facing away from Killian, so he can’t see her eyes, and he would give anything to switch places with her, give anything to be the one to die today—

“That,” the Crocodile says, “was not very nice.”

Emma spits in his face.

The imp just cackles again, unconcerned and amused. “You are lucky I need you, dear little Emma. I’ve removed intestines for lesser offenses.” He makes a twisting gesture with the knife, pantomiming splitting Emma’s stomach open without touching her.

“Please don’t do this,” Killian pleads, his anger caving in and leaving only pure fear in its wake. “Take me instead. I’ll do anything, please just—”

Suddenly he finds his air supply quite thoroughly gone. His chest heaves against the invisible pressure on his throat, his limbs still frozen.

“As it turns out,” the Crocodile says through clenched teeth, “I need your girlfriend, but not you. I’ve wanted this for a long time.”

“No!” Emma exclaims. “I’ll do whatever you want if you let him go; right here, right now, no strings attached. He gets to leave right now, alive and absolutely, completely unaltered.”

Emma, no. He wants to scream the words at her, but his vision is swimming with black and he still can’t breathe. 

“Smart, dearie, to make your request so clear. Smarter than your parents ever were.” Rumplestiltskin seems to consider it, tapping the bloody blade against his chin. “I accept,” he says. “I can always kill him on another day.”

“What? No—”

Killian doesn’t hear the rest of her reply because both she and the Crocodile are enveloped in red smoke and are gone in a blink.

The magic falls away from him immediately, and Killian collapses.

Emma is alive, for now.

He is alive, for now.

He feels the grief and rage that never truly left him stirring, because leaving him alive will be the last mistake the Crocodile ever makes—

But beneath that is the rationality of three hundred years spent searching for a way to kill the Dark One.

And Killian knows that he is going to need help.

    The late afternoon sun streams through the window, illuminating a pale column of dust until it reaches the round table at the center of the council room. With the heat of late summer still upon them, the fireplace against the wall lies dormant—the only real activity in the room comes from it’s two occupants. David and Snow are preparing the agenda for the council meeting later in the evening when one of their pages bursts into the room rather unceremoniously, causing both of them to jump out of their seats. 

“Thomas!” David says, half greeting, half surprised exclamation. “Where’s the fire?”

The joke doesn’t go over well. Thomas is gasping for air, and manages a polite, “Apologies, Majesties. I don’t come bearing pleasant news.” He remembers some of the royal etiquette then and bows, but doesn’t straighten back up immediately, bracing his hands on his knees. 

“Thomas,” Snow prods, stepping forward and placing a hand on the page’s shoulder. Her voice is kind when she asks, “What is the matter that has you sprinting a marathon to see us?” She shoots David a small smile. 

Thomas, while a kind-hearted soul, has a history of making mountains of molehills. Once, Snow and David raced in a panic to the kitchens where Thomas reported that a sixteen-year-old Emma had been with a gentleman caller unchaperoned, only to find Emma visiting with Eric and Ariel’s son Adrien, who is rather famously and unabashedly not interested in women. There was the time he’d had half the palace shepherds in a panic when he thought he’d seen a wolf amongst their small flock of sheep, only to find it had been one of the herding dogs all along. Of course, who could forget the time he’d burst into the council room with urgent news that the royal convoy from Agrabah had arrived early and there was no one at the docks to greet them, only for David and Snow to race to the harbor and find that the ship was still hours away due to the tides, set to arrive on schedule.

He’s a good kid, David knows, but hardly has a good judgement of urgency.

Thomas finally straightens and swallows. “I’m afraid this is no laughing matter.”

“What is it?” David asks.

“The princess has been kidnapped.”

“What?!” David and Snow both exclaim.

“According to Captain Humbert, it would appear she’s been taken by a pirate band led by Captain Hook.”

“How in the world—” David begins, his mind seeming to only function in fits and spurts as he tried to process what Thomas has told them.

Yes, they hadn’t been able to find Emma anywhere this morning, and her horse was gone so they’d assumed she’d gone out for a long ride to cool off after the ball last night. But Emma knows to stay away from dangerous ports, and she is a formidable opponent with a sword (an opponent who had surpassed David in the last five or so years with her swordsmanship; she’d been practicing on her own as she’d definitely picked up some new, flashy tricks that he’d never taught her.) Even if she was disarmed, Emma is no stranger to throwing a good punch—so how did this happen?

“Have we received a ransom note?” Snow asks, the picture of a composed queen, but David can see the way her breathing is picking up. She’s starting to get scared.

“No, that’s—that’s the odd part. Captain Hook himself rode up to the castle gates and announced that the princess had been kidnapped.”

“What.” David has no other words.

“I knew Captain Hook was bold, but I didn’t realize he was that bold,” Snow says.

“He’s blazed past bold, overshot brazen, and landed himself right at stupidity.” David glances back to Thomas. “I assume he is in the dungeon?”

Thomas nods. “Captain Humbert took him into custody immediately upon his arrival. He has been—” Thomas winces, “very vocal about his displeasure.”

Snow makes a sound not unlike a growl. “Well, if he doesn’t care for the accommodations, he’d do well to not kidnap people and show up at their homes looking for hospitality.”

“That’s not exactly—w-well he’s insisting that he wasn’t the one who kidnapped her.”

“Oh Lords,” David says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What is going on?”

At that moment, the double doors of the council room swing open and Captain of the Guard Graham Humbert enters.

“Graham,” Snow breathes in relief. “Thomas, send word to the other councilors that Emma has been kidnapped, and they are to convene immediately. You’re dismissed.”

Thomas bows and scurries out of the room.

“Okay, Graham, please tell us what the hell is going on.” Snow says. 

While not as young as he used to be, Graham Humbert has aged well. He could likely pass for someone a decade his junior if it weren’t for the hair that had gone peppery in his fiftieth year. As it is, he’s still spry and athletic, and his mind quick as a whip. If there’s anyone who can tell them what exactly is happening in their dungeons, it’s him.

“What’s Thomas relayed?” he asks.

“That Emma’s been kidnapped, likely by Captain Hook, who rode up to our gates like a madman, at which point you took him into custody,” David says. “Oh, and he’s claiming he’s not the one who kidnapped her. Sound about right?”

Graham sighs deeply, the pauldrons at his shoulders rising and falling with the depth of it. “Thomas's account is accurate. And as for Hook, he seems—not like a pirate who is out to extract a ransom. He is positively desperate to talk to the two of you, and he won’t tell me what about exactly. He has been completely insistent that the Dark One is the one who kidnapped Emma, not him.”

David’s hackles go up. “The Dark One.”

“No one has heard from him in decades, not since everything he’d planned for Regina fell apart; why would he resurface now?” Snow asked, and David could tell she was ready to dismiss the possibility.

Graham shrugged. “We have no way to confirm his story. Captain Hook is a well-known con man with a rumored feud with the Dark One. He could be trying to get our help with some sort of revenge, using Emma as leverage.”

Admittedly, that sounded more reasonable than Rumplestiltskin deciding to come out of the woodwork after almost thirty years of absolute silence.

A beat passes. “I want to talk to him,” Snow says.

“Your Majesty, I don’t think that would be wise to give him exactly what he wants—”

“He has Emma, Graham,” she snaps, “and I am fully prepared to give him absolutely anything he wants, quite frankly, to assure her safety.”

He bristles, “I want Emma safe, too, Snow.”

David glances between them, his wife and one of their most loyal friends. “I think we should talk to him,” David finally says. They both look over. “What’s the harm? If nothing comes of it, we will leave him to you,” he nods at Graham, “and if he unintentionally reveals something while trying to swindle us? All the better.”

Graham nods. “As you wish.”

“Bring him to the throne room immediately. We’ll be waiting,” Snow says.

With a salute and a heel turn, Graham is gone.

As soon as the door closes behind the captain, Snow’s posture sags and she places a supporting hand on the council table. Her breathing goes deep and rapid, and her other hand goes to her abdomen. “David, I might need you to loosen my corset.”

“Snow,” he says, trying to hide his own fear for his wife’s benefit, “We need to stay calm.”

“Calm!” There is fire in her eyes when she turns to him. “My daughter may have been kidnapped by pirates for ransom and you’re telling me to stay calm?!” Her fast breathing turns into quick pacing, “Here we were assuming that she just wanted to get out of the palace for a while, but what if our security has gotten so lax that we basically invited them to take her—” she claps a hand over her mouth, and David steps up behind her and takes hold of her shoulders to halt her pacing. 

“Snow,” he says again. “I’m scared too, but we absolutely cannot panic.” He reaches for the laces on her corset, and loosens the first tie. He doesn’t need a passed-out wife to deal with on top of the missing daughter.

David continues as he pulls each crossed lace enough to give Snow more breathing room, “It will take a few minutes for Graham to bring Hook up to the throne room—”

“Gods, and Captain Hook of all the pirates,” Snow breathes, but she sounds less frantic.

“I know,” David soothes. He ties off the corset again, and pulls Snow around to face him. Her arms immediately go around him. “We have a few minutes before we need to be there. And I need badass bandit Snow to come out, all right?”

“Right,” she says, and he can hear the smile.

He pulls away and frames her face with his hands. “We’ll be together the whole time.”

“Together,” Snow repeats, their mantra, and David is so proud of her.

“Let’s go.”

    The throne room is not their usual forte. Typically they receive guests in the main foyer, the ball room, the dining hall, or the myriad of tea rooms and libraries that are perfectly adequate in style and function. However, there are occasional moments when the intimidation and sheer majesty that comes along with sitting on the thrones in the massive, ostentatious hall is necessary.

He and Snow are seated side-by-side when the massive double doors at the opposite end of the room are pulled open by the two attendants, revealing two guards with a shackled man between them. Graham stands slightly ahead and to the right of the prisoner, and leads the group down the long room towards the dais where the thrones are raised above the floor.

Captain Hook is not what David imagined. He imagined someone much older, perhaps with a cocky swagger and a feathered cap. Someone who would be described by innkeepers as eight feet tall and broad as a bear across. Someone who could inhabit all the legends surrounding them. Someone larger than life.

But this man is not much older than Emma, and looks—desperate. Frightened. Almost small in a way that doesn’t seem to be this man’s true nature. Apparently, a long, black leather coat and vest had been taken off his person when he’d been arrested, along with at least seven weapons, as well as the brace that holds his infamous hook. He only has on a loose black shirt, leather pants, and a set of boots.

He is, to David’s surprise, entirely underwhelming.

To compensate for the lack of hand that handcuffs would require to work, it seems that Graham has shackled the pirate’s ankles and just above his elbows to do the job.

“On your knees before the Queen and King,” Graham orders tersely when they arrive at the dais. The guards flanking him don’t wait for Hook to obey before pushing him down before them. Up close, he looks pale and his eyes swollen and red-rimmed. David feels strangely ill at the sight of a man clearly wrung out and forced to his knees. 

Hook’s first words to them are strained, “Please, your Majesties, you have to believe me. The Dark One has Emma, and I—”

“You’ll speak when you’re spoken to,” Snow interrupts, the imperiousness of her position ringing in the grand hall.

“With all due respect, no,” Hook hisses, surprising David, “we don’t have time for this rigamarole, we need to find—”

A well-placed kick from a guard to the pirate’s abdomen cuts off his next words. “Shut your mouth, pirate.”

“Sims,” Graham snaps. The one who’d kicked Hook, Sims, looks chastened beneath his visor. “This isn’t the Evil Queen’s kingdom anymore. Act like it.”

“Yes, sir.”

A beat of awkwardness passes before Snow speaks again. “Where is the princess?”

“I’ve already told you,” Hook says. “The Dark One kidnapped her.”

David cocks a brow. “And you know this how? Do you work for Rumplestiltskin?”

“I would rather die,” he responds, clipped and matter-of-fact. A short silence follows, as Hook seems to search for the right words. “I was with her when the bastard took her.”

David asks, “And why was Emma with you? She’s not stupid, she wouldn’t dabble with common criminals for a laugh.”

“Choose your next words wisely,” Snow warns, “because my husband was rather generous when he described you as a common criminal. You have more than earned a death penalty in many kingdoms who would be all too willing to take you off our hands.”

David refuses the urge to look over at Snow, needing to present a united front. Snow is hardly an iron-fisted ruler, but her threats always have teeth, and to say that he’s surprised she’s threatening this man with death would be an understatement.

Hook’s eyes drop to the floor, and the breath he takes is shaky. He whispers something David can’t hear into the floor before he looks up. “Because I love her.” It’s quiet, but… definitive and calm in a way David did not expect. It’s also the absolute last answer either of them were anticipating.

“Excuse me?” Snow says.

Louder now, Hook says, “I love her. We have been secretly courting for the last six years.”

David’s jaw drops, and he doesn’t need to look at Snow to know that she looks much the same. “That’s—”

“How—”

“You’re—”

“That’s—”

“How—”

“That’s impossible!” Snow finally settles on. “She would have told us!”

“Would she have?” Hook responds, in that same sure, quiet tone as before. One that makes David want to believe him, despite what it would mean. It would mean that their daughter has been lying to them for years, has been keeping a massive secret for over half a decade.

It could also mean Hook is just a very, very good actor.

“Yes,” Snow insists.

“Why would I come here if I’m not telling the truth?” Hook asks. “It would be suicide to ride to your gates and offer myself up. And since I do, in fact, value my own life, well.” The intensity of Hook’s gaze is startling, as though by sheer force of will alone he can make them believe him. “No one has asked for ransom. I haven’t asked for a single thing except that you help me rescue her.”

“This is preposterous,” Snow declares, “You are a pirate and a villain. I might not know much about my daughter’s romantic tastes, but I’m sure they don’t stray towards the violent sociopath side of the scale. Captain Humbert—” Graham stands at attention, “—take this man back to the dungeon. We shall see about extradition after we find out where they are hiding Emma.”

Hook’s eyes widen in panic when he realizes his story isn’t taking hold. “Please!” The guards force him to his feet, but he refuses to move from where he stands in front of the dais. “You have to believe me! She is in very real danger and you can’t just—”

“Let’s go,” Graham says, and the guards begin to drag the pirate backwards.

“He’s going to kill her!” Hook begins to struggle more violently, dropping a shoulder and throwing it into the guard at his left. A loud oof! sounds from the man, and Graham orders two guards along the wall to assist. The throne room knights converge on the pirate. His struggles had been adequate to delay the two guards, but four succeed in beginning to drag him back towards the doors. “Please, you have to believe me!” he shouts again.

David finally spares a glance over at Snow, and despite her cold expression, he can see in her eyes that she’s anything but certain. “We need to see how many councilors have arrived, because we need to convene immediately,” Snow says to him. She’s barely holding it together, and so she turns and starts to head for their private exit. David follows.

“Her favorite color is yellow because it reminds her of buttercups!” Hook finally yells, voice hoarse and breaking over the syllables. 

Both he and Snow freeze. 

“She has a set of freckles on her back that looks like Cassiopeia,” he continues, fighting against the increasingly frustrated hands of the guards. David looks back and sees Graham hesitating. “She adores cinnamon and cannot stand horseradish. Her horse is named Tuppence because of her favorite book when she was a child, and—and she always brought home birds with broken wings and rats with missing paws because she couldn’t stand to see a creature in pain. She’s got a—a beautiful voice even though she hates to sing. She curses like a sailor and I love her more than life itself, and even if you execute me here and now I beg you to please save her.”

“Snow,” David says, and he can’t deny the truth now. This pirate, for all the difficulty it might cause them, loves their daughter. He would have to to know these things. Even if she were captured, it’s not like Emma would share things like that with someone holding her hostage.

“Let him go,” Snow commands, and descends from the dais and strides towards Hook.

Graham has been the Captain of their guard about as long as Emma has been alive—he knows the princess almost as well as her own parents—and commands the guards to release their charge. He reaches for the keys at his belt, and the shackles on Hook are soon on the floor.

Hook, for his part, looks flabbergasted, and his eyes dart up to Snow and David, who stop just short of him.

Snow looks contrite, but overriding that is a deep sympathy. She tries, “I—” but can’t seem to find the words. David is only a little shocked when she closes the distance and wraps Hook in a hug that he was absolutely not expecting.

His arms remain frozen, his eyes mildly panicked, his entire posture screaming indecision. David idly wonders how long it’s been since someone hugged him—besides Emma, he supposes.

Snow pulls back but leaves her hands on Hook’s shoulders. “I still have a lot of questions,” she says slowly, “but I think we can manage to hold off on those until Emma is back safely with us.”

Hook sighs then, the last bit of overt tension draining from his frame. Now, the only tension remaining is in his eyes and his jaw as he replies, “Aye.” He squares his shoulders in a way that gives David pause because he looks—very nearly military in that moment. “We should pool what we know. Come up with a plan of attack.”

David nods. “We should convene with the Council.”

Snow nods, and gestures over her shoulder to Hook. “This way.”

    He is introduced to the small gathering as Captain Hook and an ally to the throne, with no mention being made of his brief time in custody. They’d given him back all that had been taken off him when he’d been arrested, so he feels a little less naked standing in front of the Council.

(Admittedly, riding straight to the palace and announcing that their future sovereign had been kidnapped was not his best plan by half. In terms of efficiency, however, of getting over the awkwardness of having to tell Emma’s parents that they’d been intimately involved? It functioned as well as anything else he might’ve been able to come up with had his mind not been occupied with worry for Emma, and the myriad of ways he wanted to slowly and painfully kill the Crocodile.)

He knows how rumor mills work, especially in close quarters, so he figures they all likely know about it by now, even if they haven’t heard about the scene he’d caused in the throne room. However, instead of questioning him, they seem content to follow the lead of their queen and king in planning the rescue effort for Emma.

“So Hook,” asks the woman who was introduced as Mulan, “you’ve hunted the Dark One for many years. I imagine what you know could fill a library--why is it you need the crown’s assistance?”

“Because I’ve hunted him for years and yet he still lives,” Killian answers. And that’s the real rub of this whole ordeal, isn’t it? If Killian had succeeded, if he’d taken the Crocodile down years ago, if he hadn’t failed over and over and over again to find a way to successfully kill the beast, then Emma would be perfectly safe. “I’m not willing to risk Emma’s life for my own pride.”

If any of them are surprised by his lack of formal address of their princess, they don’t show it. The woman to Mulan’s left is the next to speak--Ruby, her name is. “What strategic intelligence can you offer, then?”

“There are plenty of things out there that can kill him, despite what he’d have anyone think. Weapons to cut immortal ties, weapons that can end curses. Eternal traps, as well. He feared Pandora’s Box more than just about anything I can remember.” He leans forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the table. “But as far as I can tell, he has found every single item that can trap him or do him harm, and has locked it away in his castle. Or he’s put an impossible enchantment on it, like he did Excalibur.”

“An impossible enchantment?” asks Ruby.

Killian shrugs. “I can’t remember the verbiage of it, but it’s trapped in an ancient, enchanted stone. Since Rumplestiltskin himself couldn’t draw it out, he cast a spell that would turn anyone who tried into dust.

“It’s a fool’s errand to seek Excalibur,” Killian concludes. “You’d throw more lives away trying to break the spell than it would save.”

“So what do you suggest?” Snow asks.

Killian sighs. “He keeps the most dangerous of his treasures in an underground vault.”

“So we break in, grab what we need, and then we’re good?” David asks.

“If it were that simple, I’d’ve been able to kill him a century ago.”

“Wait, how long ago?” David asks.

Killian winces a little. “I’m a bit older than I look,” he says, and quickly moves on to avoid any lingering questions about his age. “But the vault is enchanted to the teeth, and it doesn’t have any windows or doors. Completely physically sealed off.”

“He would need a--a vent or something, right? Air pressure might make it collapse otherwise,” Mulan suggests.

Killian leans back again. “Magic. And I’ve tried to get in every way a layperson without magic can. Teleportation scrolls, tunneling spells, magic beans. All have failed. What we need is an extremely powerful magic user who is able to bypass the security enchantments he’s put on the vault that can teleport us in. And before you suggest it,” Killian warns, “no, fairy magic will not work. Even pixie dust won’t make a dent.”

“We know such a magic user,” Snow says.

David looks over at her. “We do?”

Snow ignores him. “She lives in a village on the way to the Dark One’s castle, just outside our kingdom.”

“Snow,” warns Ruby, trepidation on her face. The rest of the councilors look equally nervous.

David seems to catch up to his wife’s thoughts at that moment. “Oh no. Snow, you can’t be serious.”

She looks over at David. “I am. Emma’s life could very well be in danger. Regina is our best bet.”

Killian finally realizes why her suggestion caused such a stir. “Regina? Your mean the Evil Queen who ruled your kingdom a few decades back? Waged war against you two personally? Who murdered the king, your father, if I’m not mistaken?”

“The very same,” Snow says coolly.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but as I understand it, there is no love lost between you three. What makes you think she’ll help?” Killian asks.

Snow’s expression is steely when she answers, “She owes me one.” She meets the eyes of the Council as she continues, “Both David and I will ride out with Hook. A smaller strike force for a mission like this is ideal, and approaching Regina with just the three of us looks a lot less suspicious than sending a few soldiers or a messenger in our stead. She’ll be more willing to help us if we ask her personally.”

“And then you ride home after we enlist the sorceress,” Killian says, concluding the plan. It’s not an awful one--Regina is certainly powerful, and she was trained by the Dark One, so she might know him and his castle even better than Killian. The story of how she stopped from casting the Dark Curse is muddled, and there are at least ten or so versions swirling around, but the one consistent is Rumplestiltskin’s meddling. The old queen has a penchant for revenge, so perhaps it won’t be so hard to convince her once she learns he plans to kill the old beast--

“No, we’ll be going to save Emma ourselves,” Snow says, and Killian’s musings screech to a halt.

“What?” he asks.

“We’re coming,” David affirms. “Just because we’re older doesn’t mean we’ve forgotten how to fight.”

“Besides,” Snow adds with a strained smile, “It’s been too long since David and I have had a proper adventure. And knowing Rumplestiltskin, having a True Love’s Kiss handy will probably be wise.”

Killian looks around at the room, and is shocked to see nods in agreement.

“Are you all mad?”

“Pardon?” Ruby asks, aghast.

Killian scoffs. “I’m the only one not sitting on a political council, and yet somehow I am the only one who sees the blatant idiocy in sending the only two people who have a legal claim over the throne after their only heir who is being held by a homicidal maniac.” Around the table, he’s met with some contemplative looks, others blank. His gaze finally makes it back to Snow and David, whose silent conversation ends after a few moments and they turn to look at him.

Snow says, “We haven’t had dealings with the Dark One since before Emma was born--”

“Did you ever make a deal agreeing to give him your firstborn?” Killian interrupts urgently, a wave of memory coming over him like suffocation, remembering Milah’s despair and fear that the deal her husband made might extend to any of her future children (their children, had been the undercurrent.)

“No,” David says vehemently. “Absolutely not.”

“The reason we stopped--” Snow shakes her head. “Look, we stopped making deals with him when Regina revealed how far his machinations went and she didn’t cast the Dark Curse. He always wanted something from David and me. We weren’t so dense to think that the price for all the deals we made was always so light--he must’ve needed us for something.” She straightens her shoulders. “I’m hoping that’s still true.”

Killian bristles. “Hope is a veneer, not a bedrock.”

Snow tilts her head. “You’re awfully cynical, aren’t you, Hook?”

He laughs sharply at that. Emma had asked him the exact same question many years ago. He gives Snow the same answer he’d given Emma, “Not cynical. Realistic.”

“And having hope isn’t realistic?”

Six years ago, he would’ve answered without hesitation. Six year ago, he hadn’t had any hope. Now, his hope sits in the clutches of his worst enemy.

His answering smile is humorless. “Haven’t always had the best track record with it, I’m afraid.” 

He takes stock of the room again. None of the councilors seem inclined to fight the decision their monarchs have made; at most, several of them look favorably in his direction, but none are willing to protest. He raises his hand and hook in defeat. “I can’t stop you. I’ve stated my objections. I came for help, no matter how I can get it.”

David rises from his seat. “Trust us, Hook. We will get Emma back.”

He knows that they both believe that. Maybe there is something to the stories he’d always heard in Neverland, about the power of belief, but he has always been a pragmatist. He isn’t so prideful to think that once they have Regina on their side, their fight will be easily won. No, he knows that anything worth fighting for like this is paid for in blood.

He’ll just have to make sure his is the only one spilled.

[unfortunate-stranger-losers]

All Those Things They Couldn’t Say - A Runaway Baudelaires AU

{ao3} {tumblr} {masterlist} 

Chapter One - Prologue

“Why are we always running?” 

Beatrice and Bertrand always knew this question would come. It was inevitable, what with their situation, their way of life, one their children would always notice wasn’t considered normal. But still, it took three attempts before they finally answered. 

First came when Violet was five. Old enough to notice that everybody else had permanent houses, permanent cities, who moved only rarely and were impressed that she couldn’t even remember how many places they’d lived. When she asked, while little Klaus was stumbling around the room trying to find a book for their father to read to him, Beatrice just forced a smile and told her that she’d explain when she was older.

Second was when Violet was six. She was older, she’d thought, so she should know now. And it was after she had come home from the playground with her mother, crying because the other kids wouldn’t let the new girl play with her. She was always the new girl. Would she never have anyone to play with? When she asked Bertrand, he fell silent and asked her if she wanted to practice her lockpicking. That distracted her as well as cheered her up immensely; she was very good at picking all sorts of locks, and loved finding out how they worked. 

Finally, third, came from Klaus. And when their youngest asked, their little five-year-old confused that he couldn’t get a library card if he didn’t live in town, while his seven-year-old sister looked up behind him, begging with her eyes for them to finally explain, they realized they couldn’t delay it any longer. 

Beatrice held out her arms, and Klaus ran up to her, stumbling over his own feet and blinking behind his new glasses, leaping onto her lap and curling up against her chest, already clinging to her arm. He was definitely more of a cuddler than Violet, who preferred to only occasionally give hugs and would rather just wave or blow kisses from across the room to show affection. Still, Violet went over to Bertrand, sitting on his lap so he wouldn’t feel left out and wrapping and unwrapping a ribbon around her hand. 

Beatrice glanced around the room a moment; they were in a small hotel, for the next two weeks before they could catch the train. This was a relatively safe city, but it still made her uneasy. She didn’t like staying so close to anything VFD-related for long. But if they caught this train, they might have a month or two before moving again. 

“Mama?” Klaus glanced up at her. “Are you gonna answer?” 

Beatrice and Bertrand shared a very sad look. No sense delaying it longer. 

“Well…” Beatrice muttered, running her hands through Klaus’s hair as he snuggled against her again. “You see… it’s not a very happy story.” 

“Tha’s okay.” 

Beatrice held out her other arm, and Bertrand grabbed and squeezed her hand. It’s okay, he was clearly saying. We’ll do it together. Like everything else. 

She had to hold back tears- don’t let them see you cry, Bea, don’t let them see you cry- and managed to say, her voice breaking only a little, “Mommy and Daddy did something very bad.” 

Violet looked over at her, surprise in her eyes. Beatrice didn’t dare look down at Klaus; he hadn’t moved from her grasp, but she was sure he was also shocked. They’d never imagined their parents could do something bad, something so bad it would ruin their lives before they even began. Not that they understood their lives were so horrible yet; this was all they knew. 

“We, um…” she took a deep breath, and then glanced at Bertrand. He nodded. 

“You know those kids a few towns back who were a part of those Scouts?” Bertrand said. “Where they gathered together and learned things at the same time?” 

“Yeah, like a club.” Violet nodded. 

Bertrand sighed. “You see, there are some of those for adults, and not all of them are good. Some of them are very bad, and make you think doing bad things are okay, and the only good thing you can do is stay in the group.” 

“That sounds scary.” Violet said. 

“It… it is.” Bertrand said. “And when Mommy and Daddy were… were about your age, our parents gave us to a group like that, because they didn’t know it was bad. They were told it was… was a good thing to give their kids up. But we’d never do that, okay?” He looked very seriously at both his children. “We learned better, and we’ll never let anyone take you away.” 

Klaus and Violet nodded seriously. They couldn’t even imagine a parent giving up their child. It was unbelievable to them. 

“We grew up there.” Beatrice said. “And they made us do bad things and think they were good. And one of those things… we tried to leave, and that bad thing was revealed.” 

“You know how the police are supposed to help people, but we always tell you not to talk to them unless it’s an absolute emergency?” Bertrand said. “It’s because they’re looking for us.” 

“Why can’t you just explain you didn’t know it was bad?” Violet asked, tilting her head. “Wouldn’t they believe you?” 

“I’m afraid not, baby.” Beatrice said. She let go of Bertrand and wrapped her arm around Klaus, hugging him as best she could. “Our group is secret, and keeps themselves very secret, so nobody knows about them, and if we try to tell people, they won’t believe us.” 

“And we… it’s still our fault.” Bertrand said. “No matter what we were told, we should’ve known what we did was bad. We were told that… that it was a bad thing, unless our group asked it of us. We should’ve realized how contradictory that was.” 

Klaus looked up at him. “What does ‘con-tra-dic-to-ry’ mean?” 

Bertrand smiled a little. “Logically opposite, inconsistent, impossible to connect.” 

“Oh.” 

“And if we turn ourselves in,” Bertrand said, glancing at the ground, “Then our enemies will find and hurt us. And, even worse… they could find you.” 

“And we want you to know,” Beatrice said, very slowly, “That no matter what Mommy and Daddy have done, we will never do anything to hurt you, ever. We’re running so the people who want to hurt us, and the group that hurt us, can never find us or you.” 

“But we might be able to stop someday.” Bertrand said. “We have a…” he and Beatrice shared a look. How were they supposed to explain his relationship to them? “A very close friend. He’s working on getting our enemies locked up for the bad things they did, and…” 

“And getting us in a good enough place that we can find somewhere to live safely.” Beatrice said, and she ran her hand through Klaus’s hair again. “Or… or at the very least, you can be safe. Even if we’re not, the most important thing is that nothing happens to you.” 

They’d considered that for a very long time. That they might have to turn themselves in. For what they’d done. For the blood on their hands. They would do that if they could, they knew; it was deserved. They’d killed people, they deserved the consequences. But Violet and Klaus didn’t. They didn’t deserve any hurt, any of the horrible things that could happen to them because of what their parents did. If all went well, Lemony could clear their names. But if he could only get the Firestarters locked up, get VFD off their backs for long enough… Lemony would take care of their children. They knew he would. 

“It’s very hard to tell you this.” Bertrand said, remembering that he’d been told it was important to be emotionally open to your children so that they understood, and by God, did he need them to understand. “You know how hard it is to admit you did something bad to someone you love.” 

Violet nodded slowly, thinking hard. She knew what it was like to admit that she’d pushed Klaus down, or broken something that didn’t belong to them. Even Klaus knew what it was like to confess that he’d ripped a book on accident or stolen extra food on purpose. Of course, none of that was as bad as murder, but it was the worst thing they could probably think of. Enough to at least understand how their parents felt. 

“But we do have to tell you.” Beatrice said. “We just wanted to wait until you were old enough to understand a little. We’ll explain more as you get older, and can understand everything. Is that okay?” 

Violet and Klaus were silent a moment, and even though they knew it was unlikely, Beatrice and Bertrand both felt a fleeting moment of panic that their children didn’t understand, and were angry, and were going to yell and scream and hate them- or worse, run away and end up right in the arms of people who could hurt them. 

Then Klaus nodded. “Okay.” he said.

Violet nodded, too, getting back to work on wrapping and unwrapping her ribbon. “Okay.” 

Their parents shared a very significant look, one full of sadness, yet relief. 

“So, we have to keep moving until things are safe.” Beatrice finished. “And I’m very sorry. That’s also why you get to learn so many things-” 

“Like math?” Klaus asked. 

“Well, no, everyone should know math.” Beatrice said, forcing herself to laugh a little. “We mean like… stuff other kids don’t know. Like lockpicking, and self-defense-” 

“And codes?” Violet asked. 

Beatrice bit her lip. “Yes. And codes.” She took a deep breath. “We can’t answer all of your questions right now. But we will, we promise. We can’t hide this from you while we keep you on the run with us. But do you have any questions? We’ll try to answer whichever ones we can.” 

Violet and Klaus shared a look, considering, while Beatrice and Bertrand met each other’s frightened gaze. 

Then Violet asked, “What was the bad group called? So we don’t accidentally join?” 

Klaus nodded his agreement that yes, that was a good question. Beatrice sighed, thankful they hadn’t asked for more specifics on their parents’ crime. 

“It was called the Volunteer Fire Department,” Bertrand said, “But they call themselves VFD. They use those initials as a code.” 

“There are two different parts of the group.” Beatrice said. “Some of them work to stop fires and preserve knowledge, and some of them start fires and work to gather material possessions. But they both make their members do whatever they want, and convince them that they can never leave.” 

“Both of them will try to hurt you, if they find out you exist.” Bertrand said. “And we’re very sorry about that, and we don’t want to scare you. But we also want you to know what to stay away from, and what is dangerous, so that you don’t end up with them, thinking they’re safe.” 

“Okay.” Violet nodded. “Tha’ makes sense.” 

“Can we go to the library now?” Klaus asked. “I wanna finish that book on tide pools.” 

Beatrice smiled, and once again had to remind herself not to cry. “Yes, of course.” she said. “Do you want me to read it to you, or do you think you can do it yourself?” 

“I think I can.” Klaus nodded seriously. He felt very grown-up, now that his parents had told him a secret. Which reminded Beatrice-

“Oh, and one more thing.” she said. “You can’t tell anyone about this, okay? We don’t want to get caught.” 

Violet and Klaus nodded, even smiling a little, excited to be trusted so much. 

They got up to get their bags to go to the library, and both Beatrice and Bertrand tried not to cry. 

Beatrice and Bertrand rarely contacted Lemony back. They felt bad about it, but when they went on the run, they all agreed it was best. They would send him something inconspicuous when they were to stay in a town for long enough for him to send a report back. Sometimes a message, if they could risk it- Violet learned Sebald quickly. Klaus has finally managed to scale a building. Thank you for the coats, they were useful. Violet’s recent invention was so magnificent, you would be impressed. Klaus can recite Beowulf in the original Old English, you’d love to hear it. We miss you. 

She has your eyes. 

They weren’t to be in this town long- only until the boat could ferry them across the harbor in a few days, but they knew they had to risk it. 

Violet was upstairs, working on making a portable toaster so they could cook food without setting a campfire. Klaus was downstairs, reading some books they’d stolen from the library, which they would return before they left, something about the life of one historian or another. They were growing up so fast. Too fast. 

Beatrice had grown even more nervous since they sent the message, and every time Bertrand came back from the post office, shaking his head that there had been no reply, she got even more concerned. 

They were both terrified, but they’d felt this terror before. On the island, when Beatrice realized why she was so nauseous when she was no longer at sea. Several months later, when they were hidden in the basement of an old house Lemony could visit, and he and Bertrand had to help her by themselves. When they were swiping food from the store, and she was shoving bags into her coat while Bertrand distracted the cashier with how cute Violet was, and she was feeling dizzy, and she, with shaking hands, also stole a test from beside the counter. Months after that, when they were in the woods and Bertrand had to zip Violet into the tent so she couldn’t wander off while he used his little medical knowledge because they couldn’t get to a hospital even if it would’ve been safe for them to. The several weeks when their infant son needed help to breathe, and kept getting sick, and all those nights they couldn’t sleep because they were terrified he’d slip away and stop moving forever while they weren’t looking. 

But it had been a long time, and the terror returned like a gutpunch. 

Finally, while Violet invented and Klaus read, Bertrand returned from the post office with a telegram. He and Beatrice sat on the couch to decode it, and smiled a little when the message read something that wasn’t angry, or judgmental, or even sad. 

If you name them after our chaperone, so help me God… 

Bertrand laughed, and Beatrice laughed. And then they cried. 

“One day,” they promised each other, “One day soon, they’ll all be safe. They won’t have to run. They won’t have to hide. Maybe this one won’t even grow up on the run.” 

They knew that was a promise they couldn’t keep, but they were content with pretending.

[drabblesanddreams]

"Kiss to avoid the bad guys (or good guys)" with Fyodor please. Btw I love your writing it so good! Hope you have a lovely day as well!❤

Thank you so much :D I hope you like it, i always am a slut for fyodor so dont be afraid to send in more requests for him (or any character rlly!)

Word count: 1.2k

Summary: Kissing a man you always admired right before killing someone was something you never expected to happen in real life.

TW: None

Fyodor was an enigma. God built the pieces of his existence in such a way that one could only comprehend what was going through His mind when he created him. A puzzle so few in this world can only come close to deciphering, yes that’s what he was. You weren’t one to so foolishly believe you were one of those few capable of accomplishing such a feat.

You knew exactly the limitations of your intelligence, slightly above average at most. And that was when someone was gently pushing you to the direction of the correct answer. Thus, you looked up to Fyodor a great amount as in your eyes he was perhaps the most intelligence man in the whole wide world. And that chaos that he calls a mind was what goaded you in the first place. It lured you in what others would call a trap, yet he would call Rats in the House of the Dead.

It intrigued you quite much at first, his idea of what the world should be. It didn’t take you long to abide by his principles and join him in his quest to cleanse the world of its sins. The alluring features of his visage and mind took no time in persuading you. You easily threw aside your own principles and began to hold a strong belief in the man’s way of thinking. You knew to a certain degree that he was correct.

After all, how can people expect a better world if they’re unwilling for change.

Though, despite your complete and utter devotion to the Russian, you still held on to that stubborn quality of yours. A quality that he never really managed to shake out of you.

Currently, the two of you were in a high-end restaurant. An establishment only the rich would flock to, showing off their heavily decorated fingers and long, long dresses in any colour and texture available. You watched the customers as they ate, impatiently and anxiously waiting to be seated with Fyodor. The both of you were currently posing as customers yourselves.

Your (e/c)’s narrowed as they locked onto a woman who laughed gleefully, tilting back her head and exposing that long, porcelain neck of hers. She was the wife of a man who ran a prestigious company in the city. All thought what the public didn’t know that you did was that man secretly owed his success to his wife’s ability which was based on luck and success. The both of you were here in order to eliminate her, she was a prime example of the sins of this world.

You scoffed as you continued to watch her before turning your head towards your companion, “What are we waiting for? I can easily shoot her from here Fyodor,” you whispered, annoyed greatly, to your tall, dark-haired companion. He spared you a glance from the corner of his eye, striking violet disappearing from underneath black lashes as he blinked.

He whispered back as his he laid his hand on the small of your back, “Now, now, we can’t be too hasty,” he chuckled at your impatience as he continued to stare at the suited bodyguards situated near the madam’s table. You furrowed your eyebrows lightly as you examined his features. Pale skin stark against long silky black hair, he was surely a sight to behold. A true piece of art that would rival perhaps the work of Alexandre Cabanal’s work.

Shaking your head slightly, you forced yourself to ignore the increased rate of your heartbeat and instead chose to focus on the task at hand.

As both of you continued to wait to be seated, you decided to follow Fyodor’s gaze to the victim of the hour before returning your eyes back to him. You wondered what was going through his mind exactly at this moment, what genius stroke of thought had sprung up in the brilliance of his mind. You were truly grateful that you were able to stand next to him like this, to be able to assist him. He’d be one step closer to the perfect world that he always envisioned. The thought of what he was feeling sprang up in your mind, was he perhaps happy? Relieved? You had no idea; you rarely saw any form of emotion flit across his face.

All of a sudden, you saw his visage tense in the slightest. Surprised at this show of emotion, you quickly spin your head back to the table to see what had caused such a reaction. It wasn’t until your gaze landed on one of the bodyguards walking towards your direction that you felt your blood turn to ice.

You had no idea what to do, you were always so easily susceptible to anxiety in situations such as this. You were never good on thinking on your feet, so you spun towards the taller man, “Fyodor- “you hissed, worry clearly etched upon your face. Both of your faces were already plastered upon the threat list towards the Lady. If this bodyguard saw you there would be no doubt that you’d be able to get away, but then, in the end, the woman would still be alive.

Violet hues darkened to the colour of wine and you felt a shiver run down your back, no doubt he could probably feel it still. “I know.” Was all he said, and you felt yourself panic even more.

When you turned back, the bodyguard was much closer than before. Keeping your eyes on him, you opened your mouth to grab Fyodor’s attention once more as you noticed the was about to turn his head towards the both of you. The words never escaped your pretty mouth however, for you felt a cold hand on your cheek, directing your head back forwards as lithe arms pulled you forward.

Before you could even react at this sudden movement, you felt a pair of slightly chapped lips capture your own. You froze, unable to process this because it had suddenly hit you that Fyodor was kissing you. He pressed his lips harder against yours, demanding you to finally react. Your eyes widened exceptionally at this before they slowly closed. You felt the hunger emanating from him, a simple carnal desire willing to take over the both of you, entice you two in a dance of want and need before leaving you completely and utterly devoured by the power this man had over you. The caress of his lips was softer than you imagined, and you felt lost in him as you tilted your head, breathlessly and desperately trying to get closer to him.

You felt warmth bloom in the pit of your stomach as he pulled away. He looked at you then, taking in your flushed appearance, dilated eyes, and bruised lips. He smirked at you and you found yourself grow hotter at the sight. His violet eyes drifted to something behind you before capturing your gaze once more.

“It seems our cover is still intact,” he slyly commented, and you found yourself speechless as you no longer saw the bodyguard and instead a server came towards the both of you. The server said something, but his words fell on deaf ears as your blood continued to pound in your ears.

You could deal with your emotions later, right now you still had a mission to complete.

[ephemeral-afterlight]

Day 4: Human Shield

(Pack your bags, martyrs.)

Whumptober 2019 Day 4: Human Shield

Word Count: 3521

Relationships: none

Warnings: injuries (various), blood, weapons (swords), implied concussion

A/N: alrighty, time for some Creativitwins shenanigans! i hope i captured their personalities okay; this is definitely my favourite story i’ve written for whumptober so far ^^

A shrill, feral roar rips out into the Imagination, echoes through the mindscape past the boundaries of the twins’ realm and in every nook and cranny it can reach. It’d probably hurt Roman’s ears, if he wasn’t already so used to hearing it, but this time isn’t like all the other times. It’s frantic, and angrier, and tension ripples through his limbs. The Dragon Witch is his foe, yet again, except this time, he’s joined by Remus. His brother hasn’t ever been one for fighting alongside him, preferring independent combat as opposed to co-op, but Roman was already here, and Remus was bored, so now they’re in a battle.

They’re fighting together against the Dragon Witch to keep her at bay, but they’re also fighting each other, in more of a verbal way than a physical way. Their bickering is nothing new, a familiar backdrop to the sound of swords clanging against metallic scales and the sizzling noise left in the aftermath of their opponent’s fiery breath. They don’t argue about anything in particular, anything important. They never really do, if Roman’s being honest. It’s more of a sibling rivalry and casual disdain rather than genuine hatred, although he’d never actually admit that to Remus. Their squabbles and quarrels are, while annoying, something Roman regards with a begrudged fondness, and that is a piece of information he will take to his grave.

Which actually might be sooner than he thought if he doesn’t start paying attention.

The sting that emanates from the slash in his arm is something Roman has been frequently acquainted with in the past, but it doesn’t make the wound hurt any less. He knows the danger of fighting in the Imagination, knows that the effects will last until you leave, but sparring with knights and battling monstrous creatures is fun and helps to get Roman out of creative blocks. If leading Thomas in artistic pursuits means a few scrapes and bruises every now and again, then Roman is happy to endure a little bit of pain until he can get back to the main part of the mindscape and wave the injuries away. He never stays hurt, so it hasn’t ever been a big problem before. Damage to his person is impermanent, and it always has been, so Roman just shrugs off the pain of the abrasions and cuts and contusions and holds his sword in front of him in an aggressive attacking stance.

“Ha! You got whapped!” Remus jeers from the left, nasal voice cutting easily through the chaos as it always does. Roman glances over, does a double-take, and then gives an incredulous laugh. Remus is covered in blood, most of it likely to not be his own, but he also has scrapes and burns all over his skin and outfit. He’s one to talk!

“Shut up!” Roman calls back, retorts in the same way he’s used to. A general rule with Remus is that you won’t have a certain interaction with him just once. If it happened before, it’s gonna happen again, and this has been proved true countless times. Roman has come to expect the lewd gestures, the disturbing language, his “surprise” tackles from the shadows that Roman manages to sidestep nearly every time. Remus has a fixation on repeating things until they stick, doing the same thing over and over and over until something new or different happens. Einstein probably wouldn’t have been very fond of him.

Remus belts out a laugh, leaps forward with manic eyes to slash at the Dragon Witch. His cutlass manages to leave a clean slice on the creature’s back, comes back stained with violet blood. Roman still doesn’t understand why Remus won’t just use his morning star, since his brother has always been the most powerful when using it. He insisted before the fight began that it’s “more fun this way”, hooked his morning star onto his back, and set off to get into more trouble. Roman can still feel the headache even now.

The Dragon Witch growls again, lashes her tail out in a swinging arc, and Roman dives over it cleanly. Remus, as much of a reckless idiot as usual, grabs the spiked appendage when it gets close enough. He’s immediately whipped around as she tries to shake him loose, but Roman knows from personal experience that Remus is like a rabid dog and will not let go once he’s latched on. His legs and sides smack into trees, rocks, the ground, and yet he’s still somehow not winded enough to let his grip loosen a single bit. Roman can tell that the Dragon Witch is starting to get frustrated, smoke blowing out of her nose just like in the cartoons they still watch frequently.

The Dragon Witch herself has gone through a few iterations throughout Thomas’ life, getting more and more “realistic” as he grew up, if you count a half-witch, half-dragon hybrid as being anywhere close to realistic. When Thomas was younger, she had just been a large, purple dragon (influenced by Spyro, no doubt) with a stereotypical witch hat. Now, she’s more of an actual character, closer to what Roman imagines would be in a cool medieval fantasy show on television.

Most of her body is human-- her torso, arms, and legs are pretty normal-looking apart from the violet scales and deep scarring. She’s mostly naked, with a ripped, flowing robe to cover up her sensitive areas (Thomas is still family-friendly, damn it), and a lavish hoard of body jewelry hung at any place that’s free. Her neck boasts delicate golden chains, her wrists and ankles are encircled by broken diamond shackles, and other silver jewelry drapes across her torso, stomach, and legs. Her whole schtick is that she comes to unsuspecting villages in the night, steals their valuables, and uses it to adorn herself in immeasurable wealth.

However, she’s still part-dragon, and that comes in the form of gleaming pointed teeth, wicked sharp nails, an enormous wingspan, and of course, her spiked tail, which is probably far more lethal than it should be. Her shimmering scales radiate out from the center of her stomach, create a patch of bare skin similar to that of what a teddy bear might have, which is almost ironic when it juxtaposes the bloodstains discolouring nearly every smooth inch of her body. She’s definitely evil, and has probably killed tons of imaginary villagers, and Roman kinda loves her simply for the merit she poses as a villain. Whenever he needs a break from the chaos and responsibility, he can rely on her consistency, can depend on the knowledge that she’s always waiting somewhere to engage Roman in his favourite heroic escapades.

And although her purpose is to play the villain, to lose to the hero, an inevitable means to an end, she’s still dangerous. If he slacks off, he can absolutely be defeated. Well, at least Roman can. Remus seems to be having the time of his life even while getting thrown about like a ragdoll (maybe because of it), and honestly, that probably is his idea of fun. He couldn’t have been an arts and crafts geek, could he? No, he has to be weird, and vulgar, and stuck in a cycle of heedlessness. And despite the fact that every time Remus lets himself get hurt on purpose, to fulfill his idea of a day well spent, Roman feels like he’s gonna have an actual heart attack, he can’t deny that some of the foolhardy things Remus does are highly entertaining. Such as now.

The Dragon Witch lets out vicious snarls as she tries to throw Remus off of her back, outraged howls that are only met with deranged laughter. Of course, his brother is unafraid, impetuously so, and that’s something that gives him a clear advantage in most of his fights. Their opponents can act threatening, rise up as terrifying monsters and evil sorcerers and haunted thieves to menacingly loom over the hero, but Remus isn’t the hero, and he can be just as scary. It’s a critical part of what makes him so intimidating, really.

With every growl, every failed slash, the Dragon Witch gets more agitated. She kicks up dirt and gravel with her clawed feet as she stomps around, bleeds into polluted air with rash arrogance. The path they stand on is partially obscured by clouds of dust, leaving the two’s squabble to be enacted as shadows through the grimy lens. Sound is more effective than sight, in this instance, and it’s this sense that leads Roman back into the fray.

His eyes burn as he trudges toward the faint outline of the Dragon Witch, footsteps filled with caution while he shields his eyes from the dust in a futile attempt to ease the sting. He almost trips over upended rocks multiple times but manages to approach the scuffle relatively unscathed. It’s a wonder Remus is still hanging on, squeezing one of the larger spikes on the half-dragon’s back in a death grip even as she doesn’t let up trying to shake him off. Roman can see through the haze in the air that Remus has managed to almost double the number of scratches he had before, and yet nothing’s changed. He’s still grinning, still whooping and shouting as if he’s this is all just a game, and for him, it probably is.

Despite the fact that the lacerations don’t seem to bother him, Remus is still unable to fight efficiently due to his position, and Roman realizes with a groan that he’s going to have to front the efforts on this one. He doesn’t know why he expected Remus to contribute a single thing to make his life easier, but even with the annoyance, he still can’t really bring himself to be angry.

The prince-like side sighs once more, steels his resolve, and then dashes forward.

Once he’s close enough, Roman almost swings his sword in an effort to do some sort of damage, but manages to stop himself before he does. He’s learned over time that recklessness in combat is one of the biggest detriments to swaying the fight in your favour, and has slowly began to adopt and absorb the patience and split-second strategizing that often tips the balance towards himself in altercations. There are only a few moments before the Dragon Witch will notice him and attack, so Roman needs to think quickly.

In all of the fights he’s had with her, there has been a relative consistency in the way the villain ensures Roman will be the underdog, getting beaten multiple times throughout the battle right up until the end. Her counter-attacks are the focal point here, something he’s begun to train himself to look for in their skirmishes. They’re easily compared to chess pieces, and it’s important for Roman to condition himself into analyzing each move to see where he can improve.

There is one part of their battles that tends to repeat itself, a specific situation that he’s relived time and time again. Roman will charge at the Dragon Witch thoughtlessly, foolishly leave himself wide open, and she’ll whip around at the last second to strike him in the torso with her tail. It’s almost practiced at this point, choreographed into the repetition of the timeline, fluid from one altercation to the next. And Roman knows this, is striving to rethink, and recognizing patterns is how he’ll overcome his deficiencies.

He can’t wait any longer. Narrowing his eyes, Roman puts on an act, lets out a dramatic battle cry as he lunges forward with his sword raised above his head. He can see the Dragon Witch smirk, sees the way her dark eyes glint, and he knows that he’s not going to fail this time. As soon as Roman is within range, she turns as usual, easily baited out with conscious forethought. This time is different, though, because Roman stops short, shifts back to lag the pace, and her tail shoots around.

In a moment that doesn’t happen often, Remus turns around, somehow knowing exactly what Roman’s plan is. There’s a synchronicity there, duality that only comes from two beings who used to exist as one. Roman hops over the Dragon Witch’s tail, leaps forward to grab onto Remus’ extended hand, and uses the leverage to vault off of her back and over her head. He lands hard on the ground in front of her, refusing to waste a single precious second as he ignores the pain that shoots through his legs at the rough stop. Roman immediately turns and plants a foot backward, stamps an anchor into the grass to use as a pivot point. There’s a very small window of time that Roman has to operate in, to take advantage of the pause of surprise as the half-dragon processes the new turn of events. The prince spins around, then uses the momentum to bring down a harsh slash on the Dragon Witch’s chest.

The villainess shrieks, rears back hard enough to finally eject Remus from her back, and she doubles over to clutch at the gash in her open patch of skin. Remus lands in the dirt with a thump, breath forced from his lungs at the impact, and Roman ignores the Dragon Witch for now in favour of rushing to help Remus up. Yeah, his brother is annoying, but he’s still his brother, and Roman is a terrible excuse of a prince if he doesn’t help someone in need, especially family.

His counterpart groans from where he’s laying on the ground, rolls his head to the side to reveal a rock now coloured with a smattering of red. Of course he hits the one place where there isn’t grass, devoid of a more forgiving landing. Roman’s so used to the way that his brother is able to adapt to each new challenge, laugh back in the face of adversity in a different, more careless way than he himself does, that seeing a glazed film over unseeing eyes causes him to stumble back.

Although Remus isn’t usually perturbed too much by injury, and in fact welcomes it, that doesn’t mean that it still doesn’t hurt, that it doesn’t affect him the same way it does any of the others. Particularly in the Imagination, where everything is amplified multiple times, colours and sounds and feelings turned up several notches to match the overwhelming, extraordinary nature that encompasses such a vast, limitless wealth of creation. The production of ideas from such conspicuous places, influenced by the very experience that sets their host apart as an individual, it allows for so much light, but also so much darkness. And though Remus operates comfortably within these confines, yanks on the reins with a force of a tidal wave to force relevancy and requirement, it consequently brings to light how much even his already staggeringly disturbed intrigue can be worse, can always be worse.

Roman has never had full control over the Imagination, has shared it with his brother despite the split far favouring himself. He tries to keep it relatively clean, err on the side of easier topics so as not to disturb Thomas, but even Remus needs an outlet, especially Remus. Roman tries his best to put forth light and warmth, and he’s largely successful, but the suppression of his brother’s thoughts and ideas can only hold on for so long before there is a need to release the pressure, create a draining channel to make sure the water doesn’t spill over the dam. It’s not nearly as bad as it used to be (though the journey to forgiveness and acceptance was certainly arduous), but the predisposition toward lording Roman’s contributions above Remus’ has resulted in a severely heightened state of the areas under his counterpart’s control.

One such area of control is the effect of injuries on those who get hurt inside the Imagination, something that, while more realistic and immersive, has gotten Roman into trouble many, many times. Wounds don’t work the same here as they do in the main part of the mindscape, set apart from the innate impermanence of how they function. Here, they actually hurt, which is not something one would experience outside of the Imagination. They’re also unable to be waved away, cast aside in an instant; once you’ve got it, it stays there, at least until you return and employ the use of object impermanence like a salve. Sure, it makes engaging in Roman’s favourite heroic scenarios feel much more real, but it’s also left him in various predicaments, having to limp away from battles or cower under the force of broken bones.

So normally, when met with the assertation of his brother bleeding from his head, there would be little cause for panic. But in the Imagination, there are much harsher consequences for reckless behaviour, and the way Remus sways and wobbles as he tries to sit up spells out bad news. Roman can feel his heart-rate quicken, feels the lump in his throat forming as Remus doesn't seem to be cognizant enough to respond to his calls and questions.

The prince-like side reaches out, shakes his brother’s shoulders to try and snap him out of it. It seems to succeed somewhat, and Remus blinks a few times before finally meeting Roman’s worried gaze. His face is terrifyingly blank for a few moments, as if he doesn’t even recognize him, and then he’s standing, wincing at the volume of his own voice when he barks out a laugh. “My ‘ead got hit pre--pretty hard, didn’ it?”

Roman’s alarm builds even more, eyebrows furrow as his twin stumbles to the side from a loss of balance that doesn’t have any external cause. Remus reaches up to scratch at the back of his head, forgetting the injury that was just created, and he winces with a sharp hiss as his hand comes back partially covered in fresh blood. It’s a wonder he hasn’t passed out yet, what with the absurd amount of blood he’s lost just in the past few minutes alone, but he’s still standing, and Roman is impressed even amidst the concern. And then his counterpart’s eyes snap open, as clear as they were before, and he’s yelling out a “Move!” as he tries to reach forward.

But it’s too late, and the eldest twin certainly isn’t going to let it hit Remus, so he raises his arms to the sides in order to shield as much of his brother as possible. Roman feels the drag of spikes tearing open the flesh on his back, the ache of the bruises beginning to form from the force of the impact that the Dragon Witch’s tail causes.

Roman spins around through the acute pain emanating from his back as he summons his shield, the one he only saves for emergencies because its gleam can beguile and stupefy and entrance any being who lays their eyes on it. It has a property that almost hypnotizes, something that Roman certainly didn’t intend on it doing, but he’s had to employ its assistance sparingly because of how long it leaves its victims in a daze. He has no problem using it now though, holds it up and braces himself against Remus’ newfound grip on his shoulders, and ducks his head.

The Dragon Witch screeches and tries to send a vicious plume of fire their way, but the shield protects them, turns each flickering flame into sparkling dust to drop harmlessly to the ground when it’s close enough. Her belted attack soon dies out, morphs from a shrill howl to a pained moan, and her voice starts to lose its volume. Roman risks taking a peek over the top, and sees the villainess stumble from side to side as her eyelids droop involuntarily.

The Dragon Witch’s gaze lands one more time on Roman’s shield, and then she’s slumping to the ground, lost in the intricacies of its swirling gold patterns.

“You alright?” Roman asks as he stands back up, furrowing his brows when his twin’s eyes shift in and out of focus. He reaches out to steady Remus in case he falls, but his brother manages to shake his head as if he���s trying to jostle the cotton in his brain and then straightens up just fine, so he lets his hand fall back to his side.

“Yeah, I’m good now. You’ll really do anything to be the hero, huh? Oh, my saviour!” Remus swoons, mocking a feminine voice as he puts the back of his blood-soaked hand to his forehead delicately. The dark red claret streaks across his face, mats his wild, unruly hair down, and Remus doesn’t acknowledge it at all. His counterpart mocks the damsel in distress, snickers with that god-awful nasal laugh of his, and Roman playfully whaps him on the shoulder with the hilt of his katana in relief.

Remus casually bumps his shoulder against Roman’s own as they walk back to the entrance of the Imagination, shows a rare sign of good faith, and Roman is positive that he has the best brother in the world.

[madsmikkelsenschesthair]

Blood of the Dragon ch.6

A/N: woo sorry I’ve been gone for so long

Warnings: angst

Saying goodbye to the family who raised you, women turned into mothers, men turned into fathers and their sons being raised alongside you turned to best friends or in one case, a brother was as painful as it was. Freyja held back her tears as she bid farewell to her family, Athelstan anointed her forehead with a waxy smelling oil, praying “The Lord’s Prayer” and made the sign of his God’s cross on her chest. Then he kissed her cheek. The women were the hardest of all to say goodbye to; Kraka did all the crying for her hugging her and smothering her with kisses, Siggy and Helga didn’t want to let her go. Lagertha didn’t cry but it was clear she was hurting very much. The boys were very difficult to stop hugging and promising to write to one another.

Her new family looked on with sympathetic gazes. While Freyja said goodbye to Ivar, Lagertha locked eyes with Cersei’s cold ones, she could feel tensions rise between the two and Lagertha couldn’t comprehend why. All she knew was that she wasn’t so sure about putting Freyja’s life in this woman’s hands. To annoy Lagertha even more, Cersei wrapped her arms around Freyja’s shoulders pulling her away from Ivar’s embrace. Lagertha pushed past Aslaug and clamped her hand on top of Cersei’s shoulder turning her around. Knights pulled out their swords but Lagertha showed no fear only anger.

“If any harm comes to this child,” she said in a low voice for only Cersei to hear, “you will answer to me”.

The shock wore off Cersei’s face, a sly smile slowly creeping across her pretty face and her eyes went cold again, “Earl Lagertha there’s nothing to fear. I will love this child as if she were my own”.

Cersei turned around and walked with Freyja to where Rhaegar stood, his warm arm embraced her leading her to the boat where Uncle Jaime and her stepbrother were waiting for her. Uncle Jaime helped her and her pup on to the boat and scooted over so Freyja could sit.

“Don’t worry little dove,” Uncle Jaime said with a sad smile, “you’ll love Kingslanding, You’ll see”

A painful lump formed in her throat and only gave him a tiny smile. ‘Easy for you to say.’ she thought bitterly, ‘you’re not leaving your entire family behind’.

Freyja squinted up at the sky. It was perfectly clear and a seagull squawked somewhere. The weather did not reflect how she was feeling on the inside. Freyja had no other choice than to leave, what else could she do? There was no point in arguing especially when her King Father was the most powerful person in the world. Or so they said. To Freyja, he was a stranger who sat on an Iron throne with a notorious family name. 

Her father sat next to her and draped his cape over her shoulders, his warmth surprisingly comfortable yet so strange. Fenrir jumped on to her lap and she began to stroke his fur. At least she would bring something from her old home into her new one. They rowed away from the docks the shadows of the big ships looming over them like a predatory bird. A few men lowered the ladder, unfamiliar faces appeared studying Freyja. Stepmother climbed first, then Rhaegar held out his hand for her to take. “Come little one,” he said “you mustn't be afraid” Freyja gulped and with one hand on the ladder and the other holding on to her pup, she climbed praying to the gods she wouldn’t fall. 

The ship was very different than the ones she was accustomed to. It didn’t have any seats where one could sit but it was huge! The sails were bigger than a house flapping in the wind, a red creature with three heads was sewn on to the black flag. She put her wolf down and walked to the deck watching her old home with pain in her heart. From where she stood, Freyja could see Ivar and Sigurd bickering over something. She giggled. The little spark of happiness suddenly went away when she realized this would be the last time she would see this view.

No.

“I will return” Freyja whispered, “I will come back and I won’t leave without my family”. Then with a splinter sticking up from one of the boards, Freyja pricked her finger and let a few drops fall into the open water. 

The room they gave her was as beautiful as the ship and as big as the Great Hall with a four-poster bed made of strong dark wood. Instead of furs, they had the same sheets the English used and the duvet was made of soft cotton with black thread and golden dragons sewed to it. The pillows fluffed and a red trunk with the same three-headed creature on the lid was at the foot of her bed ready for use. There was a fireplace warming the room already and candelabras gave light. A desk with paper, ink, and quills was in the corner of her room, a grand wardrobe, a few new furs were sitting on a chair and a bookshelf. Her things were already brought here and sat on a table where she was supposed to have her meals. No matter how grand her room, Freyja couldn’t help but shiver at the emptiness of it. They had left her there alone with Aerion and for the first time since their arrival, Freyja flopped on to her bed and wept her heart out. She sobbed into her pillow so no one could hear, Fenrir jumped on to her bed and snuggled against her. Her only comfort. 

Fingers that were as soft as silk brushed against her forehead. Freyja was too worn out from crying to fully wake up or move. 

“Forgive me,” a soft voice said. It was her King Father. “I’m sorry you hate us. I’m sorry I am not the perfect father. I heard you crying earlier and I wanted to come in to hold you but...” he grew quiet thinking of the right words to say. “I was afraid you will tell me to go away. All I ever want is for you to be happy” Now she was fully awake but didn’t dare open her eyes, she wanted to hear everything her King Father had to say. “I just want you to know that I love you very much. You are the only child I will ever have and I want to give you what I never had; the love of a father” Freyja’s stomach flipped and her heart bloomed. “You are my little dragon. My little princess. My own heaven on Earth.” This man was her real father and she knew he meant every word he said, a love she didn’t know was there warmed her. Freyja knew it was going to take some time but she will grow accustomed to her new life and maybe even enjoy it as much as she did back in Kattegat. Who knew? Maybe being the daughter of a King wouldn’t be so bad. The door creaked open and followed by the clanking of metal and the door closing again.

“Leave her be, Your Grace. She needs her rest”, Uncle Jaime said stopping by the foot of her bed.

“I don’t want her to hate me,” said her father ignoring what Uncle had said to him, “I want her to love this new life”

“You do realize it will take time? She’s a child, Rhaegar. She still needs to get used to the idea that she’s a princess”

Rhaegar was silent for a moment. Freyja laid there listening to the sounds of their breathing. 

“What’s this?” Freyja heard the ruffling of cloth and suddenly her King Father’s hand gripped her own.

“Where did she get that?” His voice quivered and his nails dug into her palms. 

Freyja frowned. “Isn’t this yours Your Grace? I thought you said it disappeared during the war”

“Yes, I wonder how she managed to get it in her possession. This was brought back all the way from Valyria!”

It took a moment to wonder what they were talking about then her eyes snapped open and she shot up straight from her bed startling both men and Fenrir. 

Uncle Jaime was holding the same dagger Ivar had given her. 

If it was originally her father’s then how did get inside Kattegat? Was it an accident?

No. They tried to kill her but who?

Freyja locked eyes with Rhaegar, his face growing whiter than a ghost’s.

“Y/n” he began to say but Freyja backed away from his grasp, his pretty violet eyes filled with hurt.

“Why did Ivar have it? Why was it in Kattegat?” Freyja wanted to sound brave and demanding like she was taught. 

“I don’t know, little dove but someone wanted to hurt you,” Her father said slowly as if he were talking to a scared doe, he held his hands up showing her he meant no harm. Freyja searched her nightstand for a weapon but found none. 

“Freyja” Uncle Jaime inched closer to her, “We mean it. We don’t know how it got to Kattegat but I can assure you none of us sent it”

Her eyes went from him to her King Father both of their faces sincere and comforting. ‘Odin, Frigg give me a sign they mean their words. Give me a sign I should trust these strangers’. 

The ship rocked to the side causing for the painting of the sea on the wall to fall, breaking the frame. Out of the corner, Freyja noticed a face peering from behind the painting. She bent to push it out of the way and underneath it was another painting but of a beautiful woman. She had dark wavy hair, grey eyes, and porcelain skin. The woman wore a beautiful blue wool dress with fur at the trim, in her hands she held a Winter rose beside her was a white direwolf. The woman’s hand on the wolf’s head while its paw rested on top of her knee.

Those eyes! That woman was her mother and the wolf was...

Fenrir went to Rhaegar and licked his hand then howled the song of Winter. The song of the Moon.

Her pup was the son of her mother’s wolf and a ghost-like hand brushed her cheek and Freyja knew it was her mother. Telling her everything would be alright. To trust her father.

Freyja then threw her arms around her dear King Father.

@lettersofwrittencollective @i-only-signed-up-for-fanfiction @faeeiiry @mellxander1993 @blonddnamedhandz @wanderlust-imagines @-thatgirloverthere- 

[emphoenixcat]

Fluttering (The Prequel)

Read the next part here

*A/N: Hi, everyone. I’m sorry it took so long, I’m still trying to get back into writing and wouldn’t you know it, my computer decides to die on me as I’m about to post it.*

Warnings: slight swearing and a little bit of yelling. Also dark sides

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“I don’t know why you have to make such a big deal out of everything! Not everything is the end of the world, you know!”

Anxiety retreated deeper into his hoodie as the prince glared daggers at him. If looks could kill, he was sure he would be dead by now. Despite the agitated feeling rising up inside him, the anxious side pushed himself to finish his side of the argument, no matter how useless it seemed. 

“Look, Roman. This is the first time Thomas has ever driven, the first time he’s ever been in control, the first time his life will be in his own hands,” without his consent, Anxiety’s voice distorted.

Roman crossed his arms, “Oh, what nonsense! His life has been in his own hands many times. Besides, we’re only a part of him. So contrary to what you may think of me, I am not solely responsible for putting ‘senseless’ dreams in his head.”

Anxiety rubbed at his temples, “This isn’t about you, Princey. I’m worried about Thomas’ wellbeing. I just don’t want him getting into any accidents--”

“And you think he isn’t at risk when he’s in the passenger seat? Because he is, it doesn’t make a damn difference. All I know is that he has to rely on other people to get him around. He’s unhappy, Anxiety. He wants more. He can’t get anywhere in life by waiting around all the time.”

“I KNOW!” Anxiety shuddered at the sound of his own voice, distorted and unrecognizable and thundering to his own ears. He had been staring at the ground, contemplating the creative side’s words when it had all just become too much for him. It didn’t really matter how much he tried, his voice was always drowned out by others. So much so, that he couldn’t get them to understand his words’ meaning. It was becoming too difficult to focus, the worries overtaking his well-thought-out rationale. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he dared to peer up at the princely side.

Roman’s jaws were clenched, his eyes unreadable. “If you think you can scare me or the others into submission, it won’t work.”

Anxiety’s eyes widened, “I--I wasn’t--I didn’t mean--”

“The others think we should let you have a say. They think that you mean well most of the time despite you disagreeing with nearly every decision we make; relationships, acting, singing, parties, school, work, and art. No matter what it is, you find a problem with it!” Roman dramatically threw his arms up in the air and scowled causing Anxiety to shiver as his stomach did disconcerted flips; he dared not speak a word.

The prince’s eyes hardened and he turned away, “Well, I’m not buying it. You’re no different from the other dark sides, all you do is lie and destroy. And all you’ll ever be is evil.”

The royal side sunk out, leaving Anxiety alone with those words reverberating throughout his skull. Each word seemed to send shockwaves through his system and he shuddered, unable to hold himself back anymore. 

The sound of thunder shook the mindscape.

Oh no. No, no, no, no, no. Not now, not here.

Anxiety realized he was still standing in the Light Sides’ part of the mindscape, and he was certain they could hear the storm coming. He just hoped they didn’t discover the source of the storm before he managed to slip away.

Clouds were beginning to form over his head, darkening and expanding with every passing second. The vigilant side closed his eyes, breathing hard. He needed to calm down enough in order to sink out of this side of the Mindscape.

All you do is lie and destroy.

Lightning struck, hitting a lamp on a nearby table and shattering glass all around the room. Anxiety covered his ears and bit back a sob, desperately trying to regain some sort of control over his emotions. Focus. Just calm down and focus.

All you’ll ever be is evil.

The cautious side didn’t dare open his eyes as he felt a sudden frightful flurry of wind rush past him, the unmistakable sound of destruction quickly following its unwelcome arrival. He shuddered to think of what damage his mere presence had caused. 

“My, oh my. Looks like I arrived just in the nick of time.”

Anxiety flinched at the unexpected voice, the realization that he was no longer alone startling him out of his thoughts. He blinked up at the yellow-clad side. Deceit smiled back at him, “What? You didn’t think I would miss out on the show, did you? The friendship between you and Creativity is truly heartwarming, certainly not dramatic and entertaining at all.”

“Are you telling me, you’ve been here this whole time and you only decided to help now?” he glared.

The deceitful side laughed, “Oh, Anx. Don’t tell me you wanted to leave their part of the mindscape unscathed after an argument like that. They surely don’t deserve a little disruption and chaos in their perfect little lives.”

“Whatever, can you just help me out here?”

“Of course not, darling,” the snake-like side said as he offered a golden gloved hand. As soon as their hands touched, the mindscape shifted around them, becoming darker and less pristine. The anxious side let himself relax slightly at the sight of the usual cobwebs decorating the halls, the amassing heaps of clutter courtesy of The Duke, the collection of snake skins from Dee’s many pets, and the darker color scheme lined with bright yellows and sickly greens. It was always an odd sort of comfort to be back in this part of the mindscape.

“DEATH AND DESTRUCTION ARE WHAT FUEL YOUR EXISTENCE!”

Then again….

Anxiety let out a loud exasperated sigh, “Hello, Remus.”

The chaotic side bounced and twirled around his anxious counterpart, giving him a headache. The Duke didn’t seem to mind the rain that was beginning to pour from a dark storm cloud situated above the anxious one’s head as he pointed a disgustingly unmanicured finger in Anxiety’s face, “You wouldn’t exist if there weren’t endless possibilities of pain, suffering, and ultimately death. Tell me, how does that make you feel?”

The anxious side nearly growled.

“Don’t.”

“Hmm, what a strange feeling,” the intrusive side laughed before taking a bite out of a deodorant stick.

Anxiety wrinkled his nose and pulled up his hood, ready to turn away from Remus and his shenanigans. However, as he turned away, a familiar lemon-hued glove touched his shoulder. “Why doesn’t my favorite worry wart tell me what is clouding his thoughts? This is totally usual of you,” Deceit tilted his head, conjuring a black and yellow umbrella as he eyed the storm clouds curiously. 

The anxious side ignored the pun at his expense, “Why do you care?”

“My dear Anxiety, of course I don’t care. What concerns Thomas, doesn’t concern all of us.”

“Oh, for the love of--can’t you just speak normally?”

Deceit glared, “Fine. Short and simple, I agree that Thomas does not need to learn to drive.”

“Y--you do?” Anxiety raised an eyebrow skeptically.

The two-faced side crossed his arms, flourishing a gloved hand every so often as if to punctuate his point, “He already has friends and family that he relies on to get him from A to B.” 

“A, C, F, E, Q, R, T, Y, Zeeeeee!” Remus screamed before face-planting into the ground.

Dee rolled his eyes, “And if they ever fail him, there is such a thing as public transportation.”

“blehgGerms!” cried the intrusive side, face still buried in the carpet.

“Ignore him, please. Look, what I am trying to say is that Thomas is only wanting to drive because that is what other ‘adults’ are pressuring him to do. It’s what they expect him to do.”

“I don’t know, Dee. It seems like he really wants to.”

“Fight him on it, you have the power to make him realize that he doesn’t actually want it. You can bring that overconfident buffoon of a prince down from his throne.”

The Duke chortled, finally getting up from the floor, only to fall back down on his butt. “Bring him down, down, down, dooooown!” he sang.

“I don’t care about the prince, I care about Thomas. And...”  Anxiety pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation, “...as much as I hate to admit it, the prince is a part of him. He literally represents his hopes and dreams, he knows what Thomas wants. I can’t just ignore that, Dee.”

 “Thomas has no idea what he wants!”

“What? And you think you do?”

Deceit got closer, his umbrella vanishing as his gloved hands gripped Anxiety’s shoulders. The apprehensive side tried backing away, but his two-faced counterpart only tightened his hold on him. “I am only trying to do my job, Anx. It doesn’t matter what is true or what is not true. You might not see it precisely as I do, but a lie can be for the greater good. We all lie to ourselves, you think that our Imagination cannot be distorted? That Logic cannot be skewed? That Morals cannot be corrupted? I am only asking you to do your job as I am, and protect Thomas no matter the cost.”

“I am Anxiety, NOT his anxiety disorder!” Virgil pushed the deceitful side away, a massive roar of thunder made the mindscape quake. A flash of light followed soon after, crackling across the room like bright violet veins running across the ceiling. Anxiety was scared, but for the first time in a long time, he felt powerful in a way that he couldn’t describe. Dee was right about one thing, he could force Thomas to listen. He could make him as anxious as he was right now. However, none of it mattered if it meant Thomas would end up living his entire life in fear, never able to fulfill his hopes and dreams. The Light Sides would hate him even more. The Dark Sides would probably hate him too. Eventually, Deceit would realize that Thomas can’t lie his way to the top or break away from societal norms with Anxiety ruling over his life. Yes, Thomas would hate Anxiety with every fiber of his being.

But he needed to be protected. 

The vigilant side stared down at Deceit, surprised to find that his scaly face had gone ashen. Even Remus looked perturbed, choosing to remain as silent as humanly possible. A cloudburst now bombarded them, completely soaking everyone and everything within the mindscape as harsh whirlwinds flew about the room. Not one item remained undisturbed by the severe squall.

A voice rose above the storm, shouting to be heard, “What is it gonna take to make y’all shut up so I can get my beauty rest?” The newcomer held a pink and black umbrella in one hand and a fancy caffeinated drink in the other.

The wind died down a bit, surprised at the interruption. Anxiety and Deceit turned to the newcomer, speechless. The Duke, however, jumped up and stomped his feet, “I refuse naptime!” And with that, the intrusive side ran out of the room.

The other side simply laughed and sipped his drink, looking unbothered by the statement. He didn’t even seem disturbed by the chaos in which he found himself in.

“What are YOU doing here?” Dee snapped when the side continued to sip his drink and say nothing.

“Can’t a fellow dark side join in on the party?”

“Sure, you can,” the deceitful side rolled his eyes, “You bring so much to the table and you’re always on time.”

“Aww, Deedee! That’s what I love to hear!”

The two-faced side glowered, “Don’t call me that!”

Remy smiled cheekily, “So you mean do call you that?” He loudly sipped his drink down to the last drop as Deceit stomped away to his room.

Anxiety couldn’t help but smile, Rem always knew how to get on the others’ nerves. It was one of the things he liked about him. He didn’t consider Remy much of a dark side, none of them did really. Remy represented the more lazy aspect of Thomas though, and Anxiety figured that that was the reason he was bunched in with the dark sides. People seldom like the inactive part of themselves. There were many times where Thomas felt like he could get more things done without Sleep.

With Deceit gone, Rem turned his attention to Anxiety. Tiny tornadoes still whooshed about the room, but they were less destructive now and not quite as terrifying as before.

“Gurl, we need to talk.”

                              ______________________________

Remy yawned and plopped down on a hot pink bean bag and patted the purple one next to him until the anxious side timidly sat down. Despite being in Rem’s room many times before, Anxiety was always surprised by how the weight lifted from his shoulders ever so slightly as he nestled comfortably in the cushy bean bag that seemed almost made for him. The sleepy side’s room was mostly an array of pillow forts and comfy lounge chairs. There was a mini bar in the right-hand corner of the room that specialized in coffee drinks and cocoa. In the left-hand corner, there was a huge mirror with an array of make-up on the counter and a back-massage chair and foot bath in front of it. From where they sat in the back of the room, there was a large TV with nearly every gaming console you could imagine. Everything in Sleep’s room was designed for absolute comfort. Even the carpet was super soft to the touch.  

“Okay, spill.”

“Wha--what?” 

Rem nodded toward the grey clouds and mini gusts of wind that had followed them, “You can’t be conjuring up a storm and then be telling me that nothing is up. What d’ya take me for?”

“Oh okay. I guess it’ll help if I talk to you about it. Gotta be better than talking to Princey or Deceit about it.”

“But not better than talking to Remus about it?” Remy pouted, “I can’t believe it!”

Anxiety smirked, “You know that’s not true.”

Sleep grinned, “Then speak, gurl, speak!”

So the vigilant side told Rem everything that had happened, starting with his argument with the prince. He told him about how the words were still echoing around in his head at this very moment, how he felt like he was holding Thomas back, and about how he couldn’t help himself because when he closed his eyes all he could see was Thomas getting hurt in an accident of some sort.

Surprisingly, Remy stayed quiet throughout it all. Nodding slightly as he took it all in. It wasn’t until the very end, that he said anything. 

“So do you believe what he said?”

“Who? Deceit? Nah, of course not. He just wants me to follow his own agenda.”

“Not Deceit. Princey. Do you believe what he said about you?”

Anxiety studied his hands for a moment, “All I do is lie and destroy. All I’ll ever be is evil.” He looked up, surprised to see that Rem’s sunglasses were off and that the other side was studying his face with his piercingly dark eyes. “What if--what if I do believe it?”

Remy sighed, “Deceit was right about one thing. The imagination can be distorted and that, among other things, is the prince’s domain.”

The anxious side’s brows furrowed, “What are you saying? Are you agreeing with Deceit?”

“Calm down, gurl. I am agreeing with a point he made. I am not agreeing with him entirely. Princey lives in a land of romanticism and fantasy. He sees himself as the hero and he is quick to judge whether something is good or evil. In a way, you are both doing the same thing. Right now, he sees you as a danger to Thomas just like how you see driving as a danger to Thomas. All in all, he does not hate you. He hates the unknown.”

“How can the embodiment of Thomas’ confidence and imagination hate the unknown?” Anxiety asked skeptically.

“You remind him that there are things to be scared of and it is that simple. You can’t take what he said to heart when he’s saying it out of fear.”

“Well, I guess you’re right.” 

As the vigilant side’s voice finally went back to normal, so did the clouds that had been following him all day long. Instead of the deep grey they had been in the presence of the other dark sides, they were now a pleasant cream color and the rain had calmed to a light drizzle.

Sleep smiled, “Of course I’m right, darling. In fact, I bet that one day he’ll see that he was wrong about you. Cuz if anyone was gonna switch over to the light side’s. It’d be you, kid.”

“No way. They may apologize to you and you might become a light side one day, but I don’t see that ever happening to me. There’s no way in hell.”

“You’d be surprised, gurl. You’d be surprised.”

“Whatevs, Rem.”

Anxiety didn’t quite believe his crazy friend, but he felt a stubborn sense of hope rising up inside of him. The tornadoes turned into zephyrs, the rain stopped pouring, and the cloud above his head broke apart forming something else entirely. The anxious side and sleep-inducing side squinted as the strange figures began to move and make strange fluttering noises, colors changing from white to yellow to orange to pink before settling on purple.

Remy smirked at Anxiety’s stunned expression, “Every storm has it’s rainbow and one day they’re gonna see that.”

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General Tag List: @ultimate-queen-of-fandoms @anxious-but-whatever @tellmehowtoexist @maizieandbirds @theresneverenoughfandoms @grumpymoonbird @lizaelsparrow @jellopuffs