#its so cold omg my fingers are dying | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

eudaimonia83 · 11 months ago

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OMG OMG OMG IM ACTUALLY UPDATING

This is not a drill!!!

I know no one cares anymore, but I’m SO EXCITED bc I literally pulled this out of my brain about eight words at a time, for ten thousand+ words. It was excruciating.

CHAPTER 7 — LUCIEN

The wind was cold, blessedly cold, against his hot face.

Lucien felt as though the past few days had slid by in interrupted bursts of time, everything occurring too quickly before screeching to a halt where felt like he was stuck in honey, or a fish snagged on a hook. Either too much had happened, or not enough. The taut, tense meeting with Rhysand in the River House the morning after Solstice had started it all.

Well, no. His mind prickled, and he rubbed the back of his neck. He knew what had really sent him into a spin. Not court work or spycraft. Not even worrying about what had happened on the docks, which he had been so careful to try to conceal.

He opened his cloak to check that it was still there. The amber pin with its gold clasp and black lacquer etching, sitting pert against his tunic and protected by his coat, that drew his attention at all times of the day or night, wondering…how had she known?

He’d gotten used to the whole Solstice experience of being invited to the party but existing on its fringes, weathering Azriel’s cold glances and Cassian’s overbearing merriment, evading Amren’s keen stares, playing the dapper gentleman to Feyre because it was easy, how they’d first known each other. But she had taken him aside and given him this.

It was beautiful. He knew it as he trained his Fae eyes upon it, knew from his upbringing around treasures and artisans, knew it to be handmade of fine materials and worked with spells from time out of mind, that the jewelers and metallurgists had learned from the gods themselves, if you believed such things.

But how could she have known that this…that the hyraeths…that they were a part of his heart as much as the blood vessels and the beat and the muscle?

Lucien ascended the stairs to his Velaris apartment slowly, trying to let the rhythm of the climb clear his head. His place was the second floor of a majestic stone house that had long since been divided into multiple residences. It had loud hallways and several families with multiple children, all coming and going at all the times of day; which was why he had chosen it. In a secret city, he wanted as anonymous an existence as he could maintain. No one asking or noticing or seeing if he’d come or gone or stayed.

The door creaked as he leaned into it, opening into the narrow entry hall. He’d managed to get some furnishings before he’d been shipped back to Spring and then the human lands, though the floors were still bare and the kitchen still empty. There was a massive oak wardrobe from Dawn, complete with intricate locking mechanisms to keep papers and valuables secure, all warm with inlaid wood in the design of the rising sun; wide couches and ottomans in buttery soft leather from Summer, dyed the rich teal of the ocean; deep gold wool blankets with patterns of scarlet leaves from Autumn, folded neatly on the arm of the sofa. It was there that Lucien sat, facing the windows, still lost in thought. Remembering.

The bright light of a hyraeth glittering just out of reach. Two hands reaching up to scoop it out of the air, to show him as it lit the cocoon of her hands like the flame of a candle. No, brighter. Like a tiny star flickering with exhaustion between her fingers. Setting it on a thread with its fellows, to rest and to feed until they mated in the massive grove. Staring up over his head at a great tent of them with the hemlock trunk at its center, glittering and undulating in the wind, sparkling bravely against the darkness. And how grief had welled up in his chest as they died, falling in golden drips to the ground as their lives came to an end. Her voice, gentle and warm, thrilling him with every word: I’d protect them all until I died. It’s my mission and my purpose. A flash of copper, bright across his vision, peering between the fuzz of pine needles on branches, lit from behind by two brown eyes dusted with flecks of gold…

He jolted back to the present with a sigh. It would do no good. It had never done any good to let his mind wander back to those days, halcyon and gleaming and studded with the fluttering, rippling light of the hyraeths…before everything had gone so terribly, terribly wrong.

He leaned forward, letting his head hang until his braids touched his knees. Those days were gone, and he was here in this cold court, and he had questions to answer.

Questions.

A new voice, echoing soft in his ears, hollow with despair: I have more questions than when I started, Lucien…

Elain. Anxious and mysterious and torn.

He shook his head and got up, pacing down the hall to the kitchen, where a solitary bottle of Velaris whiskey sat half-finished on the counter. Lucien poured it into a glass and took a sip. It was bitter on his tongue, not smooth and sweet like the Autumn whiskey he’d grown up drinking, but it had that hint of smoke that he craved, and the bite of the alcohol pulled him into focus. She was researching — he knew Gwyn and Clotho had allowed her to go to the library. But would she find what she needed if she couldn’t tell them what she was looking for?

She found what would touch my heart, somehow. Even though I didn’t tell her.

Maybe he could do her that favor. Be her research assistant, even from a distance. Answer some of the questions that tore at her heart.

Two brains are better than one, he could almost hear another sarcastic voice teasing.

Yes. Maybe there. Maybe she could point me to the right scholar, the right library, the right court…

He tossed back the contents of the glass, winced at the burn, and wiped his mouth. It wasn’t too far to winnow. And no one would miss him if he was gone for one night, to see an old friend.

Lucien seized a clean tunic and breeches out of the wardrobe and stuffed them into his shoulder bag before strapping on his knife and pulling his cloak around him.

He left the little hyraeth pin snug against his chest. It wouldn’t do to leave it. It was too valuable to sit rotting in this apartment while he was away.

Happy Solstice, Lucien…

He felt the echo of her fingers on his collarbones as the winnow opened and he spun into nothingness, and out again.

——————

As always, the first thing he noticed was the light. The rosy gold glow spilled across his shoulders at a low angle, stretching his shadow to twice his own height. And the plaster of the houses took that light and turned it into a gentle yellow, so soft it almost looked spreadable.

Dawn.

Dawn was one of Lucien’s favorite courts to visit, for as long as he could remember, if only to see the pink clouds scudding across the sky. It was the loveliest sky in Prythian, even eclipsing the magnificent stars of Night, because the sun was always peeking gently around the horizon, as though you might catch it in mischief. And the city of Eós was stirring awake like a cat, stretching languidly in the early light. Bakeries bustled behind closed doors, brimming with the buttery smells of kouign-amann, and the caramel of burnt sugar. The multiple workshops and tinkerers’ houses were rustling to life. And on the hill at the center of the city, the great Sky Mirror, a huge lake ringed with a massive and ornate glass frame, would catch the rising sun and amplify it as it ascended, sending brilliance bursting into each home.

He was steps away from the house he was heading to. The roads here were yellow slate blocks, pushed vertically into the ground so only a narrow edge showed, and clustered into intricate patterns and geometric mosaics. His bootheels thudded against it. You could never hide your approach in Dawn; even the ground would announce your presence. He noticed a little mechanical owl scuttle up the branches of a small tree. Someone’s alarm system, he had no doubt. In this society filled with tinkerers and engineers, there was always some new gadget out for testing, some new fusion of alchemy with physical science to achieve a new goal. There were fewer libraries here than in Day, but far more workshops and experiments proceeding into the final phases, all with the backing of the High Lord and his councilors.

And as he came around the corner, he ran almost headlong into the woman he’d come to see.

She was tall and slender, angular, even though her shoulders sloped from leaning forward over books, endless mock-ups, and prototypes. Her dark hair escaped in tendrils from the cursory braid she’d thrown it into, and her tunic was covered with an oil-stained apron. She’d been in her workshop then. And on her shoulder, blinking its bright brass eyes, was the little owl. He heard the hiss of a gear as it hopped once and took flight.

She was staring at him, face blank. Her eyes were dark and troubled, her face more lined than when he’d last seen her.

“Nuan.” He stepped closer.

She drew herself up, almost as tall as he was, and brushed stray hair out of her face with a brusqueness indicative of irritation. She was working on something. I interrupted. He gathered himself to apologize, but she cut him off before he even began.

“Lucien,” she said, her voice rich and sorrowful. It was always how she greeted him. Just his name, just an acknowledgement of his presence. It said more than she probably even meant it to. It brought back so many memories, all in a rush: her, tight with anger, fixing a metal tendon on her mechanical arm, growing more and more frustrated as the metal refused to stretch to give her more freedom of movement; her, shrinking away as Tamlin melted back from beast to fae, begging her for help and offering to shield her from Amarantha in return; her, refusing protection, standing straight and gaunt, fully expecting the attor or Rhysand to come steal her away for torture in the darkest spaces Under the Mountain; him, gore crusted on his face, eye searing with pain and bubbling dark blood whenever he talked or moved, croaking out “please…I’ve been so stupid,” when she finally stepped closer and those cold golden fingers reached for his face.

She had forgiven him his foolishness, at once and fully. It was the strangest and most complicated friendship he had in the entire continent. And yet it was also the simplest, in its way. She was the only one who was scarred as he was, the only one for whom she’d agreed to tinker a new body part, despite hundreds writing her asking for her help, despite generals and barons and lords offering her wild sums of money and gifts if she could but rebuild their armies, their warriors, their friends. She had said no to all of it, shut the workshop doors firmly, taken up study in other fields of science and engineering.

Except for once. Except to help him. He had never known how to thank her for that, and she had never given any reason why she’d said yes.

Now, standing before her as the pink rays played on the horizon, he knew he was coming to take advantage of her yet again. And yet he loved her fiercely. It was a truth that welled guilt inside him anytime he thought about it too long — how many people had sacrificed how much to take in his prodigal ass. To care for him. To love him. How would he ever return that favor?

“Hello.” He reached out his hand, hoping she’d take it. “It’s been a…long time.”

“Yes,” she said, sharply. He frowned in confusion, and caught her expression as she looked hard to the side, and gestured to the wall lining the street he’d come down. She pointed silently, and the stones of the wall began to roll in their mortared settings, rumbling apart to reveal a narrow doorway. She pushed him through it with a hand on his head, still saying nothing; they emerged in a little courtyard, where the grass grew a bit too long and the main features were the lopsided shapes of unfinished contraptions, like some sort of half-built sculpture garden. Prototypes, built in wood and brass and leather. Skeletons that would not deteriorate, but would grow into…what exactly? He stared at the wooden outline of a person, arms akimbo. The frame of a wing extended behind it, and thin leather oiled to near-transparency stretched across delicate wooden bones and joints. Tiny brass wires fanned out across the leather from the wooden joints, labeled with little tags that fluttered in the breeze.

He spoke without turning around, knowing she was behind him with her arms crossed, the gleam of her golden wrist bright behind her work gloves. “Are you teaching this little wooden pixie how to fly?”

Her face was closed tight. “Something like that. What are you doing here, Lucien?”

Not going to go the way he had planned, then.

“I came to see you. It’s been too long and I love the Dawn sky.” He smiled disarmingly.

She raised her eyebrow. “Yes, and? You don’t go anywhere without the behest of the High Lord of the Night Court these days, and even then, you never came to see me unless you wanted something.”

He faltered.

She barked a laugh. “Twas ever thus, I suppose. Be honest, lost little prince. What are you looking for? The Faebane antidote wasn’t enough for the King Under the Mountain? Because you can go back and tell him all his jeweled dragon hoard isn’t enough, I won’t be on his payroll.”

“I’m not here because of Rhysand,” he objected. It was a reasonable thing for her to assume, but it still stung, worse here than even in Spring, since it meant that his wretched position in the Night Court’s employ had attached firmly to his reputation. “I really did come to see you.”

“Bullshit.” She squared her shoulders, but her jawline weakened ever so slightly. At least she would listen.

“What is it you’re working on?” he asked, hoping to steer the conversation by asking her about herself. Nuan was private, but she had passions, and her intellect was sharp and expansive enough that with a little prodding, she would overflow with enough detail to spin the heads of anyone but the Scholars’ High Council in the Day Court.

“Don’t con me,” she snapped. “I’m tracing nerves and micro vessels in skin and connective tissues, and trying to mimic their function, if you must know. And does that make any sense to you?”

“No.”

“I wouldn’t think so.” Pride swelled in her voice. “So why did you come? You know that travel safety all over Prythian is worse than it was before Hybern invaded, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he admitted.

“And traipsing around hither and thither is the best way to run into something, or someone, unsavory?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“And you still came here unannounced.”

“It was important.”

“To whom?”

“To me.” It was out of his mouth before he could think better of it. “Not to anyone else. If Rhysand knew I was here he’d think about it for all of two seconds and then move on to his mate.”

She snorted derisively. “He’s a fanatic about that female.”

“He’s become increasingly short-sighted,” Lucien said, anger welling up in him anew, despite all the dozens of times he’d exhausted himself trying to suppress it. “Nothing matters to him besides Velaris and Feyre, and maybe his son, now. Before he was just a blackguard with too much power. But now, whatever we tell him of uncomfortable truths gets lost before it even reaches his thoughts.” He thought of their meeting, in the great office with the mountains in the background, trying to impress upon the High Lord the suffering of the humans; and how when he hadn’t been distracted, he’d been annoyed just to bring up the subject.

“Through love all is possible,” she intoned solemnly. “So. Perhaps the rest of his court can finally flourish while he focuses his black gaze exclusively on Feyre. They’ve certainly been waiting long enough.”

“I doubt it.”

“Is she properly recovered from her birthing yet?”

How she’d heard of that debacle, he had no idea. “Yes. Thanks to her sister.”

“Which sister?”

He frowned. “Nesta. Why?”

“Because Rhysand’s not the only one obsessed with an Archeron.” She gave him a pointed glance, then turned and stalked into the house, calling back over her shoulder. “Come in. If we must talk politics, at least let’s not do it in the cold.”

He crossed beneath the threshold, and the little brass owl chirped and whirred. His eye spun in response, for all the world as though it were saying hello.

The kitchen was cluttered but warm, lined with terracotta tiles and yellow slate in the exact same hue as the street paving stones. The fire caught all the gold and russet and played with it merrily, casting the whole room with golden light. Nuan crossed to the open hearth and filled a giant teakettle, then dropped in a handful of leaves that smelled of ginger and pear. She added cardamom as the steam began to rise, then placed the lid back and turned around.

“Well. Since you’re not here in an official capacity, then, can I ask you how you are?”

“I’m well,” he responded automatically.

“Of course you are,” she agreed. “Angry at Rhysand, who pays your salary…living in exile with humans and pleading their cause to the mighty to no avail…let’s hope that mate of yours has warmed to you, else you’d understandably be tense as a cat amongst the pixies.”

Lucien smiled. Nuan always did this. Despite her sharp tongue, which she wielded with even more accuracy than Nesta Archeron, she had a way of making anyone feel protected — provided they were under her wing. It was the difference between being in a dragon’s nest, among the eggs, or facing it head-on. “I missed you,” he admitted.

She finally grinned at him, her dark eyes crinkling at the edges. “I’m sure you did. So much you couldn’t even send a letter. Paralyzed by nostalgia for my cluttered workshop and my dusty company.”

He laughed helplessly and shrugged, accepted the tea mug she held out, and then collapsed into a chair, leaning back on two of its wooden legs so that it tilted against the wall. A little circular brass brush buzzed officiously under his feet, cleaning up dust and crumbs. “I started writing many times. I just…never finished.” He took a deep draught of the tea, which was hot but not scalding, and tasted refreshingly sharp from the ginger.

She cocked her eyebrow at him and curled her fingers around her own cup. “I know you’re wanted by everyone in all seven courts and at least two foreign kingdoms, but spare a thought for your old friends occasionally.”

“I think about you all the time,” he protested. “Especially when I’m talking to Vassa.”

“The human queen?”

“She has your tenacity.” Lucien always found describing Vassa to the Fae difficult, but Nuan nodded with a slightly faraway look in her eyes. “She wants to know everything; asks incessant questions, doesn’t relinquish conversation until she’s satisfied I’ve told her everything I know. And even then I’m not certain she believes me. I can imagine her holding out through all the mess that the human lands are going through now. Trying to understand things, to find solutions.”

Tendrils of Nuan’s dark hair slipped over her shoulder as a ribbon of steam rose from the cup. “She could do good things for her people. If the curse can be broken…”

“It seems not.”

She gestured in the air, a weary acknowledgement of the difficulty of the task. “Perhaps broken is the wrong word. Perhaps we’re thinking about it in the wrong way. Advancement in science and engineering and innovation is, after all, most often a shift not in knowledge but in perspective. I hope that’s also true for magic.”

He raised his eyebrows and felt his scar pull as the golden eye, excited by the presence of its creator, whizzed beneath the eyelid. “Exactly why I said she reminds me of you.”

“Stubborn.”

“Smart,” he countered. “And of course unwilling to let anyone else win an argument.”

The whites of her eyes flashed as she rolled them, but the laugh that jumped from her was genuine. “At least you didn’t call me resilient,” she shot back, a note of bitterness in her amusement. “The worst word, I think. When no one sees you except for how you’ve been hurt.” She flexed her golden fingers. “Speaking of wounds, how is yours?”

He pointed to the eye. “This? Unsightly as ever, but no worse.”

She squinted over the rim of her cup. “I meant more invisible ones. You came from Night, didn’t you?” Her nostrils flared as she scented. “You smell of Velaris…all river-water and cold air.”

Damn her. He’d been wondering how to elegantly bring up the questions he came here to ask, but as usual, she’d arrived at the heart of the matter with the precision of a scalpel. “I did.”

He’d tried to keep his tone neutral, but something must have changed in his face. She gazed at him sharply for a moment, then reached out a hand, palm up. “Let me see the eye.”

“Why?”

“I’ll give it a tune-up,” she said briskly. “Check the gears, adjust the spells. While you tell me what you went back to that awful city for.”

Lucien hesitated and then, cringing slightly at the sensation, pulled down his lower eyelid and stuck his finger and thumb into the socket, bracketing the golden eye between his fingers. He hated the sucking pull of removing it…it was remarkably close to how it had felt to have the real eye gouged out, which came rushing back with revulsion whenever he touched it, although with less pain. He swallowed hard and tugged. It came loose after a moment’s resistance and whizzed in his fingers, sounding — though he knew this was idiotic — a bit irritated.

Nuan grinned as he handed it to her, and set it down into a soft cloth on the workshop table. “I like how it likes you,” she said, pushing her sleeves up. Her arm gleamed dully as it caught the light. “One of my best creations. Hello, little thing,” she crooned at it, tilting it back and forth, peering acutely at its shimmering surface. There were minuscule etchings on it that fired as she examined it. It rolled over of its own accord and she chuckled. “You’re a proper little rascal. Has Lucien taught you, shown you all manner of things you shouldn’t know? I don’t doubt it.”

Lucien squinted, limited to half his field of vision. “It’s an eye. What shouldn’t it know?”

She gave him a dirty look. “Just trying to acknowledge all the hot spots you’ve gotten into.”

“Most of them weren’t even mine,” he objected. “Except the times I mouthed off.”

“Oh yes, except for those rare instances.” Her sarcasm dripped like nectar, and he rolled his natural eye with a helpless chuff of a laugh.

“I can’t keep quiet. Never have. Likely I never will, at this point.”

But Nuan was no longer listening; she had put on her magnifying spectacles, which cartoonishly enlarged her eyes so she looked remarkably like her little brass owl sentinel, and she was staring at the orb of the eye with a tiny line forming between her brows, shifting into a perplexed expression.

“What is it?” The back of Lucien’s neck prickled.

It took her a moment to answer, holding the eye as though gauging its weight. “It’s odd,” she finally said, tilting her head to the side and elevating the eye so the shop faelight descended from overhead to cover the table in a brilliant cone. “It’s as if — as if it became unbalanced. Like all the charms in it are stuck on one side. Have you noticed any change in the way it functions? The way you see? The things you can see?”

He shook his head, dumbfounded. “It’s been normal, but…”

“But?”

“Well…” He had wanted to talk about this, to ask her opinion, so why did it suddenly feel illicit? Dangerous? “There was an incident. Recently.”

She put the eye down and lifted off her spectacles, watching him with crescent eyebrows.

“I encountered magic I’d never seen before. Never heard of.”

“Where?” A crisp, precise question. The answer was more troublesome.

“It was by the docks in Velaris. A strange place…sort of a squatter’s nest. But made of boats. Anchored to trash and refuse.” He took in a breath to slow his heart, which had begun to race. “I think the people there had odd abilities. Or some of them did. I noticed that my eye was moving oddly, like it was sticky. Or like it was pulled towards this female with the strange powers.”

“What in the name of the Mother and her Cauldron were you doing in a place like that?” Nuan demanded. He bristled; it was the sort of tone his mother might have adopted to berate him for staying out all night.

“I didn’t intend to visit, I just…ended up there. I winnowed in.”

“Blindly?”

He nodded. “I was looking for Elain.”

Surprise bled over her so quickly it altered the entire shape of her face: everything went round, from eyes to mouth.

“Before you ask, I didn’t know why she was there, but…she pulled on the bond. So I went. And she was being chased by this female. A Lesser Fae, I believe, but with deep and strange powers.”

“Of what sort?”

“I don’t know,” Lucien admitted. “She told Elain she was a witch, trained in folk lore and legend.”

“How did you get away?” Nuan demanded. Her fingers were rigid against the work table; if she held it any tighter, it might have permanent imprints of her nails.

He ran a hand over his face — how to tell the rest of that night simply, without sacrificing accuracy? He settled on a half-truth, at least for the moment. “I shot her with a Faebane arrow.”

Nuan brought up the eye again, turning it, and picked up a tiny, narrow screwdriver from the table. She blew on the eye and traced one of its etchings with the tool, painstakingly drawing the pointed edge along the surface. It hummed, then hissed and split open along a near-invisible line. Inside, a multitude of tiny gears whirred and spun — and indeed, all of them were clustered along one side, instead of being evenly spaced in the center. She stared at it, open like an egg cradled in her two hands. “A witch, she said? Elain said she called herself that?”

Lucien shrugged. “I assumed she was being dramatic. For effect.” Everyone knew witches were only creatures of legend. They had vanished from Prythian before even the creation of the Middle, when the Daglan ruled the lands and goblins and strigoi preyed on High and Lesser Fae alike.

When Nuan spoke again, her voice was low and tremulous. “The charms on my tinkering are nearly ironclad, Lucien. On any tinkering, as a condition, a quality control of its manufacture. Only a powerful force — an elemental force, like a current — could affect its material this way. It is built to respond only to you, and your ideas, your brain, your commands. To resist influence by anyone else, so no one can co-opt its use. As its builder, I will always have a small degree of control over it, but it is supposed to function as if it were a part of your own body. To see it like this is —“

“Strange?”

“Concerning.” She picked up the screwdriver and slowly, painstakingly began loosening the gears and moving them in the tiny orb, stationing them back where they were meant to be. “Witches. Hmm.”

“It was nonsense. Just a way to shield herself from telling Elain the truth about her powers, I’m sure. Witches are gone from Prythian,” Lucien said. He was suddenly tired. Half of his vision gone pounded his head into a dull throbbing ache.

“Well,” Nuan said absently, applying a minute drop of amber oil to the gears and nudging them with the point of her stylus, spinning them faster. “That’s very possible. Even after they disappeared their abilities stayed legendary, all over Prythian. To this day. In some tribes it’s almost like invoking a monster to call down the witches. Even to mention them. There’s at least one tribe in the foothills near Under the Mountain who tell a folk tale that Amarantha came to Prythian because someone made the mistake of calling upon the Morgana, the darkest of the witches from their lore.”

“How do you know so much about them?” Lucien asked.

“I don’t,” she said, matter-of-fact as she extracted a tiny gear from the eye and elevated it into the air, where it rotated idly. She lifted another tool that looked like a tiny golden pin, looping it as though writing, and as she did, more tiny golden marks appeared on the surface of the metal. “But no one ever really did. The only thing that was ever clear about their magic was their ability to take it from others — which of course made people fear them deeply. They were strange, wild creatures, preying where gifts were plentiful. But they had a place in the natural order; a way to keep things in check. To keep a truce between the powerful.” She snorted derisively as she inscribed more golden writing on the tiny gear in marks so small they were almost invisible. “It fits that Dawn would be a place their influence and legend would stay alive. We have always been the interim, the balance between the stronger solar courts, ever since Dusk disappeared into memory. The bright, blessed Day, and the dark, looming Night. Each of whom could roll over in their sleep and crush us without a second thought. Equilibrium is in our interest here. But who knows what price we might have to pay to get it?”

She looked up at him and blinked, her eyes huge behind the spectacles, and after a moment of silence, burst out into peals of laughter. “Oh, Cauldron boil me. Close your mouth, Lucien, you look like you’ve been hit in the back of the head. It’s my privilege to wander in thought a bit.” She flung the cloth at him, hitting him in the face; he scrabbled, tilting backward in his chair as the cloth covered his eyes.

She continued, as he tossed the cloth onto the floor in annoyance. “It was often said by the early masters of magic that balance is as important as power. Like calls to like, yes, but without an opposing force it will bring chaos eventually. So perhaps the witches’ essential balancing function could be preserved somehow, in the greater scheme of things. There was a group of Lesser Fae who they thought might have descended from the witches, in theory. Although that can’t really be proved. Perhaps their powers merely grew to match those of the ancient witches. A sort of convergent evolutionary mechanism.”

Lucien felt cold trickling over his skin. “Which Lesser Fae were these?”

She tilted her head, pensive, fitting the tiny gear back into the eye and sliding it along its axle, only a hairsbreadth in diameter. It glowed, surprisingly bright, and began to rotate. She nodded in satisfaction. “They didn’t have a name, or a tribe. They were united only by magical ability. And of course that made them outcasts from the communities most Lesser Fae hold sacred. Transients, migratory; eking out a living at the borders of societies. They took over sections where magic could be siphoned away from settlements without notice being attracted, and could quickly move on before danger could come to them…which sounds exactly like the place you were just describing.” She gave him a pointed look. “I’ve heard them called many things, mostly derisive. Squatters. Schemers. Mostly they’ve been referred to as skimmers — an interesting word for what they can do.”

Take magic that wasn’t theirs…and wield it? Lucien raced to keep his thoughts logical. “Skimming? As in, taking some off the top…like clotted cream off milk, or fat off bone broth?”

Nuan nodded absently, absorbed in reconnecting the two halves of the magical eye, touching it with her tiny stylus and leaving glowing pinpoints behind, bright and bold as if the metal were molten. “Yes. And making a life from that. It’s really remarkable, you know…” she fastened it back together and gave it a gentle squeeze and a pat, and a final murmur to seal the charm. “…how they’ve managed to survive, if they truly are descendants of the witches. All these centuries, across all the courts.”

“And you think these people might have lived in Velaris? In the court that not even Amarantha could penetrate?”

She shrugged. “Don’t discount the magic of the Lesser Fae. They are not weak. They have the greatest wellspring of abilities in all of Prythian, though it’s not concentrated into individuals the way it is for High Fae. And these people can draw magic towards them; drain it out of those who wield their acquired powers. It’s not well documented, so who knows the full extent of what they could do? But it’s possible, especially in groups, that they could cross the borders of the courts. And if she was trying to frighten your mate, perhaps calling herself a witch would’ve done the trick.”

Lucien wanted to object, that Elain had likely no idea about witches beyond fireside folk tales, but something she had said surfaced, a drifting tangle of flotsam, tugging at his heart, silencing him.

Alive…but not in a way that you are, or I am. Like something that normally wouldn’t be able to talk. And it was angry.

Maybe it was part of the witch’s magic.

Old, and strong, and alive.

What had she spoken to, beneath the waters of the Sidra?

Who had she spoken to in the bobbing boats, before her fear had called him and he had come running in panic?

Nuan was talking to him again, breaking through the flailing of his worried mind.

“What?”

She let out a sigh of impatience. “I was asking if you’d talked to her about it at all. To Elain.” She offered him the eye in an outstretched hand, neatly pinched between finger and thumb. “Here you are, you rake. Good as new.”

He shook his head, and took the eye back, holding the socket open and pulling his scarred lower lid down to fit it inside. It resisted for a moment but then popped back into place, spun as though in indignation, and with a whirr resumed its function. His sight through it was cleaner, more balanced. Perhaps it had been blurred or distorted and he just hadn’t noticed.

“You haven’t?” She looked properly scandalized now, as though he’d admitted to sexual relations with a naga or something.

“It’s been a few days, and I haven’t seen her…”

“A few days since what?”

“Solstice. When she gave me this,” he said, pulling back his jacket so she could see the pin on his lapel.

Her eyes widened. “Does she know? About Jes?”

“Not unless she heard it from someone else. Her sister is a mind-reader, after all.” The words tasted bitter to him. It would be too disappointing, too crushing, to know that Feyre had whispered the contents of his mind to his mate. When he couldn’t even tell her the simplest thing: how much her regard bloomed him like one of her flowers under the noon sun.

Nuan tapped her fingers on the desk. “Perhaps she would prefer hearing it from you, even if the High Lady did tell her something.” She swiped her cloth over the surface, cleaning dust away so the wood gleamed under the bright light. “Maybe that’s her way of telling you that.”

He tried to grin, but it died on his face. “How would you know?”

She chuffed in exasperation. “How would you not know?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you’ve bedded how many Fae over the past few centuries, and you still know nothing about women.”

“I know some things.” He waggled his eyebrows at her and she smiled, but shook her head.

“You’re an idiot, Lucien. You won’t maintain contact. You won’t let her into your thoughts. You won’t ask her about her own.”

“I was giving her room…”

“Well, that’s nice, isn’t it. Maybe that was fine before. But now she’s speaking to you and giving you gifts. Making overtures. Can’t you at least write her a thank-you note?”

He thought about it for a moment. His words had failed him with Elain, time and again, when normally they flowed as easily as water with the direction of conversation. He’d never had trouble flirting; except with her. The words had faded into silence or been too weak to express what he truly thought.

Maybe writing would be better.

“Maybe I will, if I can find paper and pen,” he said, half to himself.

Nuan snapped her fingers in his face and pointed to a pen lying on the table top within arms’ reach. “Sometimes I fear you’ve lost your marbles, Lucien.” She opened a stone crock on the long counter by the window and pulled out some bread, slathering it with butter and a slice of honeycomb. With a wiggle of her fingers the massive mug filled with tea again and thumped unsteadily next to him. “Well. I have work to do and you have a mate to woo. It’ll be good practice for writing me letters, too.” She winked at him. “Tell her what you thought. What you felt. How you can’t stop thinking about her enough that you went to Dawn to ask your friend how to talk to her, for fuck’s sake.”

He burst out laughing. “Drown me in the Cauldron. I hope one day I can badger you about writing love letters to someone.”

Her face fell abruptly, settling back into lines he hadn’t noticed before. Her shoulders wilted into a slope. She looked like she had just picked up a massive, unyielding piece of stone.

“Nuan…” he extended a hand to her, getting up from the desk. “Nuan, I’m sorry…”

She shook her head firmly, but her voice, so arch and confident moments before, seemed to have dried up. She picked up the mug and took a long sip of the steaming tea, then held it tightly near her nose, breathing in the fragrant vapor, eyes closed. Lucien stood close, watching her, waiting. Helplessness solidifying in his veins. Tears shimmered in the corners of her eyes.

“Can I help?” he asked, heartbroken to see her suddenly in the grip of obvious pain.

She shook her head swiftly, then opened her eyes. “I’m well.”

“But —“

“I want you to know something, though,” she said, and there was a rigidity to her tone, an iron that he’d never heard before. “I love you and I’ll protect you to the bitter end, Lucien. But I want you to know that there was — is — a cost. You might never see it. I hope you never do. But be aware: there were lots of people who sacrificed for you without even knowing you.”

“Who was it?” He would make it up to her. Somehow.

“No. No, you don’t need to know that.” Her face cracked into a broken, small smile. “Just that they loved me. And because they loved me, they loved you. Even through Autumn vengeance, which never was selective enough to fall only on the target of their ire. Lord Beron casts a wide net. And I will not be silent about my own pain or theirs, not while I have breath. We loved you, and we shielded you, and that hurt us.”

His eyes widened. “My father came after you?”

She didn’t answer, just stared at the table. He didn’t know what to make of this. He had left Autumn, fled their cruel court with their murderous customs, would never go back or try to threaten the crown or the succession. Why would his father continue to pursue him across borders, come for his friends?

Maybe Beron didn’t need a reason. Thinking of the blood spreading under vibrant copper curls, dark eyes filming over with death, he knew that to be true. One more thing for the Vanserras to answer for. A dark bubble in his heart.

“Lucien?”

He reached out and took her hand.

“Just promise me that one day, when it matters, you’ll be better than all of them.”

“I…”

“Not just for yourself, but everyone else too.” Her dark eyes locked with his.

There was a lump in his throat. He squeezed her hand, and light glowed around their grip.

“I promise,” he said, gently, not knowing what she really meant, but feeling that this would help, that his word — which, so help him, he’d keep — would balm the hurt of her unspoken loss.

“Thank you.” She swiped roughly at her eyes. “Fuck…this anemometer isn’t going to build itself.” She bustled away, picking up a weight of bright copper and heading to the giant crucible in the back garden. Moments later he heard the crackle of flame stir to life beneath it.

He sat, pulling the paper towards him. Waited a moment, thinking.

Tell her what you thought. What you felt.

He bent over the paper, quill pen whispering.

—————-

He struggled with the letter all day, writing and tearing it up, balling the pieces into clumps and setting them alight with his fire until Nuan told him if he burned her workshop down, she’d never speak to him again. Finally, he had written something he felt was appropriate, although it came off too stilted. Just like when I speak to her, he thought grimly.

Elain, he had begun, simply. He had wondered if Dear Elain would be better, but the familiarity slickened his palms with sweat. What if she wasn’t ready to hear endearments from him?

He told her of the skimmers, and that they might be more powerful than he or she had suspected. I’m visiting the Dawn Court and came across some information I thought might be of interest…

But that wouldn’t do. What if Rhysand decided to open and read it? Or Nuala, or Cerridwen, or even Feyre, who was nosy enough for a whole squadron of spies?

He decided to bury it further in the text.

Elain — I wanted to pass along my thanks…

Fuck, no, that wasn’t right either. He wasn’t a schoolboy writing to a distant cousin.

“Stop sighing,” Nuan called in irritation from the next room, where her dinner sat forgotten as she worked on calculations for the winged harness in the courtyard. “If you can’t tell her in simple words how you feel, it won’t be worth saying at all.”

The hours spun away. Nuan went to bed finally, and he was alone in the kitchen with the faelight, and the little brass owl, whose eyes half-closed as the darkness fell like a shroud. He took the pen and paper over to the bed Nuan had made up on the wide sofa, sitting down on the clean sheets and trying to relax.

Elain — I feel badly that I left without thanking you properly for your gift on Solstice. You must think me very rude.

He breathed deeply, remembering how his stomach had knotted at the sight of the little hyraeth pin. He touched it absently at his lapel while he thought. It gleamed softly in the faelight, the lacquer shimmering along the amber surface.

I didn’t expect to receive a gift at all, and so I was taken aback, but further, I didn’t expect you to remind me so much of my past. It was so kind of you, it overwhelmed me. I knew a girl once who was a Guardian of the groves where the hyraeths live, you see — and our time together ended in tragedy.

Don’t end on the sad note, he thought desperately. Don’t let her think it grieved me…

But the words were finally flowing. He scrawled them as they came, unbound like the waves of dark that came with twilight.

But you made me think of her with less sadness. And you made me feel welcome in a place that has always challenged my ability to adapt. I don’t know if you meant it this way, but…

Tell her how you feel.

…you made me feel at home. Thank you, Blossom, from the bottom of this wicked heart.

I’ve been trying to think of a way to repay your kindness. Perhaps, in lieu of flowers or trinkets, a secret will do?

He flipped the page over and told her what he had learned of the skimmers, adding at the end, perhaps this could guide your research going forward, as you investigate your abilities and the promise you made that night. Although may I suggest avoiding consorting with witches? Or at the very least, staying away from the docks in future? I don’t know if MY nerves could handle it, although I’m sure yours could. You’re made of sterner stuff, after all. You have that Archeron iron.

He sat for a moment, eyes growing heavy. The faelight, hovering near his head, dimmed thoughtfully. He struggled to keep his eyes open, to write one more line…

I would like to come see you once I get back…

But sleep was weighing him down, dragging at his limbs…

…and hear what you make of all this…if you’d like to see me…

…Elain…

…Blossom…

But it was no good fighting it any longer.

Lucien was enveloped and swimming in darkness, struggling against the weight of it. It was formless. Depthless. He knew it well; and yet it frightened him. He’d been here before, so many times. Sleeping endlessly after his eye had been torn out, as his face slowly knit back together around the golden orb that replaced his natural eye. The pain of it ebbing and flowing, screaming into him when his face scrunched as he wept, receding to a dull throb as he sank again into despondency. Surfacing to see Tam sitting on the floor by his bed, fast asleep…but always, always pulling back down into darkness. Hearing the echoes of screams…his own…Jesminda’s…his mother’s…they all faded into the cottony silence of nothingness. Perhaps his own heartbeat would fade, eventually. He had hoped for that sometimes.

But now, the darkness wasn’t truly endless. It was forming into something. At first it was just a feeling, like the walls of a room enclosing a discrete space, and then it was actual sensation. The shift of the pile of a rug under his feet. The stiffness, slight creak of his leather boots against his shins and feet. The hum and chatter of voices in an adjacent room, broken by laughter. And then there was light. Golden, pooling light from a lamp, flooding the room with a gentle glow.

The River House.

He recognized the high ceilings, the open beams, the oak paneled walls. The playful spin of faelights from the recesses of the ceiling, giving a low glow to even darkened rooms.

And then a sweet voice. Melodious, if slightly tremulous. Nervous. Reaching as if across a long distance. But instead of just hearing babble, like the voices from the room close by, it formed into actual words.

“It made me think that you might someday find a place for your heart to rest.” A pause. “Unfathomable as that may be now.”

It was her. Dressed in shimmering lilac, with that little plum fur-lined jacket accentuating her waist, her long neck, her slender arms. Winter roses at her breast, where he had tried — and failed, spectacularly — not to look, at the pink edges against the swell of her flushed skin. She looked like an early summer day given a Fae form, here in the tightest grip of winter and dark. And in his hand, a tiny, glowing pin of bright amber, fashioned into wings that caught and refracted the light. His vision blurred with tears.

“How did you know?” he asked, the question that had bruised his heart for days.

She shifted, twisting her hands. “Know what?”

“This…” he gestured with it. “That I missed this. That I needed it.”

Her eyebrows creased into a worried expression. “I didn’t. But I read about the hyraeths, and it…it caught my mind. Reminded me of you.”

“I…” he swallowed. “It reminds me of my past. Good and…and bad things. My last day in Autumn, many years ago.” He thought about what he had written to her in that stumbling letter. What he had seen, that last day. The great hemlocks, blasted by fire. The Guardians, scorched and burned to dry husks. The hyraeths, dead in golden droplets on the ground, their wings stilled and dulled with death. And the darkness of her blood soaking the moss, congealing on the roots of the trees, which embraced her crumpled body like the hands of a mother…

“Yes,” she said, eagerly. “I wondered if perhaps you might want something to remind you of home.”

Yes. I did…but those memories are caught in pain, like blackberries grown with thorns, and you didn’t know that part. But oh, how sweet and tender it was that you tried. He stepped forward, closing the distance between them. “I don’t have a home anymore,” he said, his voice catching on the words.

“Perhaps you will, one day,” she said, and he saw her throat squeeze. “And then you can put down some of the weight you carry.”

He faltered, but continued, hoping to show her how much it meant that she had thought of him this way. “I think you understood me, Blossom. Better than you realized, perhaps. Thank you.”

He could feel the warmth radiating from her, this close. Closer than she’d ever been before…

She reached out and pointed at the pin. “May I?”

He handed it to her immediately. “By all means. Please.”

She fixed it to his lapel and fastened the clasp, then straightened it slightly, like a flower in a buttonhole. Both of her hands rested against his chest, the warmth bleeding through the fabric of his shirt. He knew it would end, the sweet drug of her touch…but she left her hands there, then flattened them so her palms faced down. He could feel the outline of every finger.

Her brown eyes stared into his. He had the sense that there were worlds behind them. For a moment, they were utterly silent.

“This is a dream,” he whispered.

She nodded, her gaze traveling down his neck to where the collar met the lapel of his jacket. The place where his collarbone dipped. He wasn’t sure what she was looking at, but then he heard a gentle hiss of breath, and realized she was scenting him. This former human girl, proper and shy, using her Fae senses to listen to him with not just those soft, pointed ears, but with her body. A dream indeed. So if she was indulging her Faeness, perhaps he could, too? It would be a bold step…if he was reckless enough to take it…

“Then…” — he couldn’t believe he might actually say it, might actually do this mad, presumptuous thing — “then can I…kiss you?”

Her eyes swept up to meet his again, the lashes surrounding them dark and fuzzy — almost as if her face was out of focus, except for her eyes. They were clear, and deep enough to drown in. “Did you want to? Is that why we’re back here? In the parlor, with the party next door?”

“Yes,” he whispered. “…so, so much.”

Her fingers tightened against the lapel of his jacket. Even closer than before. “It is only a dream, isn’t it?” she said, softly, half to herself.

“Yes…”

The tiniest of smiles, the barest twitch of those beautiful lips. “I wish you would.”

And their lips met, so gently, that even as they shared breath he wondered how this could be real, and at the same time how it couldn’t be real. Her lips were so soft and warm beneath his, the whisper of a touch — and the tightness in his chest grew to nigh-unbearable tension as the bond behind his ribs squeezed, trying its hardest to pull them together. He was breathless.

It was Elain who leaned forward, and increased their contact as she tilted her head up, pressing more firmly against him. The kiss broke briefly as they adjusted their stance; she slipped closer, her feet between his, standing on tiptoes, and gripped his lapels in her hands, drawing his face down to hers, where their lips could meet and caress, sliding over one another to fit together. He hesitantly put his hands underneath her jawbone, so delicate, and pulled her into him; she lost her balance a bit and tipped forward, and he caught her around her waist. They stared into each other’s eyes, and something ignited in the depths. He fancied he could see it, like the flare of a match or the flicker of a candle, and he plunged after it, chased it down, down, into another kiss and then another, growing clumsy as he became more ardent. Her mouth opened, her tongue shy against his, one arm winding around his neck as her other hand stroked his cheek and gentled him, bringing their mouths together with a tenderness that ached in his lungs, in every breath he drew.

They broke apart, breaths serrated and hands shaking; but she held on to him tightly, pulling herself into his embrace. He didn’t want to lose any of the warmth between them, or the urgent flare of her scent, the intoxicating sweetness of summer flowers.

“They might see us,” she whispered. He felt a possessiveness flare in his gut; he would strike, stab, fight to keep this moment sacrosanct, just between the two of them.

“Who?” he strained. But as soon as he asked, he knew what she meant, and immediately felt the darkness starting to gather, talons gleaming, like it might contain a million interested eyes and ears.

“Let’s go somewhere else,” she murmured, her nose gliding against his. “Somewhere we can really be alone.”

She stepped back and seized his hand, drawing him on toward the sweeping staircase; but it seemed more open than before, the ceiling receding upwards until it was almost gone into a great vault. The bannister became rougher and more knobby under his hand, like the trunk of a tree, and he felt like if he looked back, nothing of the River House would be there anymore.

She stopped in front of a door, wound about with vines that stirred in an invisible breeze, and ducked inside, pulling him with her.

“Where are we?” he breathed, conscious of the vines, heavy with glossy leaves and flowers — and wicked, long thorns — crowding into the space left by the door.

“My place,” she answered, and walked to the window. “My secret.” She pulled the curtain back, and the room filled with bright light. When his eyes adjusted, he saw the air filled with flowers and birds and butterflies, drifting lazily around pillars of knotted vines and trunks. Fields of billowing grasses, bright-green against the sun. White cliffs, in the distance. Riotous flowering plants everywhere he looked.

“It’s safe here. Sunny. Bright. I made it myself. I wanted a place that no one could see but me. I would come here when everything seemed dark and I thought I would never feel happy again.” She took a breath. “I liked resting here.” She seemed a little fluttery herself, a little shaky, just like the tremulous wings of the butterflies. “If you don’t like it we can go somewhere else…”

“I love it,” he interrupted, heart swelling painfully inside him. “You gave yourself a garden to grow in.”

She smiled, and a ray of sun touched her face, and he stepped forward and kissed those warm lips, hands sliding into her hair; they stood, swaying in the breeze, light with a heady buzz of joy. He wrapped his arms around her waist, lifting her up, and turned around, looking for an open spot to set her down, to kiss her and touch her, to find out if her skin was as silken and sweet against his lips as he had imagined so many times. She held him tight, her face snug against his neck. He plunked her down onto a little sward of long grass that bent into a plush mattress, and he swore he heard a distant silvery giggle. Vines swam around them, growing to shield them, forming a loose lattice that the light could peek through. It laced over her flushed face. He slid his hand from her ankle to her knee, pushing her skirt up so he could grip her leg, bringing it up into a cradle that circled him with heat beating out of her skin. She cradled his face, staring at him, and he pressed against her, her legs locking around him to keep him close. He stroked her curls back from her neck, dragged his fingers over her throat as her eyes fluttered closed.

“Do you know what I can’t stop thinking of?” he murmured against her pulse, which raced as he spoke. “Not that you’re beautiful…” Her eyes snapped open, almost indignantly, and he felt a smile lift his lips. “You are, of course. Stunning. But you’re also…delicious.” He inhaled slowly, feeling her scent flood his nose and mouth. “I crave your…sweetness. It’s in my blood, my brain, my body…” he ground against her, relishing the little gasp she let out. “…and I want that taste, of you, in my mouth so badly, I almost go fucking mad.” He pulled the roses from her bodice and cast them aside, the soft swells of her breasts heaving as he slid his fingers under the hem of the little jacket. He was desperate to touch and also to extend, so that it would never end…

But what was that bite of cold that chilled the back of his neck?

Her fingers tightened, nails digging into his skin. “What’s happening?” She sounded so sad. It wrenched his heart, which wrenched at the bond in turn. “It’s never cold in here.”

He could feel cool fabric — sheets — under his hands, and fought the sensation. No, no. He wanted her skin, that warm softness…to stay here until everything else was forgotten, to drown in her and awake with hope renewed…

“I think I’m…waking up,” he gasped.

“No.” It came out as a sob. “No, Lucien. Don’t go.”

“Fuck,” he croaked, but he could sense himself slipping away, a sensation as acute and unstoppable as if he were physically sliding down a steep incline.

“Wait…”

“I’ll come back,” he promised, leaning against her for one more kiss, one more taste of her sweet breath. “I swear it, Blossom, if you’ll let me in, I’ll meet you here. Call me from your dreams, and I’ll come.” He could hear his voice echoing. Was he saying it aloud?

He didn’t hear if she said anything in response; he was awake, sitting upright in sweat-cooled sheets in Nuan’s house, darkness enveloping the entire room.

The tears that came were searing and salty, flooding through him so fast and fully that they could have been the Sidra cresting to catch him under the mad wave that had chased him onto its banks that night that he and Elain had saved each other. They felt like heart’s blood, benediction and loss. Falling into a void like the great encircling river of the creation myth.

He wept enough to fill it with a sea of sorrow.

#elucien #acotar #fanfic #lucien vanserra #elain archeron #elucienweek2023 #pro elucien #pro lucien vanserra #nuan acotar #dawn court

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f0point5 · 7 months ago

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Omg I js need to say this rn coz I'm acc dying I have my silver dofe expedition tmrw and its supposed to rain all day and we r canoeing but like we r doing it in the middle of nowhere like last time we had civilisation around us in fact we canoes to trafford centre which fun fact u can do I did not know that but like I have acc trauma from our silver practice I almost froze to death in the tent and to make everything even worse I dislocated the joint in my left ring finger 2 days ago and I'm expected to canoe 💀💀

NOT DofE OMG

You don’t knowwww how many arguments that caused in my house 😂 i never did it but my dad thought I should have and he gave me so much shit over it for no reason. He was like oh you’re gonna get fomo. Then went on a sort of DofE-type school trip (the level of UNSAFE that was how did my school not get sued. Ugh like…so bad) and it was so hellish I cried every day. So no DofE for me.

Camping is something I did quite a bit as a kid because my dad was a big hiker, but when I got to about 18 I developed a sense of cold that made camping unbearable for me I don’t know why! After years of just being fine I started waking up in the middle of the night because I was so cold and thought I was actually dying. So understand you ❤️❤️❤️

Idk if you can take those heating packs or try to make a hot water bottle before you go to bed? Honestly just stay safe out there because being in the…nature and shit is like…hardcore.

Also, don’t know you, but I’m proud of you cos wow I’m too fragile 😂😂😂 you’re a gladiator!

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mrs-weasley-reid · 5 months ago

Text

FIRST RESPONDERS

Aaron Hotchner x surgeon!reader

Sypnosis: Exhausted from a case, Aaron mistakes you for someone else. And before you can clear the air, a robbery activates your respective public responsibilities as first responders at a crime scene. Warning: meet cute. fluff(?) silly goofy hotch and reader for like three seconds. curse(s). descriptions of shooting and blood. not proofread :/ A/N: OMG !!! We reached 1k followers!! I just noticed when I was about to post this lol. Anywayssss. I wrote this while jumping between Criminal Minds and Good Doctor, soooooo👀 I'm my biggest critic this doesn't look good to me, but I would love to hear your thoughts!

"Sorry, I'm late."

Your gaze lifts from the laminated menu. A man with tensed brows and straight lips sits across you.

He intertwines his fingers, and his eyes scan all over you like he's judging a book by its cover. "Aaron Hotchner," He introduces briefly, speaking fast as if each second with you is an inconvenience.

Authority radiates out of him. His look towards you alone can be considered a type of interrogation tactic, as if you'd committed a crime just by sitting across from him. Whatever that may be, you couldn't care less.

It doesn't stop you from taking notice of the way he's dressed, though.

A charcoal gray suit.

Your brows raise from enthusiastic mirth. It's not any simple gray suit. It's tailored—cut and sewn just for him. The jacket hugs his arms and torso perfectly. Enough to profoundly tell someone that he's got something to show under the clothing and yet not too flashy or arrogant.

He has good taste. Professional and beguiling. You consider yourself impressed but can't hide the lather of confusion.

Self-consciousness courses through your veins as you glance at your own clothing. Acknowledging his fixed stare makes you melt into a puddle of embarrassment. Blushing and partly wide-eyed.

Navy blue oversized hoodie and black workout leggings adorn you. Your hair's quite a mess, too, and a thin layer of sweat slowly dries off your forehead. You came from an evening run and stopped by to get dinner out of the way. One might question your routine, but who cares anyway?

Still, the most important question lingers.

Who is this handsome guy?

Aaron Hotchner.

His name rings in your head like it's a fact you should have known since birth. Then, the second question brightens in your mind.

Why is this Aaron Hotchner talking to you?

Guess you're about to find out.

"David set us up. I'm not sure how much he's told you about me, but..." You blink as your mind wanders, perplexed. His voice becomes faint while you dive into deep thought.

Curse David, whoever he is, as you drag heaven and hell to draw upon him the nastiest case of diarrhea you ever wish your worst enemy to experience. You assume this David is the culprit in ruining your evening with Aaron's stoic expression, attractive fancy suit, and broad shoulders. When all you want is a peaceful evening to diffuse from the physical and mental exhaustion, you've been through the week.

Your brows jump in place ever so subtly as you decide to skim through Aaron's face. You wonder if it's even right to call the strange man by his first name.

He looks just as how you felt—enervated and fatigued. It must be the reason why he's speaking in vague tangents and rapid breaths like he's dying to slam his body on a bed.

"I apologize for the trouble." He says, snapping you out of your trance. "You seem nice, but I'm not looking into dating for now." Liar. Your face crumples as his words sweep in and out of your ears. You have no business in the fact that he's bailing on his date—you conclude between his awkward gaze and unfiltered lie—but you harbor a pinch of resentment towards him.

Whoever the woman he is supposed to meet, part of you is glad she doesn't have to deal with a lousy excuse from the guy who can't even get his date right.

He starts tugging the edges of his suit jacket, preparing to leave you out in the cold as if you actually cared about the little imaginary date he's on. "I do hope you have a great evening—" But Aaron's cut off by a loud bang in the air.

It's a reflex to duck at the sound of a gunshot, so you're surprised to see him, Aaron, remain calm, with little to no flinching. And you suppose he's surprised to see you unfazed, too, since you're both just staring at each other instead of hunching compared to all the other patrons shivering in fear.

A man in Balaclava comes into view as he points a gun at an innocent server. “Everybody down! Move, or I’ll fucking shoot!” He shouts in the small establishment.

Gasps echo in each corner as he starts to demand belongings prompted by his gun.

“Do whatever he says.”

Your gaze falls back on the man in front of you. His calm and even breaths piqued your interest, masked by a short nod.

“Whatever happens, don't fight back,” Aaron adds under his breath as soon as Balaclava reaches the table before you.

Balaclava drags the teary waitress towards your table, hooking an arm around her neck like she's his lifeline. He takes one look at the two of you and scoffs, “Must be an awful date you're having, man. Just think of me saving yourself from a sorry-ass date.”

Aaron keeps his eyes on you. And while his face says nothing but blandness, you don't miss the way his irises spark with rage at Balaclava’s rude words. You shove his hypocrisy aside and focus on the problem at hand in the form of a handheld gun.

You place your wallet on the table, the only thing you have.

“Dang, seriously? Not even your phone?” Balaclava laughs at the difference between you and Aaron’s offerings. “Make sure you get a good fuck out of this bitch—”

“That's enough,” Aaron glares at Balaclava, hands clenching.

Balaclava scoffs and, without warning, smacks Aaron with the butt of his gun.

Your body jolts at the whiff of air against your cheek—eyes wide. You're about more confused than you were when Aaron made the executive decision that you're on a date.

Aaron recoils back from the blow. The skin at the end of his brow is torn open, bleeding.

You must have been such a delight to insult that Balaclava completely forgets his main goal of the evening. Thanks to you, the waitress seems to gather herself and breaks free.

Everything happens so fast that your mind does you a favor by slowing things down for your benefit.

As the waitress flees, Balaclava points his gun in her direction.

Not two seconds later, you and Aaron simultaneously jump out of your seats—he to stop Balaclava and you to block the shot.

But another gun fires from a distance, forcing Balaclava to drop to the floor. And just like before, you and Aaron’s eyes meet with understanding.

He finally fished the gun from a holster on his ankle, pointing it at the patron, who held a rusty revolver. “Drop your weapon!”

“That guy was robbing us! I had to!” An old lady shouts but almost immediately shakes the metal out of her hands.

You're busy yourself, kneeling next to Balaclava as the cloth over his torso begins to stain red. You push against the wound, dirtying your own hands.

“Agh! That fucking hurts, bitch!” Balaclava shouts at you, coughing up blood all over his mouth.

“I don't plan on being charged with negligence, so suck it up.” You hiss, getting a better stance on the floor as you place your weight in your arms. The blood oozes between the cracks of your fingers, and you mentally curse in your head.

Soon, the adrenaline kicks in as every single page you'd read in medical school flashes through your eyes. Early days and night shifts collide in one heavy push.

Aaron drops across from you, “Is he in critical condition?”

“With these hands?” You gaze at him behind your lashes, breathing evenly. “He’s more likely to die in jail.”

He nods at your words and your mocking grin. Aaron grabs Balaclava’s closest arm, attaching a handcuff around his wrist.

“You just have that with you?” You ask, puzzled and fighting the strong urge to chuckle as you press your weight further.

Balaclava seethes in pain, “Fuck! You’re too fucking heavy—"

“Shut up!” You and Aaron lash simultaneously.

Aaron looks back at you, "And yes. It's kind of my job…" He shrugs nonchalantly, glowering at Balaclava as he starts to recite the Miranda rights.

You playfully roll your eyes, "Oh, really? I didn't notice." The two of you share impish grins.

"I-I called the ambulance..." A patron interjects, stuttering in fear more of you and Aaron than the man who had a gun on her face just minutes ago.

You exhale, straightening your back as you thank her dearly.

In the blink of an eye, you're back at the hospital no less than 24 hours, scrubbing your hands and arms clean to go into surgery.

It takes you roughly an hour and a half to fish the bullet out and stop the bleeding. You swear the floor is made of puddles as you shuffle out of the operating room.

Two officers approach you, asking you about Balaclava’s recovery, but a man in a now messy suit steals your attention.

Aaron sits in the waiting room with maroon streaks down the side of his face. His eyes are droopy, exhausted. His jacket is off now, sleeves rolled up past his elbows, and tie loose. His hair isn't as great as it was when he sat across from you.

You quickly excuse yourself, moving past the two officers. It's unknown, but something draws you to Aaron’s dozing figure. Your steps are light so as not to startle him, taking off your scrub cap the closer you get.

“You should get that cut checked out.”

He looks up at the sound of your voice, reflexively rising to stand, but before his body can tower over you, you have already placed a hand over his shoulder to push him down. Aaron’s bottom attaches with the seat, silently impressed at your strength.

You tut, “Good god, you're stubborn.” You sigh, lifting his chin with your fingers to examine the laceration next to his brow. “The cut isn't deep. You’ll be fine with a small gauze—” you look right into his eyes, “—you feeling dizzy, nauseous, lightheaded?”

“No, I—” Aaron blinks, standing up. “I’m fine, thanks.” You pull away as a clearing cough rumbles out of his throat.

A sigh passes your lips, "You know, for someone who told me not to fight back, you did great at pissing off that guy." His defensive reaction to the culprit's comments about you lingered in the back of your mind.

After a moment, he meets your eyes again, swallowing what you educationally guess as a lump of air. “You forgot your wallet.” He hands you the object, successfully changing the subject.

“You could've left it at the front desk. It must've been a huge trouble for you to wait that long.” You say, taking your wallet off his palm.

Aaron’s brows furrow, “Why would it be?”

The wave of mischief runs to your veins and to the muscles that bring your lips into a grin. “Does blowing your date off ring a bell to you? Gosh, that woman is so lucky she didn't have to put up with your lame excuse.” Sarcasm reeks of your tone. You even back away a few inches, emphasizing the effect of his actions prior to the chaos.

The busy floor works like white noise, and Aaron’s silence is deafening. You can see the way his mind wanders, arguing with himself. Blushing ears and embarrassed face unknown to men.

Aaron takes a minute before he speaks, “You were not my date.” He states in realization.

“No, I was not.”

“I was a bit of a jerk…”

“Yes, you were.”

“I apologize, doctor—” Aaron glances at the embroidered lettering on your left chest, saying your name with slow enunciation that makes him cringe.

You stifle a chuckle, dipping your hands inside your scrub’s pockets, “As you should be.”

Aaron gulps, “Is coffee enough compensation for the trouble?” He fidgets with the phone in his hand, passing it across calluses while he finds interest on his feet.

Brow peaks at the corner of your head, “Are you asking me out?” You cross your arms against your chest as you look up at him with a mocking smirk. “I thought you weren't looking into dating. What changed?”

“What’s that?” He blinks again, straightening his spine as he rolls his shoulders back.

“Oh, my god!” You scoff, appalled by the realization. “You blew me off because of my clothes!” Disbelief and laughter radiate out of you.

Aaron’s ears turn pink under the bright fluorescent lights, “I wasn't— You're making an assumption.” He avoids making eye contact, fighting to keep his stoic expression.

You mockingly nod, “Sure, let's say I am. But am I wrong?” You challenge him.

“... Can you blame me? Who goes on a date in a hoodie?”

“Uh, who gets their date wrong? I mean, why would you even think I was your date?”

“David said she's beautiful and confident, and you're the first one I saw.”

A pause.

You bite the tissue on your lower lip hard enough to hold the twitching smile from breaking free.

Aaron stares into your eyes like you're a fine print, and he's reading a book.

It's dizzying. The giddiness you felt. How his words do not mean what your mind insists on interpreting. How badly your hands want to tug his messy tie.

You inhale deeply, "Well—" you clear your throat, "—I'm sorry I wasn't dressed for our impromptu date." Your wallet flips open with one flick. You smoothly hand him a small card. "I'll take note of that and wear something better on our next. Goodnight." You bid, scurrying away without another word.

But before you can turn the corner, you stop at the buzzing on your thigh.

You fish your phone out of your pocket, pressing the answer on the call. You introduce yourself professionally as soon as the speaker connects to your ear.

A deep voice knocks on your eardrum, “Are you free tomorrow?”

You look back in Aaron’s direction. A shy smile glistens over his face. You roll your eyes, but a laugh manages to tickle out of you.

“Couldn't wait in the morning?” You playfully ask, fully facing your body towards him now.

“I was wondering if you'd like to go for a run. Might be an alignment with your fashion sense.” He teases.

You scoff, “Oh, sweetie, let's make sure you won't get your date wrong first. One at a time, okay?” You retort back.

He shakes his head from afar, “Is that a yes?”

"Yes." You hang up, spinning on the balls of your feet as you turn the corner with a wide grin tattooed on your face.

#ker's fics #aaron hotchner #hotch #agent aaron hotchner #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotch x you #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x fem!reader #x fem!reader #hotch x reader #ssa aaron hotchner

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whore4brunettes · 2 years ago

Text

His red, lacy panties

pairing : eddie munson x fem!reader

word count : 1.9k

warnings : straight smut ( 18+ ), fingering , public indecency ( expeditionist acts ), teasing ,squirting, fingersucking, palming, PRETTY MUCH PWP

summary : You and Eddie just started dating, and were invited to go to the movies with the rest of Hellfire. Eddie gets a bit touchy, and one thing leads to another….

Part two of My Red, Lacy Panties. Part One here

a/n : Kind of got carried away, but here's part two! Still fairly new at this writing thing, so let me know if it's straight shit!!! I really loved writing this omg, i’m so in love with Eddie. Isn’t proof read , so i beg, please excuse any spelling mistakes. ENJOY

“And where d’you think you’re going?”

“Bathroom” you grin, signaling him to come with you. And he does.

You feel Eddie grab your hand, interlacing his fingers with yours as you two giggle your way down the aisle, Gareth staring at the pair with slight jealousy. You were completely oblivious to his feelings towards you, especially in this moment, only focusing on the curly haired boy behind you. Both of you hurry down the red velvet colored stairs in the room, running towards the exit.

“Hurry Eds” you laugh, while almost skipping down the hallway

“ M’ going!”

Once you reach the double deckered doors, you release yourself from Eddie’s grip and shove them open, eager for what’s to come. You look to the right of you, seeing your boyfriend in all of his glory. Face wet with your juices, grinning ear to ear.

Before you notice, you feel Eddie’s ringed fingers push into your exposed shoulders, slightly pushing you on the cold wall. He thrusts his swollen, pink lips onto yours, earning a moan of delight from you. Almost naturally, your legs split open giving Eddie’s knee room to rub up against your aching center. He deepens the kiss by swirling his tongue around yours, making you want to cum right then and there. He pulls away from your lips, a string of saliva connecting the two of you, which is wiped away by Eddie’s thumb, gently rubbing against the corner of your lips.

“Y-you don’t know what you’re doing to me, jeez” he whispers breathlessly

You return his comment with a smile, leaving your dimples showing and eyes shining with lust and love.

“D-don’t look at me like that,” he whines. You can feel his throbbing cock dying for release on your thigh.

“Like what?” you laugh innocently, knowing exactly what he means.

You grab him by the loops of his black, ripped jeans. Bringing him closer to you- if that was even possible considering how he was practically on top of you.

Eddie slips his hands onto your lower back, then lower, and lower. He reaches the bottom of your skirt, which is right on your ass, placing his hands right beneath your red, lacy panties - grabbing and releasing them with a quiet snap that makes your blood boil. He starts leaving sloppy, wet kisses along your neck, sucking hard which is sure to leave red and purple marks by tomorrow. His curly locs tickle your jaw as he starts moving down your chest, squeezing your ass at the same time. You throw your head back against the wall in pure bliss as he now starts kissing your boobs that your navy, blue halter top put on display so perfectly.

Eddie has now made his way to your thighs, leaving his left hand right before the indent that makes its way to your dripping pussy. As he works marking your tits, you start grinding onto him, earning a gut wrenching moan from his lips. Your heart pumps out of your chest as Eddie cups your heat, gently moving up and down. You're a shaking mess under him, remembering your past orgasms a few minutes before.

“You're so needy, all for me huh?” he huffs, extending the ee’s on the word needy

“Edds please, something. Anything” you plead. At this point you don’t care how desperate you sound, if anything you want Eddie to know how bad you want him in hopes to encourage him to continue.

“ Whatever you want, I'll do it. Just use your words, alright” he said in the most raspy voice you’ve ever heard, causing butterflies to erupt in your stomach

“I-i want you to fuck me so hard I won’t be able to walk” you whisper

Fuck. It was taking him absolutely everything to not rip your panties and explode his white, warm load onto your pretty pussy.He was so close to just getting on his knees and shoving his tongue right where you wanted, how he craved to taste you once more, but he couldn't. Instead, he settled his sticky fingers onto your slippery folds which you reacted to by smashing on his fingers.

“Wait, Eddie” you hesitantly said

“Yeah? I-i’m sorry, am I going too fast?, we can stop if you want” he uttered, sterling remorse and worry in his words

“No, god no! Your perfect, this is perfect” you retorted

“Just, I’ll be right back, give me a second '' you grinned while placing a soft kiss on your boyfriend's supple lips, leaving him flustered and confused.

You run up the hallway, making a slight left turn and into the almost empty bathroom. As you step in, you try to fathom what’s happening, along with attempting to calm the pulsing from your clit and wetness in between your thighs. You walk down the hall of mirrors and open a metal door on your right into a stall. You slip off your drenched red panties, and place them into the back pocket of your denim mini skirt, leaving some of it showing. You return to the front of the bathroom, and check out the spottish marks on your tits and neck, hypnotized as you remember the movements Eddie had done to leave them.

You step out of the restroom, rushing to make your way back to Eddie, watching a smirk become plastered on his face at the sight of you.

“Where’d ya go sweetheart?” he says as he wraps with arms around your waist

A “Doesn’t matter” leaves your mouth as you cling onto his neck which gives him the power to flip your on back, returning to the position you were last in.

He kisses you again, more hunger and yearning in it than before. You can sense he was becoming slightly restless at the lack of touch between you two. Eddie wastes no time in spreading your legs agape, giving him full access to you,only to be greeted with the fact that the small barrier between fingers and your pussy was gone. This made him start to slightly whimper, his cock pounding against him, pre-cum staining his pants.

“Shit, holy fucking shit y/n. You’re gonna be the death of me man, took them off just for me, hmm? So desperate, so so wet” he rambles into your ear, causing you to shudder.

You feel your opening clenching over nothing, Eddie notices as you keep eyeing his cock. He notices your longing for more. You begin to press against his dick, you start pressing harder and harder making Eddie shiver at your touch. His bulge is becoming undeniable and is starting to hurt at the friction, he needs release, and is almost at the point of begging for it. He drops his head into the crook of your neck, allowing you to smell his green apple shampoo while moaning deeply into your ear, causing your cheeks to burn. You start to unbuckle his belt, pulling his zipper down but he abruptly stops your hand.

“You don’t understand how much I want to take you right now, but I can't risk anyone hearing these pretty little sounds. Soon okay, soon” he promises, barely turning around as a man walks past you.

“S-soon Eddie, please”

–

Eddie uses his pointer finger and thumb to lift your chin up.

“Open” he commands

And you do as he says. He slips two fingers into your mouth, making you slightly gag, quickly removes them and starts mercelisley finger fucking you. He shoves his calloused fingers deep inside of you, and you aren’t able to control yourself.

“Oh my god” you scream

“Don’t stop, feels, feels so good” you cry, trying to form words and not just sounds of pleasure

Now, he doesn’t even care who hears you. He uses his thumb to rub circles on your clit along with stroking your folds. Eddie begins curling his fingers inside your gummy, so very tight walls. As he does this, he reaches the spongy spot in you, making you throw your head onto his shoulders, sensing that familiar feeling building up inside you.

“Fuck me, i’m so close, god”

“Eddie” you yell, now slamming against his fingers, doing everything you could to help you release

“You're doing so good for me, let go for me. Let it all go”

That was it, your last straw. This time, you didn’t feel how you normally do, the buildup before the crash felt strained and loose. Instead of cumming a steamy white as you did before, a heavy flow came erupting out of you. Your eyes roll to the back of your head, as Eddie watches you squirt on his jeans in absolute awe. The warm liquid hits his cock, and he can’t hold it anymore, and cums hard underneath his boxers.

“Shit princess…”

“Ed-Eddie, I'm sorry. I didn’t even know i coul-”

Just as you were about to finish apologizing for ruining his pants with your insides, a boisterous laughter comes creeping from the room you escaped from, suddenly erupting the silence in the hallway. You both turn your heads to see a group of teenage boys talking, throwing popcorn at each other when they see Eddie towering over you.

Eddie leaves a long, wet kiss on your forehead, then turns to his nerdy friends but makes sure to grab you by the waist, using your ass as a shield to cover the mess you made. But by pressing you onto him so aggressively, you let out a wild moan at the sudden contact.

Multiple “Get a room” “God, gross” and “Go Eddie!” ‘s escape the boy's mouth once they realize what you two were doing. Gareth on the other hand has a seldom look on his face, but once more you're completely oblivious to it.

Dustin approaches you two, “ Hey, uhh you left your sweater on your sweat so I grabbed it for you” he says as he passes you your crewneck

“Oh, yeah. Thanks!” you state, voice shaky

As you're leaning in to grab it, you accidentally drop it to the floor. You begin bending down to retrieve your favorite clothing item, but end up rubbing up against Eddie’s dick causing him to mutter a few swear words at the sudden contact. While you're coming up from bending down, Eddie spots your red, lacy panties peeking from your pocket; and without hesitations grabs wet fabric and pushes it to the bottom of his front pocket, making sure no one sees.

–

Everyone is now exiting the theater, leaving Eddie and you at the back of the group. As you reach the front door, Mike suddenly turns around.

“We’re gonna get some burgers from the diner across the street, you guys in?!”

“Uhh sorry Wheeler. I’ve really gotta get her home”

“Um okay, see you Monday”

– “You have to get me home, huh?”

“I do” he smiles

He pushes your hair behind your ear and slightly nibbles at your earlobe

“And why’s that?”

“We’ve got some uhh, business to tend to m’lady” “N’ i’m dying to add my new red panties to my collection”

#eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson fic #eddie munson x y/n #stranger things 4 #stranger things smut #stranger things fanfiction

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dickwheelie · 3 years ago

Note

22 jonmartin omg 👁👁

this was for the prompt "grabbing the other’s hand to pull them back from something." sorry this took so long! thank you for the prompt Moss, I hope you enjoy!

____________

When Martin ascends the hill again, Jon is not there.

They had found themselves in a Vast domain, consisting mostly of gentle rolling hills which were cut at their apex with dramatic, rocky cliffs that dropped off into an endless ocean far below. For those who weren't being Watched, the place was rather pleasant, almost picturesque, and Martin had suggested it might be a nice place to rest for a bit. Jon had found a patch of grass at the top of a hill, and Martin was intending to explore a bit. Just go down to the bottom of the hill, he said. That is, if Jon didn't have a statement, because if he did, Martin wanted to be there. He didn't want a repeat of the Web theater, after all.

Jon had said no, he couldn't sense a statement here, Martin was free to go. That was what he'd said.

But of course, Martin thinks as he sees the flattened, empty patch of grass on the hillside, it can never be that easy, could it.

He doesn't begin to really worry until he looks off towards the apex of the hill.

Like a sleepwalker, or perhaps a better description would be a dead man walking, Jon is stiffly making his way up the hill towards the edge of the cliff, where the rocks simply end and drop off into the endless expanse of waves below. Martin can hear his voice droning on with someone else's words, and his eyes have a particular sheen to them that Martin has come to recognize and loathe. Martin knows he is not in control, and that he is not seeing anything in front of him.

Martin still isn't entirely sure of the rules of this new state of reality, whether it's dream logic or nightmare logic or something that makes even less sense. He does not know if he or Jon are in any danger of dying in these domains. He isn't sure if Jon is capable of dying at all anymore.

Martin doesn't take the time to consider any of that before he is running full tilt towards the cliff's edge.

"Jon!"

Jon, of course, does not heed him, and keeps walking head-on into danger. Figures, Martin thinks with bitter irony. He's never been able to resist that even while he was awake.

"Jon!"

Perhaps it is useless to yell, but Martin does it anyway. Jon's boot crunches the dirt not a meter away from the edge.

"Jon, don't--"

Finally, mere feet away, Martin catches up with him, shoes sliding through the dirt as he comes to a halt just behind him. Jon's hand is dangling senselessly at his side, with no need to carry a tape recorder anymore, and Martin grabs it and pulls, yanking him roughly back away from the precipice just before he reaches the rocks that mark its edge. Jon stumbles backwards into his arms, his limbs flailing and his droning speech stuttering, and Martin holds him fast, clutching him protectively against his chest. Even now he can feel the supernatural tug of something pulling Jon towards the cliff's edge, but Martin's arms are strong, stronger than anything else he possesses, stronger than his weak, soft heart and much stronger, he'd wager, than the Beholding's hunger.

There is a tense moment of struggle, wherein Martin can barely tell the difference between Jon's resistance and the Beholding's pull, but a few moments later Jon's voice fades and stops in the middle of a sentence, the statement left incomplete. His body goes slightly limp in Martin's arms. Martin loosens his hold and turns Jon gently around, taking his face in his hands and forcing Jon to meet his eyes. Jon's gaze darts sporadically across Martin's face, but that vague sheen from before is gone, and his eyes seem clear. "Jon?" Martin says anxiously. "Are you there?"

Jon takes a heavy breath and with his normal, wonderful voice says, "I--yes, Martin, I'm--" Martin doesn't need to hear more. He wraps his arms tightly around him, crushing him against his chest, a hand in his hair.

"It's alright," Martin tells him. "I've got you. I've got you. You're alright." He's saying it to comfort himself as much as Jon.

"Yes," Jon says weakly, muffled against his chest. His voice is hoarse, as though the statement had been more than a short monologue. "I-I'm sorry, Martin, I shouldn't have--gone off without you, I--"

"No," Martin says, guilt suddenly weighing him down like rocks against his ankles, "no, I shouldn't have left you, I--We said, didn't we, we said we'd stay together, we promised--"

Jon is shaking his head against Martin's chest. "This isn't your fault. I--I said you could go, I said I'd be fine, I--" Jon looks up at him, his expression angry and stubborn. "I broke our promise."

"You didn't know there'd be a statement," Martin says, just as stubbornly. "You can't control it, and I knew you couldn't. But I left anyway."

"Because you trusted me. How could I blame you for--"

They're talking in circles, Martin realizes, making each other miserable and not getting anywhere. "Jon," Martin interrupts. His voice is soft, but Jon is silent at once, staring up at him defiantly, ready to defend Martin against his own guilt. There's a surge of blind affection in Martin's chest, and he presses a kiss to Jon's cheek before continuing. "There's no point in figuring out who's to blame. Maybe we both are. Maybe neither of us is. Technically, all of this is Jonah's fault, so I say we blame him."

Despite everything, Jon's lips twitch with a smile.

"If you really want to hash this out," Martin says, "we can do that later. For now, I . . . god, I'm just glad you're alright." Martin leans down, hiding his face in Jon's hair. "I love you."

"I love you," Jon says at once, and the words are like water down a dying man's throat.

For some reason, that's what brings tears to Martin's eyes. The rush of adrenaline has left him, and all there is now is cold relief and residual fear. His breath shakes. "I won't . . . I won't leave you again, alright? Not even if you let me."

Jon huffs a laugh, his eyes a bit watery themselves. "I'm not going anywhere," he says. "Never again, Martin, I promise."

Martin presses a kiss to his forehead, and then his nose, and his cheek. "I know. I know. Thank you."

"I should be thanking you," Jon says, and his tone is lighter even through the tears. "You saved my life."

"Would you . . ." Martin swallows, unsure if he wants the answer to his question. "What would have happened if you'd kept walking? Would you have . . ."

"Died?" Jon finishes the sentence breezily. "Hm. I'm not sure. I told you the Beholding's not great at hypotheticals, but maybe if I try to Know it . . ."

"N-No," Martin says quickly, before the sound of faint static can get louder, "that's--that's alright. I'd . . . honestly I'd rather not know, if it's all the same to you. And I don't want you getting a headache."

"Ever the considerate gentleman," Jon says wryly, and Martin matches his grin, unaccountably relieved to hear him sounding like himself again.

In time, once Martin has hugged Jon to his satisfaction, they make their way back down the hillside, towards the next leg of their journey. They walk hand in hand, fingers wound together tight, and it is a long, long time before they finally let go.

#tma #the magnus archives #jonmartin #martin blackwood #jonathan sims #gwyneth writes

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punkyflesh · 3 years ago

Note

Could we get some Ceddy and his s/o, where he gets jealous of another sorcerer and it's just dying for attention? I myself have been dying to see something like this :3

omg i actually love this AHASDA i got so excited to write for this

i've based this off the day of the sorcerers episode for a clearer explanation but in this version, greylock wasn't part of grimtrix's clan and still remained as a normal royal sorcerer

the actual jealousy content begins under the ━━━ line so if you wanna skip the plot and go straight to that, you're free to

enjoy!

Jealous Cedric | Cedric X Reader

It was the day of the annual 'Day of the Sorcerers' festival - and Cedric had been ecstatic all year to finally take you and show you what it's all about. It had been a good few years now since the incident that occurred with Grimtrix and his clan, so it seemed like an appropriate time for Cedric to have you accompany him. You were excited too; Cedric had spoken fondly of the events and was excited for you to experience a day of the topic he was zealous about.

The entire flying-carriage ride was full of giggles and eager bursts of passion from Cedric as he explained some of the stalls you needed to visit and performances you simply had to see and went into in depth detail on traditions held that you'd love. You smiled, listening intently to your significant other as he grinned at you, relishing in his enthusiasm and finding his rambling adorable.

When you finally arrived at Hexley Hall, Cedric practically bounced out of the flying-carriage and took in the enormous crowd of wizards, witches, sorcerers and people who had travelled all over the Kingdom for this event. He gasped with delight before remembering his manners, turning back to the carriage and opening the door, offering his hand for you to climb out safely - which you grabbed with a beam. The familiar feel of Cedric's gloves locked against your palms was soothing in the crowd, and his slender fingers slipped into place securely with your own. You allowed him to guide you and take the lead as you followed his fast pace, noticing the thrilled glint in his hazel eyes.

"Oh my love, I am simply ecstatic for you to be here with me today, thank you for coming." Cedric spoke back to you, his tone of voice slightly higher with excitement, glancing behind his shoulder and keeping his hands interlocked tightly with yours. "I'm really excited to be here with you too, Cedric. It looks amazing!"

You looked around the venue and marvelled at the moving statues guarding the closed door - it was obvious that it had not begun yet, giving you time to look up at all the mystic spells being cast by various sorcerers. Phoenix birds made from flames and glitter zoomed elegantly around the dark night sky, lighting it up like fireworks as the sorcerer's guided them with the tips of their wands. Cedric caught your gaze and squeezed your hand gently, smiling at you. "Impressive, right? I know a spell similar to that, but you'll see so much more ins-"

He was cut off by the loud movement of the stone statues beginning to move and open the doors, as all the people gathered outside began to rapidly shuffle and move. Your hand gripped Cedric's as he practically dragged you towards the door with a grin.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The day went fantastically, as you and Cedric toured around the hall, allowing you to witness so many magical and enchanted performances of talent, try amazing foods and watch as Cedric expanded his own skills by eagerly writing down new spells he had learnt on an old bit of parchment paper he found in his pocket and buy new ingredients for some potions he was desperate to brew.

"Darling, I won't be a moment - I just need to go to this stall and buy something I had forgotten to earlier - just stay here, alright?"

You gave Cedric a reaffirming smile and turned back to the stall you were once looking at as he hurried away, before feeling a pressure on your shoulder. The feeling made you jump slightly, but your expression softened as you realised who it was.

"[Y/N]! How unusual to see you here!" Greylock said with his signature smile, as you sighed with relief and returned one back to him. You had briefly met Greylock a few years ago when he had visited Enchancia with his King, but this was before you and Cedric were together and did not familiarise yourself with him much. You were even surprised that he had remembered your name. "I can't say I'm surprised to see you here, Greylock. It is quite an event to be held, wouldn't you say?"

You felt rude to ignore Greylock and patiently wait for Cedric's arrival, so the two of you stood, speaking small talk and laughing at Greylock's small jokes. Cedric made his way through the crowd, holding a paper bag full of ingredients and adding his new addition to it, when he glanced up at where you once were to see Greylock.

Greylock the Grand was speaking to you. He had his arm on your shoulder, and it didn't look like he had plans to remove it anytime soon. Cedric grit his teeth, narrowing his eyebrows as he watched him speak to you and you laugh at whatever he was saying. What was to be described as a fiery pit began to form in Cedric's stomach, as he cleared his throat and made his way other to you both.

You sensed Cedric's arrival out of the corner of your eye and secretly thanked him - the conversation had turned to your love life, something that you did not wish to speak about in detail with Greylock. Greylock's glance broke from you to Cedric, giving him a smile and going to shake his hand. "Cedric! I was just asking [Y/N] why they were here alone, but it turns out I was wrong!"

Like it was nothing, Cedric wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you close towards him, quite quickly. The sudden movement took you by surprise as you put a hand on his chest, looking up at him and seeing a snarl on his face, his eyes cold as he looked at Greylock. It immediately clicked, as you bit your lip with a smile. If it was coming honestly from you, Cedric was quite a jealous and possessive individual. You knew that this jealousy partially stemmed from the bullying and torment he experienced in his younger years, but Cedric also had a burning passion to make everyone around him aware that you were his.

"Oh really?" Cedric began to reply, his tone of voice flat as he began to rub your waist with his fingers. Greylock raised an eyebrow at Cedric's arm placement, but was so oblivious to the situation that he continued on. "Yeah, I was just mentioning how dangerous it could be to let such a pretty sweetheart loose alone, especially with all these sorcerers around."

Cedric's grip seemed to tighten on your waist as his eyebrows got lower, his facial expression getting angrier by the minute. "That's good, but they're not alone. Me and my partner were just about to leave, thank you Greylock. Until we meet again." He said flatly, turning around but keeping his arm hooked around your waist. The two of you left a speechless Greylock standing still as he watched Cedric guide you out of the hall and outside.

Outside was quieter, as most of the sorcerer's were now inside and experiencing the event to all it's glee. The dark night sky was illuminated with stars and the bright moonlight shone down on you. You were silent until you were outside, stopping and facing Cedric. You put both of your hands on his chest, your cheeks slightly pink from Cedric's outburst earlier. Cedric took your hands in his and rubbed the back of them with his thumbs, leaning down and placing a sweet kiss on your cheek, before lingering his lips and moving up to place them upon yours, placing them in a gentle - but hungry - kiss. You reciprocated the kiss keenly, as if you had been waiting for it all night.

One of Cedric's hands fell from yours, but instead found its place entangled in your hair and running down the back of your neck as he kissed you. You broke apart with a huff of breath, but Cedric kept his hands on you.

"My dear, I love you. Merlin forbid I ever let you out of my sight again. You're all mine, alright?"

#cedric the great x reader #cedric the sensational #selfship community #cedric x reader #cedric the great #cedric sofia the first #cedric oneshot #cedric the sorcerer x reader #cedric #cedric the sorcerer #greylock #greylock the grand #sofia the fandom

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dangermousie · 2 years ago

Text

OMG ahahaha I am dying!

She didn't say a word, and a slender leg teased him on his thigh, Across the silky and silky texture, it is like setting a fire to set people on fire. She took a breath near his ear, and said in a low voice, "That means it's still here? I don't believe it!"

"I know what you mean, it's a test!" He bit his lip, closed his eyes and tilted his head to the side. On one side, Deng Xia looked like he was being slaughtered, and said generously, "If you want to come, be happy, don't linger!"

Yinlou had been stunned for a long time, but she really wanted to tell her to get started, so she timidly looked forward and backward. After all, it is a girl's family, and she is curious about some things, but such a big living person is lying in front of her, her legs trembling and she doesn't know where to start. She touched her ears and looked at him hesitantly, "You just ask me to check it out?"

His eyes opened a slit, "Why not? He asked me to take it off to let you pass your eyes?"

The person who has died twice, What else is scary! Yinlou was so wicked that she stabbed him twice in his chest. The beauty trembled when she touched it without touching it, making her unable to bear it. From the chest to the rib, she gave herself several times to strengthen her courage. Seeing that his skin is as thick as fat, I'm sorry for not spoiling him! She gritted her molars, and finally touched the waistband of her trousers. She observed his face, "Relax, don't be nervous."

His voice was calm, "I'm not nervous."

Yin Lou trembled so much that his legs were numb. It is quite loose, and the candlelight shines through to illuminate the two long legs. The hair on the legs is not like those thick men who are swarthy, but they are standard beauty legs. Everything is good, but why is there a trousers inside? She stared at it, there was a vague shape, the bulge, it was probably that one! Her heart rushed to her throat, she shrank back, lay down on her head, covered her eyes and moaned: "Oh, I can't do it, you are going to tell me, why are you still wearing two pairs of pants? Sincerity, how can I trust you?"

He looked at her helplessly, and finally pulled her into his arms.

Her shoulders were small and sleek, covering them, occupying only half of his palm. He bowed his head and kissed her, his fingers slid from his upper arm to his wrist, pulled him very slowly, and panted, "If I ask you to interrupt, how can you tell if it's a real man! Now calm down and rub your ears with you. It's useful. It's just that the medicines that were suppressed in the past have been used a lot, and I might be affected... But it's not a problem, you can get started and touch it in person, and all doubts will be eliminated."

Her attention was focused on him. On the medicine, he said in amazement: "Do you also take medicine if you don't grow a beard? It must be very harmful to your body. If you take too much medicine, will you become a woman?"

He was concentrating on licking her neck, and after listening to her fallacies, he was very angry, "At most, my passion/lust is controlled a little bit, how can I become a woman? Do you think I look like a woman?" He pressed his hand on that place, and said with a cold eye, "Does it look like it, tell me today!"

I always forget how wild web novels are! Though I supposed a touch and feel test would certainly allow one to determine if one’s boyfriend is a eunuch or not. I AM DYING AHAHAHAHAH

ETA: I lied, I wasn’t dying before, I am dying now!

"It's really...not ordinary!" You can feel his blood surging through the two layers of material, the overseer is the overseer, and every place is flawless, very good! Yinlou sometimes likes to play petty and hypocritical, complaining about him Meng Lang, but her hands are very busy. I still admired it in my heart, it can be seen that it is alive, it is almost the same as the drawing in the erotic palace! Although she doesn't have eyes, she can draw its shape by the feel of it. Tsk tsk, the ditch is the ditch and the ridge, why is it so welcoming!

...

Climbing up to the waist of his trousers, pulling up his middle shirt to cover his face, he said bravely, "Since this is the case... I'll be polite!"

OH MY GOD! Polite?! Polite? I guess politeness IS a virtue. Also now I know why they can adapt this super long book into a reasonably sized (heheheh) drama - they can just remove all the make-outs.

Who knew that all these genius people over the millennia invented writing and fiction and the internet and machines sophisticated enough to translate, all so I could sit there and read fake eunuch porn.

#cnovel #forbidden love

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princess-of-inarizaki · 4 years ago

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this is so random but can you do a fluff headcanon of seeing his s/o in a kimono for Sakusa, Suna, and Atsumu. And maybe kuroo, komori, and kita too I watch this todomomo CD drama the other day where the two saw each other in festival and they're like so cute frickin' cute todoroki compliment Momo, being kinda open towards her, and Momo just being really soft and cute makes me giggle and smile.

AHHH that is just such a good idea. I'm always so soft when they see each other wearing yukata's or kimono's at festivals. I only wish they had that sorta stuff where I live too 😭🤚💕💕💕✨

And omg yghhhh todomomo is such a cute ship, like I genuinely adore them both so much >:(

The boys seeing their cute s/o in a kimono

Characters: Atsumu, Kita, Suna, Kuroo, Sakusa

Warnings: none

Atsumu

Okay so Atsumu would definitely be extremely smooth. like he's internally freaking out and thinking you look so adorable!! but on the outside he's just trying to play it cool so you don't catch on.

His eyes would literally not leave you and he's just taking in how you look the entire time.

“yer ready ta go babe?” with this hot ass smirk on his face.

You're just blushing and you nod and follow him, your geta making sounds beneath you.

When you reach there, you're buying takoyaki, and you ask him if he wants some.

He ends up eating almost everything, like what the heck, man?

Apologizes and buys you more.

Would definitely try to show off and win you stuff at the festival to prove how manly™ he is, and also hopes he impresses you in the process.

“hey babe, watch me win this for you” and he's having a full-fledged war with the kid he's competing with.

He ends up winning and sticking his tongue out at the kid. Because it's basically canon that his mental age drops to 5 when he's competitive about things.

You just ruffle his hair and congratulate him.

Would definitely do the whole yawning and bringing you closer to him thing, when you've decided to take a break and rest.

He's trying to be slick, please don't call him out.

Your friends text you, telling you about the firecracker show and you ask Tsumu if he'd be okay to stay for that.

He practically jumps!! at the chance!! I mean, more time spent with you is always good :]

Asks if he can have your first kiss under the firecrackers. He's a consensual king

After you say yes, he'd just gently cup your face and lean down (WE LIVE FOR MFING HEIGHT DIFFERENCES!!) and kiss your lips gently at first, as the sky is filled with bursts of colour.

Y'all definitely end up making out but that's a different story

Walks you home after everything is over, and tells you how much he liked spending time with you on the way home.

“ya looked beautiful today, y/n-chan” and he has the shyest look on his face.

You kiss his nose and walk inside, leaving him flustered on your doorstep.

Kita

Plans this weeks in advance, after hearing about the festival, and musters up the courage to ask you to go with him.

You jump at the chance. At first you think the whole team is coming along, until a flustered Kita says “i hope it would just be the two of us.”

Your eyes widen and you're both just blushing messes looking at the ground.

You both arrive early, and laugh, seeing how you had the same idea to come a bit earlier.

He looks at you in the kimono and takes a few deep breaths before genuinely complimenting you in the most poetic way possible?

“your beauty is unrivalled, y/n-san. Even the brightest lamp is nothing when compared to the radiance you emit.”

And you're just so Mcfreaking flustered™?????? Like where did he learn how to make your heart go doki doki like that omg

You guys would probably be very rational about making your way around the festival.

Food first, and maybe we'll play some games later?

He definitely pays for everything ugh, such a gentleman, eventho you told him it was okay.

And old lady at one of the stalls flusters the two of you by saying he has such a pretty girlfriend.

And he just smiles, with flushed cheeks. Neither of you disagree.

It starts drizzling and the two of you find shelter under a tree.

You're a bit sad about how your kimono got a bit ruined after slipping in some mud, and he gently helps your roll the area up and wipes it with a tissue.

He also smiles and tries to crack a joke by saying “the clouds thought you were so beautiful, they started crying” as he gestured to the rain.

Although the fireworks show was cancelled, Kita wrapped his arms around you and kept you warm, as you talked so many things, whilst waiting for the rain to stop.

Maybe it was a blessing in disguise :)

He gently holds your hand at some point too, and plays with your fingers, pressing a small kiss to the back of your hand.

The rain finally stops and he walks you home, thanking you for spending time with him.

You take a deep breath and kiss him before entering your house, and he smiles through the kiss.

“i've always wanted to do that” he says softly, after kissing you gently again and waving goodbye.

Suna

Going out with Suna was definitely an impromtu plan of some sort. Like he just randomly texts you, asking if you want to go and you agree.

Definitely sends you a few memes about how he can't wait and begins to get ready.

You guys meet there and both of you are just so shocked at how the other looks.

Suna thinks you look gorgeous, and he tries to tell you in a teasing way. Much like Atsumu, he's trying to play it down when he's actually so flustered.

“hey dork, you don't look too bad”

You're not good at hiding your thoughts though, and you blurt out a rushed “Suna were you always this hot?” gesturing to his Yukata.

Y/n-chan I think you broke Suna.

He's just a flustered mess and he doesn't reply, instead saying he's hungry and buying something to eat. He buys one for you too, and suggests you guys walk and eat at the same time.

Definitely shows you memes and takes videos of you as the night progresses and the two of you loosen up and start doing dumb stuff.

Takes lots of pictures of you so he can document how pretty you look and keep it with him.

You pose for some, whilst some are just totally candid, with absolutely no pretense, your beauty in its natural glory.

Suna is just so whipped, and he knows he'll regret it if he doesn't tell you honestly, so he wipes some sauce off from the side of your lip and kisses you gently.

It's a quick peck, but it took lots of courage.

“i mean to tell you earlier, y/n, but you look beautiful in this kimono”

You smile, and he's just so super happy he got over his nerves.

“thank you Suna. I think you look amazing in your yukata” you say softly, as you run your fingers along the hem of it, feeling the soft material beneath your fingers.

The fireworks are just streaking bursts of colour across the sky, and you're looking into each others' eyes with so much adoration.

“just now's kiss was too short” you murmur softly as you capture him in a passionate kiss.

It gets really late, and you guys go home. He makes sure you're walking back with your friends before heading home himself.

Calls you after he reaches home and tells you he had an amazing night.

He definitely looks over all the pictures he took of you and makes one of them his lockscreen

Kuroo

I actually mean this if I could date any of the hq boys I would date Kuroo. He's such a sweetheart and I adore him to bits and pieces.

So Kuroo asks you to the festival with a bet. He's like “if Nekoma wins this match, you'll go on a date with me to the festival, kitten.”

And he has the hottest smirk on his face. Like stfu and leave some pretty for other men >:(

You're so flustered but you eventually agree.

No surprise that Nekoma wins both sets and it's mainly because Kuroo didn't let a single ball go past him, he was literally on fire.

So he's smiling and tells you he'll pick you up at 8.00.

I'm pretty sure Kuroo is a total gentlemen, so he meets your parents they totally love him and he's just waiting for you to come down when he sees how lovely you look in a kimono, and he's the literal embodiment of the 😍 emoji.

Like he can't tear his eyes off of you and you're getting so flustered, so you just drag him out of the house and to the festival.

“Such a dom, aren't you kitten?”

When you're at the festival he tries playing a game. He wants to win you something, so he's pretty serious and focused.

He ends up winning and he's all like “so I got reward for you. Do I get a reward from you?” and he's just lowering his face to meet yours.

So you grudgingly kiss his cheek but you definitely loved it, ok?

He definitely buys food and will not eat any of it unless you feed him.

Feeds you too, and takes cute selfies to post on his Instagram.

You guys end up taking a lot of selfies together and trying out all the cute filters. Kuroo's favourite picture is one of you looking at him whilst talking to him, your eyes super bright, and he's just smiling for the camera, but his eyes are on you.

Makes it his phone wallpaper on the spot, to your delight.

Informs you of a fireworks show happening in a little while, and settles down to find an empty place to enjoy it.

Wraps as arm around you because it's apparently "cold" and "your kimono won't keep you warm like his arms will"

You complain but secretly love it.

He then goes full-on nerd more and explains the science behind fireworks, whilst the colours are filling the night sky.

But he soon goes quiet after seeing the colours reflected in your eyes. He's so shy, and he literally can't help himself, he kisses your lips softly.

You guys totally smile into the kiss ugh this is so cute.

Takes you home responsibly and thanks you and your parents before leaving.

Sends you a thank you text before falling asleep, dubbing the night he saw you in a kimono "the best night of his life, to date"

I'm gonna cry Kuroo is so important to me, I love him so much.

Sakusa

Okay in my opinion, you'll have to be the one asking Sakusa out. He'll be super moody about it, but internally, he's dying to go.

You arrive at his doorstep to pick him up and he's just blushing at how cute you look in the kimono.

Like wow aight thank God I'm wearing a mask because this blush is fresh as heck +_+

Silently passes you a tube of hand sanitizer and you're so confused.

“if you put this on, we'll be able to hold hands.”

You're close to dying, no one has ever been able to touch Sakusa's hands, or hand sanitizer before. So you eagerly put it on, and intertwine your soft hands with his.

He's just so touch starved, so he holds your hand tighter as you guys make your way to the festival.

Sakusa hates it there. He waits for you to buy food before finding a secluded area to get away from the crowds.

You're also kinda glad you'll get to spend some time alone with him, so you aren't complaining.

You guys talk about lots of things, you definitely being the more flirty one in the conversation.

You suddenly muster up the guys to tug his mask down softly, seeing his pink cheeks and soft smile.

“can I kiss you?” you ask gently, eyes fixated on his lips.

“yes” he breathlessly replies, as your lips make your way to his, the sky is lit with fireworks, but the two of you hardly notice.

Your hand is tangled in his soft curly hair, and you're both blushing messes.

He walks you back, this time, and thanks you for spending a wonderful night out with him.

Low-key feels bad that you didn't get to enjoy the festival properly, so he tries to make it up to you by buying you lunch the next day. Very wholesome 10/10

[Ari's note: AHHHHH This was such a whirlwind to write it actually took me so long so I hope you enjoy this <3]

Taglist: @k-sakusa-old

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stargazing-enby · 4 years ago

Note

Omg I just realized I forgot to send u a Christmas prompt! How abt 1 and in case that one got taken 20 and just in case that one got taken too 23 😂 or maybe you want to do all three I’d love to read anything!! 🎄✨

This is my walk of shame... I got this ask in December of 2019 for this ask game and then never filled it 😅 but hey, better late than never, right? 😂 Thank you so much for the ask! I wrote prompt 20. “That’s my scarf”.

Thanks @april-thelightfury115 for betaing!

Drarry | 1.4k | Teen and Up | Auror Partners, Getting Together, Winter Fluff, They’re both idiots but they’re very into each other so that’s okay, Harry Potter tries to be romantic (and kinda succeeds) | Read on AO3

“That’s my scarf.”

Draco—eyes barely visible under the giant scarf that enveloped him—looked up at him, held his gaze for a whole two seconds, and then very pointedly looked back down at the case file sitting before him.

“Heating charms are a thing, you know,” Harry added, setting the coffee he’d brought Draco on the git’s side of the table and sitting heavily in his chair, squinting at the stack of paperwork that awaited him. “If you’re really that cold we can strengthen them a bit.”

Draco nuzzled the scarf and turned the page without a word. Harry huffed with a shake of his head. The git was still mad at him, he knew, but this was certainly a peculiar way to be mad at someone; especially since Draco was playing with the fringe of the scarf, his long fingers twining and twirling the soft strands of dark red wool. It seemed like a mindless gesture, but Harry wouldn’t put it past him to be doing it on purpose: after all, he knew very well what Harry thought of his fingers.

Harry didn’t even attempt to concentrate on the paperwork. He took a sip of his coffee and said, “Look, I’m an idiot, okay? Just give me a piece of your mind and be done with it, please?”

Draco turned another page. Glanced up at Harry for but a second.

“I’m certain I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” he said, voice low. “Your scarf is merely the softest garment I’ve ever come across. I can never find scarves that don’t irritate the skin of my throat, you know.”

His fingers turned and twisted around the fringe. Harry sighed.

“I asked you to date me and you’re mad at me.”

“Wrong. You asked me to date you while we were buying Christmas-themed socks for Weasley and I’m rightfully mad at you.”

“It seemed like a good idea in the moment,” Harry said, sheepish.

Draco looked up at the ceiling, incredulity and exasperation painted all over his face.

“Of course it did, you heathen,” he murmured, talking to himself more than to Harry. “For the love of Merlin, Potter. I would’ve assumed you’d know by now I am a man of romance. One doesn’t simply bring up the possibility of a serious, long-term relationship with me while buying pieces of clothing that are going to warm Weasley’s smelly feet for years to come.”

Harry couldn’t help it—he snorted, burying his face in his hands. Draco was right: Ron’s feet reeked.

“And how, potentially,” Harry said after a moment, “would one interest you in a serious, long-term relationship to ensure you’d say yes?”

Draco pretended—rather dramatically, at that—to consider the question for a few seconds: humming aloud, scratching his chin under the scarf, staring vacantly.

“Homemade dinner with candles would be the bare minimum, I’d say. But if one wanted to be certain I’d say yes, some other details would have to be involved…”

“Like…?”

“Like nice robes,” Draco said, squinting at Harry’s old jumper and jeans. “Cologne would be appreciated too. Low, background music to compliment the low crackling of the hearth... I’d have to be notified in advance, of course, so I could dress accordingly, and a bottle of wine would certainly seal the deal.”

Harry just gaped at him.

“You’re unbelievable,” he said. “That has to be the poshest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

“I did tell you I was a romantic, didn’t I?”

“You’re impossible, is what you are,” Harry declared. “Can I have my scarf back now, please?”

Draco smirked.

“Heating charms are a thing, you know?”

***

Draco didn’t look up from his paperwork when Harry walked into their office and closed the door behind him. The idiot was still wearing the scarf—he’d taken it home the previous evening and had walked into the department that morning with it draped around his neck for everyone to see—and was, once again, playing with it absent-mindedly while he worked.

Harry halted at the other side of the table, rummaging in his pocket. He pulled out the hearth-scented candle he’d bought that very morning a few streets away from the Ministry, set it down on the table, and lit it up with the tip of his wand.

Draco did look up, then.

“What’s this?”

Instead of answering, Harry rested a plastic bag on the desk and took out a glass container, opening it and placing it where Draco would see—and most importantly, smell—its contents.

“Potter, what…?” Draco inhaled—deeply, slowly—eyes falling closed for an instant before looking up incredulously at him. “Why?”

“Homemade samosas,” he said, gesturing at the pastries, still warm despite having been cooked the previous night. “Candle.” He pointed at the small flame. “And, lest I forget…” He removed his cardigan; he wasn’t wearing his fanciest robes—that would’ve been too out of place at work—but he’d put on the tight jeans he’d been wearing the first time he’d caught Draco staring at his thighs while out for a walk, as well as the jacket Draco had declared, a few months back, to be the most decent item in Harry’s wardrobe—his assessment having allegedly nothing to do with the excessive amount of buttons the thing had, even if it was the world’s worst kept secret that Draco had a passion for buttons.

He let Draco stare back and forth between him and the samosas for a few moments before saying—with a rise and fall of his shoulders, with a small shake to his voice despite his efforts— “I want to date you. A-And I know you want it too because you wouldn’t have worn my scarf in front of the entire Ministry staff if you didn’t want everyone to assume we were an item. So…there you go. Homemade samosas. Cheese, chicken, and spiced potatoes. I have no idea if you even like spiced potatoes, but you don’t have to eat them if you don’t—”

Draco stood, and Harry gulped, his voice dying.

Slowly, painfully slowly, Draco walked around the table and stood before him. He looked down at Harry’s clothes; raised a hand as if to touch the buttons of his jacket, then changed his mind and let it fall to his side again. He looked up at Harry’s face, then, and Harry held his breath, gaze drawn to a faint freckle underneath Draco’s right eye.

“I said candles, you know,” Draco breathed. “Plural.”

Harry blinked, not understanding.

“Does—does that mean...”

Draco’s thumb found his cheek, fingers tangling in the hair at Harry’s nape. Harry’s breath hitched. When had they gotten so close?

“It means,” Draco murmured, “that I must be very into you, because I’m not even slightly mad you’re asking me out at work, of all places.”

“Better than a clothes shop, isn’t it?”

“The bar was certainly low,” Draco agreed. “Plus, you cooked for me. I can’t overlook that.”

“Right.” The lower half of Draco’s face had poked out from under the scarf when he’d pointed with his head to the table, and Harry’s eyes fell to Draco’s lips.

Draco noticed, and wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. Said, voice rough, “I wouldn’t have chosen this jacket, though.”

Harry looked up, worry crawling through him. But all he found in Draco’s eyes was want so intense it made him shiver for an entirely different reason.

“The things I want to do to you when you’re wearing this…” His hand fell to the buttons: traced the shape of one of them almost reverently. “They shouldn’t even cross my mind while I’m at work.”

“Come to my place after work, then,” Harry said, feeling bold. Feeling breathless, and exhilarated, and way too hot inside his clothes all of a sudden. “I’ll put more candles up and light the fire. You can even go by your house to change into fancy clothes. Grab a bottle of wine, if you have it.”

“I always have wine.” Hands falling to Harry’s waist, Draco licked his lips again.

“Okay,” Harry breathed.

“And I want there to only be embers in the hearth by the end of the night.”

“You’ll have to stay a few hours for that to happen.”

“Good,” Draco said, eyes on Harry’s mouth, and Harry almost kissed him then and there, Draco’s standards about romance be damned—but then Draco took a step back, and another until his hip was resting by the table. He grabbed a samosa and bit into it: hummed, eyes falling closed. Crumbs falling onto Harry’s scarf as he savoured the pastry.

After swallowing, Draco grinned.

“I love spiced potatoes.”

#otpshipper98 #drarry #drarry squad #drarry fic #christmas drarry #drarry fluff #tsauergrass

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silvysartfulness · 3 years ago

Note

Omg I saw that you used to write for the assassin’s creed fandom and honestly what a throwback 😭 are they on livejournal?

Aahhh, this is the part where I have to admit, I don't think I ever put any of those drabbles online! It was more a fun thing me and wife used to do, writing very very short 5 minute one-shots based on single word-prompts.

Oh, wait! Apparently I actually still have them, in an old folder of mine! Will post under a cut. These are AC 1-3-brotherhood, primarily focused on the latter.

La Volpe/Cesare post the fall of the Borgia was my main rarepair ship in that fandom, so that's the main (if occasionally only implied) focus for a lot of these. (CW some dubcon/non-con under the cut, so be warned.) 😊

1 Unwillingness

It goes against everything he is, a greater challenge than any battlefield taken on. Snarling, eyes blazing his defiance, Cesare submits for now.

2 Memento

”Something to remember me by,” murmurs Volpe softly against the sensitive skin of his neck, and it's all Cesare can do not to yelp as those vicious teeth leave a bleeding gash in his ear.

3 Baseline

He still doesn't trust Machiavelli, Volpe muses, and it's equally clear Machiavelli doesn't trust him. Perhaps their shared love of secrecy is the one dependent thing about their relationship.

4 Sniper

He has shot guards from rooftops, towers, horseback, beams and the treacherous crumbling tops of ancient stone pillars. So why was it, muses Ezio afterward, that he hadn't even thought of pulling crossbow or gun out as his sworn enemies held their short council in the courtyard a few measly yards below his feet?

5 Birthplace

It is in Masyaf the order of Assassins was born into what it is now. Searching for answers Ezio sets out on the longest journey of his life, back to the beginning of all.

6 Denunciation

It is hard to remember what it was like to have faith, Cesare thinks, but easy to remember when it was lost. What God could ever work through the instrument that was Alexander VI, his father?

7 Distaste

”Volpe, you didn't!” Ezio exclaims, his face a mask of distaste. Volpe smirks.

”Oh, it was not at all bad. Cesare is well trained.”

Ezio shudders. ”That is exactly what bothers me!”

8 Elimination

Constantly, frustratingly one step behind, it is little Cesare can do as his allies are meticulously taken out by the Assassins one by one. And yet it is not until the last of those on his side willingly turn their backs on him that he realizes this battle is lost.

9 Bluntness

”You can do as I say,” says the master thief matter-of-factly, turning the vial of antidote over in his spindly fingers, ”or you can spend the night dying slowly while vomiting your innards all over the floor. The choice is yours.”

Pale with fury Cesare chooses to live.

10 Turf

The Assassins had been myth, legend, bed-time stories to frighten a young boy already afraid of the dark. But as they dealt an all but deadly blow to his father inside the Vatican itself, Cesare grimly declares war. Roma is his city, and all who oppose his rule must be swiftly and mercilessly dealt with.

11 Assassination

He burns for the ideals, fights the fight with passion and utter devotion. But when Shaun's shaking hands lower the suddenly impossibly heavy gun he knows something he'dnever even thought about (Innocence? Compassion? Humanity?) has perished as surely as that very first body at his feet.

12 Apprentice

He remembers a gangly youth skidding across slippery roof tiles, trying so hard to keep up and even harder to hide his inability to do so. La Volpe silently studies Il Mentore and considers he's no longer sure who would lead the way across the rooftops.

13 Debris

Ezio swears as the ceiling collapses over the bed he shared with Caterina until moments ago – his armor and weapons are buried in the rubble and will be hard to replace. He does not yet know they will be the least of his losses this day.

14 Scolding

Altaïr has never been one to accept blame or criticism for his actions, but something about the way Malik's not-there left arm twitches as to shake a not-there fist in his face as the man speaks makes him look away in hidden shame.

15 Torrent

The rain pours down over the city, making roofs and cobblestones alike wet and slippery. Volpe tugs his collar tighter around his shoulders against the biting cold and idly contemplates if a trip to the Castello would be worth the trouble.

16 Anchor

He cheats and steals and tells honeyed lies with the ease of a snake. But his eyes can be oceans and his touch velvet – sometimes Ezio wonders if his always restless, inspiration-ridden friend keeps Salai around just to remember what it's like to be human.

17 Truce

”It would be nice,” says Machiavelli evenly, ”if you would not so readily name yourself judge, jury and executioner the next time you fall victim to unfounded suspicion.”

”Fine,” mutters Volpe, frowning. ”It would be niceif you were not so secretive. And stop trying to steal my spies. Get your own.”

”Fine,” Machiavelli replies with a minute smirk.

Fellowship is knowing just when your brother-in-arms is lying.

18 Nook

There are many unknown and unseen hiding places among the rooftops of Florence. On his back, hair plastered against his face and hot breath against his ear, Giovanni concludes it's very handy that La Volpe always knows to find one when you need it.

19 Orgy

These parties are more to his father's tastes than his his, Cesare firmly tells himself, perhaps letting his eyes linger thoughtfully on the multitude of courtesans a moment longer than intended. Then a familiar slender hand grazes his thigh and he is reminded that the only person even close to matching his own schemes, cunning and skill is the woman on the throne next to his.

20 Scoff

”I spend all my time in the Animus,” Desmond frowns, ”Lucy's keeping an eye on Abstergo and Rebecca... hacks and stuff. What do youdo, really? Anyone could use, what, Google and Wikipedia?”

Shaun grins or at least bares his teeth.

”You mean Templar Central One and Two? No, it's called obtaining knowledge, Desmond - sifted like little gold nuggets of fact from the vast sands of ignorance you're so fond of burying your head in. Google can't help you there, I'm afraid.”

21 Scolding

At the time, Ezio always figured Giovanni's constant nagging and pleading with him to stay out of trouble was only the worrying of an overprotective father. Only later was he taught discretion was part of the ancient Assassin's creed. He never got very good at it, even so.

22 Bonfire

No-one is entirely sure why Julius II has tempered justice with mercy for now and opted for his enemy's imprisonment rather than death sentence. As far as la Volpe is concerned, the way Cesare goes pale whenever the topic is brought up is at least good for entertainment.

23 Nakedness

Being exposed holds no particular shame for him, but the walls and floor are freezing to the touch, draining precious warmth from his aching body. Now would be a prudent time for an accursed thief to show up with a blanket to bargain for.

24 Arbiter

It was funny, Machiavelli drily noted in his notebook, how God and Divine Justice so often were on the side of the biggest army with the sharpest swords.

25 Purgatory

The land burns, smoke choking the sky and tinting the sun a sickly shade of blood. It is with a cold and unfamiliar sense of foreboding Cesare hurries through the flames toward the towering walls of the fortress to escape this hell on earth – one way or another.

26 Fingernail

Ezio has more than his fair share of scars adorning his hardened body, some remembered more fondly than others. He would never dream to ask Caterina to trim her nails, or use them just a touch more carefully.

27 Slavery

The Creed dictates freedom of thought, and in his reckless youth Altaïr would use it as justification for any rash impulse. But the older he grows, the more he comes to realize freedom and all its crushing responsibility can be the harshest master of all.

28 Carnivore

When confronted on his nasty habit of biting, Volpe only grins and quips something about foxes and their nature. Cesare is tempted to snap he's often seen dirty foxes prowling the back streets for garbage, but can see where Volpe would go with that, and so holds his tongue.

29 Bluntness

Ezio is too flustered after his mother's blunt request he find other outlets than vaginas to realize the enthusiastic young artist at his side seems more than eager to offer a few suggestions on the particular subject.

30 Vow

He will live, Cesare vows. He will live, he will regain his freedom, his power and his army. At any cost. And then they will. All. Pay.

31 Blending

It was simply not fair, thought Machiavelli, that no matter how solid your acting, no matter how meticulousyour disguise, Volpe would immediately spot you in a crowd and grin at you. Clearly spying on the sly old fox called for more cunning means, he conceded as he made his way to the Rosa to shamelessly bribe Claudia for information.

32 Misconduct

“Not that we are in any particular hurry to the Castello,” Orsini says, the knuckles of his war-gauntlet quite pleasantly buried in Cesare's face, “but things would just be easier all around if you would stop squirming and came quietly.”

33 Ultimatum

“If you don't stop hogging my mp3-player,” Rebecca whispers softly in Shaun's ear, “I'll tell Lucy exactly whatyou and Desmond used her yoghurts for last night.”

34 Takeover

“Stop!” Lucrezia commands as the soldiers feed the paintings to the fire – already the image of a swan is crackling and fading to black amongst the flames. Such a waste of beauty. She hasn't even realized Cesare is standing behind her, fierce and bloodied after the battle, until he speaks.

“You like them?”

She nods, and he touches her cheek with a smile, careful not to stain her hair.

“Then they are yours. A memento of the day the Assassini fell.”

35 Afterlife

“I blame you for this,” says Cesare flatly as the imps re-heat the lake of boiling tar. Again. “There is no God, you said. No heaven and no hell, you said. Stupid old bastard.”

Rodrigo mutters something about Hell being other people, but will have to concede that in this trifling matter, yes, he was mistaken.

36 Distaste

He would rather be hated than forgotten, Cesare sullenly thinks, rubbing his stiff hands for warmth. Bony, filthy, with the matted long hair of a hermit falling into his face, he has to settle for the guards' contempt. At least it's better than pity.

37 Slavery

He isn't really paid, Leonardo thinks, merely kept alive, yes. Not really compensated as such. And so the construction of the intricate war-machines is really on the consciences of his masters, not his. Sting of guilt quenched he returns to the blueprints with renewed fevered enthusiasm.

38 Probation

“What's the catch”, asks Cesare with deepest suspicion.

“No catch,” Volpe assures, looking innocent. “Just a reward for your recent good behaviour. Keep it up and there may a meal and a hot bath in it for you, too.”

Cesare does not for a moment believe they are just going out 'to stretch their legs', but a meal does sound inviting. He follows.

39 Adversity

Ezio strongly disapproved of the idea of his little sister taking over the Rosa in Fiore, and he frankly can't say whether he is more disappointed or proud when it flourishes under her care.

40 Bluntness

“You are a thief,” Machiavelli growls, piqued into a rare display of anger. “A liar and a cheat and an honourless thief!”

Volpe grins.

“All those things. And I'm still better than you.”

41 Scheming

Ezio gave the Apple to Mario, who had it stolen by Cesare, who gave it to Leonardo, who found it plucked out of his helpless hands by the Pope and his daughter. He ponders life was easier when he was just a painter. The Apple is a thing of awe, but the intrigues in its wake make his head hurt.

42 Favorite

It wasn't that Cesare particularly hated his older brother. It was just that while he no longer childishly sought his father's approval, the position as the Pope's favorite son came with several practical perks. Unfortunately for Juan, that meant he simply had to go.

43 Truce

When things are civilized, they can be bearable, almost even pleasant. The food is good, the wine plentiful, and Volpe's skilled fingers all but gentle. An unspoken truce, no matter how temporary. But neither man ever forgets the truth, which is war.

44 Scour

They answer to no-one, self-proclaimed executioners beyond all law. Too much blood on their hands now. Just before sunrise Cesare gives the command to attack. The cleansing of Monteriggioni has begun.

45 Extrovert

To hold his own council and play his cards close to his heart has always been his way, and he knowshe is a master at his game. And yet, Machiavelli can grudgingly admit to himself, it isn't until the boisterous chaos in human guise that is Ezio bursts in on the Roman scene that he begins to see how they will win this war.

46 Protagonist

“I will avenge the cowardly, treacherous plot against my father,” he thinks. “I will root out all those involved, every single one, and I will kill them and all they stand for.”

No-one ever sets out to be a hero, only to do what is right.

For Cesare, the path ahead is clear.

47 Willpower

It is never easy. Every time Altaïr visits his (his!) bureau in Jerusalem, Malik has to struggle with himself not to slay the man in his sleep. On many a moonlit night, only a lifetime of discipline stays the blade in his white-knuckled hand.

But strangely, it does get easier over time.

48 Esacalation

At first it had been mere proof of his ability to go anywhere in Roma as well he pleased, the taunting and impotent rage in response a given bonus. After some time, forced still-furious intimacy gained through blackmail had appeared a logical step. Then force turned out redundant. As Cesare clings to him, nails biting into his arms and teeth bared with need, Volpe admits to himself he would never have suspected the caged Borgia would so willingly use him to sate his desires – nor the other way around.

49 Torrent

Raw grief fades over time, a broken heart healed into a dull ache. The thing that keeps Claudia from sleeping at night is not all she has lost, but her screaming frustration at not being able to take her fate, and that of those responsible, into her own hands.

50 Danger

The peaceful life he had envisioned just the evening before will have to wait, Ezio grimly decides, pressing a hand to his wounded shoulder and focusing on not falling off his horse. And despite the shock, grief and pain, it somehow feels right. He has lived this life so long, he isn't sure he remembers how not to.

51 Splattering

Leonardo likes to buy birds at the market and set them free, watching with dreaming eyes as they take to the endless sky. Once, Ezio surprises his friend with twenty white doves. Much belatedly he wishes he'd remembered that stressed pigeons prefer to lighten their load before taking off.

52 Ramification

“It is time you take responsibility for your actions,” Rodrigo snarls, and Cesare struggles with the impulse to scream, childishly, “But father, younever did!”

53 Concession

“I'm not sure we should...”

Lover and Thief, silhouettes in the dark, alone. A light touch.

“Come now. It will be good, I promise.”

“But, what if...”

“Ssh. Are we not both Assassins? Everything is permitted.”

His honed thief's nerves tingling with foreboding warnings, La Volpe allows Claudia to persuade him in the end, knowing Ezio will probably kill him, and that it will no doubt be worth it.

54 Leer

You can't even seehis face in the shadows beneath the cowl. And yet, Volpe just standing there outside the bars, nonchalantly leaning one hand against the wall, makes Cesare want to scream. Or punch him hard. Preferably both.

55 Whisper

Ezio reflects that there are few other voices he would instantly recognize by just a short, urgent uttering of his name. His hesitation to turn around stems not from uncertainty, but the childish wish to postpone the trial of his oldest friend's rumored treason just a few moments longer.

56 Absurdity

At first Ezio had felt confused, then worried and finally terrified. But as they've fled Florence and the man introducing himself as uncle Mario tells him that his family belongs to an ancient clan of legendary assassins, relief washes over him. Finally is clear it has all been an insane dream. He can't wait to wake up.

57 Experimentation

Leonardo da Vinci is a true genius, his brilliant mind always seeing the world through a lens of wonder. Nothing escapes his never-sated curiosity – but that a small poseable wooden mannequin could be used like that? Cesare is a man not easily impressed, but will have to admit the artist rarely fails to amaze.

58 Farewell

It is with uncharacteristic kindness Volpe kisses him, between shared gasps for air after their final tryst. A last goodbye before the approaching dawn will see Cesare on his way to exile in Spain.

”Growing sentimental, old fox?” the younger man scoffs at him. ”No need. I shall return soon enough, and repaint the walls of Roma with Assassin blood.”

Volpe just smiles. He has already helped Ezio prepare his own journey and knows with certainty that Cesare will never again return to Rome.

59 Turf

”Maybe Giovanni could get away with doing paperwork all day over in Florence,” Mario says, and his tone clearly states what he thinks about his brother's choice. ”But arround here we train Assassins, not accountants or delivery boys.”

Ezio's body has never ached as much in his life as it does after his first day of training with his uncle.

60 Smoothness

When she smiles her deep red lips are like tantalizing rose petals, framed by sun-ray golden hair. She is smooth, flawless, perfect. But every rose has its thorns, and Lucrezia's are laden with poison.

61 Kneeling

Every fiber of Ezio's body strains desperately to regain control as he jerks like a puppet on golden strings of light.

”You are lucky,” breathes Rodrigo in a low, husky growls, leaning hard on the staff after the battle, ”So verylucky, little Assassin, that I am in a hurry.”

As the dagger sinks into his guts, Ezio briefly thinks that indeed, it could have been so much worse.

62 Purgatory

The imps don't know whether to feel amused or put out that the screaming, flailing argument between father and son has by now escalated to the point they don't even seem to register the lake of boiling tar anymore. A bit of respect for good solid workmanship, is that too much to ask?

63 Lick

It has to be said in favour of Machiavelli's assassin reflexes that the unexpected lick at his ear out of the dark earns Volpe neither a jump or a shriek but a rapid fist to the nose.

Only half an hour later, safely home in his bedroom, does Niccolo allow himself to contemplate what might have otherwise transpired.

64 Bonfire

It is a sad thing, reflects Ezio in hindsight, older, wiser, that compared to all the priceless art and knowledge fed to fire during Savonarola's mad reign of Florence, the mere loss of a human life that ended it is remembered with little sense of loss or revulsion.

65 Last

After Mario's death, Ezio has felt the weight of being the last Auditore Assassin ever heavier on his shoulders. But as he watches Claudia fearlessly take her leap of faith, he wonders how he could ever have been blind enough to think himself alone.

66 Well

The guards in hot pursuit yell and stab at wells, haystacks and dark alleyways. From his perch on a rooftop Ezio smiles. He always did prefer to take to the sky.

67 Wrongdoer

As his support falters and the opposition grows ever bolder, Cesare becomes increasingly frustrated with their attacks and accusations. He would prefer to answer only for his own sins, not those of his dead father.

68 Deliberate

It really is getting unnerving, decides Machiavelli, the way Volpe has taken up the habit of commenting on his every observation with a frosty ”Indeed” or ”Yes, quitethe coincidence”. He wishes he could believe the man isn't doing it on purpose.

69 Counter

When he first arrives in Jerusalem, Altaïr can't quite shake the feeling that the only thing between him and certain death is a rather narrow, map-strewn desk.

70 Bribe

Cesare has always been good at striking a profitable bargain. Unfortunately Borgia as a currency is bitterly deflated, and these days he often have to sell himself too cheap for comfort. Even though it isa warm, snug blanket.

71 Chess

Cesare knows he is a brilliant strategist – not so much because of the expected praise from his subordinates as from the satisfactory number of pins currently adorning his map of Italy. He would like to believe himself modest in this, careful not allow hubris to cheat him of a victory. And yet he never knows whether to frown or laugh helplessly as the absent-minded artist all but appologetically check-mates his king time and time and time again.

72 Feel

Leonardo never knows how to feel when Cesare enters the room. At first he is apprehensive, but as weeks turn into months and he realizes he's not only allowed but encouraged to dream up grander designs than ever before he is thrilled.

In the end, seeing the Assassins' plans put into motion long before Cesare even knows the final battle has begun, he can only avert his eyes in regret.

73 Mister

”Outside the kingdom of God is the realm of men,” Salai says, leaning just an inch too close. ”You worship there, Messere?”

Only years of training his clueless look on Leonardo helps Ezio keep a straight face as he blankly waves for the boy to follow him.

74 Fine

There are simply too many guards around for a discreet kill, so Ezio grudlingly counts the florins and hands them over. How was heto know he wasn't allowed to park his horse there? Time to liberate another stable from its Borgia-tower shadow, he decides. Burning them all down is easier than keeping track of territories anyway.

75 Dog

If La Volpe is the fox and Ezio the bird of prey, Pantasilea ponders, then Bartolomeo reminds her of a large, lumbering dog. Faithful and loyal unto death, but with a booming bark and a vicious bite for those who threaten those dear to him.

76 Forgotten

When Volpe appears he is the first person Cesare has seen in days. He greets the thief with his usual brazen curses, careful not to let any trace of relief shine through. Of all things he is most afraid to be left alone to die; not slain out of hatred or need, but simply ignored and forgotten.

77 Changed

Had Ezio been the kind of man to think upon such things, he might have noticed the Cesare facing him atop the towering walls is not the self-assured young general he met a handful years previous in Roma. Tired-looking and hunched over he looks defeated even before the battle has begun. But Ezio is here for one single purpose alone, and has never been the kind of man to think of such things anyway.

78 Gondola

Antonio assures Leonardo that only from an extensive tour with his private gondola will the artist truly get to know his new home town. As it happens, a rocky two-hour boat ride later, Leonardo still hasn't really seen much of the city. But that's quite alright, as he happily agrees to repeat the endeavour soon again.

79 Casino

It never hurts to try to win Fortuna's favour when gambling is one of your favorite pastimes, Salai knows, but in this particular case divine intervention is quite a bit closer at hand. As long as you have La Volpe's favor, the dice at the Sleeping Fox will never let you down.

80 Soup

The first bowl of watery gruel ends up thrown in the guard's face with enough force to break his nose. The next morning the second splinters against the wall. Nearly a week passes before he forces himself to eat the fifth, to preserve his strength.

Cesare closes his eyes as he quickly raises the bowl to his face to wolf down the hundredth, before the reflection in the dull surface can show him what he has become.

81 Carrot

”Tell you what,” murmurs Volpe in the starving prisoner's ear, dangling the vegetable in front of his face, ”If you give me a good enough show I'll even let you keep it for supper when you're done.”

82 Madame

Volpe has to admit himself impressed – Claudia is shrewd, ruthless and horrifyingly practical, and stillmanages to be praised a good businesswoman rather than cursed a thief.

83 Kilt

Yes, Ezio decides as he flexes his body inside the unfamiliar weight of Romulus' armour, there is definitely a draft around his nether regions. Whatever the old Romans may have thought, a skirt of leather belts does notconstitute proper clothing.

After some swearing and creative arranging of his spare cloak he considers it may well look even moreof a skirt, but at least this cut preserves his manly dignity when he jumps.

84 Theft

He has stolen valuables, information, people and lives. La Volpe draws in a deep breath as he surveys Roma in the first light of morning, then exhales in satisfaction. She is the greatest city in the world, and she is all his for the taking.

#asksilvy #blast from the past

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