#mildly wretched but we getting through it

[rescue-ram]

One week back at work and I've been laid low by some manner of illness

[agreeewrites]

Baby I'm Yours | B.C.J.

feat. Barty Crouch Jr x blackcat!reader

summary: your new boyfriend Barty tells you he loves you, and you…freak tf out (even though you do, in fact, love him too).

cw: MDNI 18+, smut, established relationship, drinking, you are both possessive and mildly toxic, emotional vulnerability (eugh), love confessions, hurt/comfort, hard kinks, choking

an: can be read as a stand-alone, but hits better as part 2 of this fic

masterlist

Barty's POV

“Oi, Crouch!”

Barty looked up from his sketchbook, propped in his lap to keep him occupied while he waited in the courtyard for you and Evan to get out of Defense Against the Dark Arts. Xeno was running towards him down the corridor, robes flapping wildly in his haste.

Barty could practically smell trouble, and it made his heart kick with excitement.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Xenophi—”

“Cut the shit. Y/n is dueling,” Xeno snapped, grabbing Barty by the collar and dragging him from his perch in one of the stone openings.

“Oh! Is she winning?” Barty asked, falling into a jog beside Xeno.

“Not the point. She's going to get expelled.”

“Like I’d ever let that happen,” Barty chuckled.

They rounded the corner and could hear the shouting before they even reached the classroom. Excitement raced under his skin, and he all but kicked down the door in his haste to get to you.

You were up on a desk, robes discarded, absolutely pummeling Amacus Carrow with hexes. Amacus was hidden behind and overturned desk, lamely tossing expelliarmus over his shoulder.

The students formed a ring around you both, roaring with excitement while the Professor tried desperately to talk you down.

Barty skirted around the edge of the group towards you, finding Evan standing just beneath you, watching with a wild grin.

“She's a fucking menace,” Evan cackled, and Barty had to agree.

A vicious, beautiful little menace.

“What'd he do?” Barty asked, watching you dodge a hex effortlessly and throw one back in the same second. His heart was pounding, affection making his blood race. Saints, his cock was damn near about to rip through his trousers he was so fucking turned on.

“He called you a buffoon. And said your tattoos were ugly,” Evan said, cheering when you hit Amacus’ table so hard with stupify it cracked. “I was going to intervene, but she hit him with a book before I even got a word out.”

Barty was going to faint if anymore blood vacated his brain.

He spun a chair around and stepped up onto the table beside you. “Hello, treasure. Chose violence, did we?” You squeaked in surprise when he looped an arm around your waist, spinning you around and plucking your wand from your fingers.

“Barty!” You protested, trying to grab your wand back. “Give me that!”

Amacus, realizing you were disarmed, popped up from behind his desk.

“Ah, ah,” Barty waggled your wand at the perspiring wretch. “She may have the restraint to avoid Azkaban, but I have no such compunction, Carrow.” He gestured to Amacus’s spindly wand. “Rosier will take that, if you please.”

Evan had appeared beside Carrow, holding out his hand expectantly. Carrow dropped it into Evan's palm, red-faced and sputtering.

“Barty,” you said again, voice pitching lower with agitation.

He pressed an appeasing kiss to the crown of your head, handing you your wand back. “I think you've made your point, love,” he said. “Unless you'd like to make a fugitive out of me.”

You blew a strand of hair from your face, scowling at Amacus as he fled the room with his twin in tow. “I suppose not,” you huffed. “But if he runs his fucking mouth again—”

Barty pecked your lips, unable to resist your sharp tongue for another second. “He's a dead-man walking, hm?”

A smile pulled at the corners of your mouth, and your shoulders finally softened. “Something like that.” You rose up onto your toes and kissed him again, his heart pounding against his ribs like it was trying to burst out of his chest to get to you.

Barty helped you down from the table while the rest of the students filed out, grumbling that their bloodbath was cut short. The Professor tried to step up to you, face purple with indignation, but one glare from Barty had them backing off, throwing their hands up in defeat.

“Are you alright, though? He didn't get you?” Barty tilted your chin up, turning your pretty face to the right, then the left to check for damage.

“Not once,” you smirked, and his chest swelled with pride.

“That's my girl,” he cooed, leaning down to draw you in for another, more heated kiss. He swiped his tongue across your lower lip, tasting your cherry lipgloss, before kissing down your neck, wallowing in the sweetness of your perfume, the warmth of your skin. “S’why I love you so much.”

As soon as it slipped out, he felt you stiffen, withdrawing slightly from him. He hadn't meant to say it, though he'd felt it long before you were official, but he couldn't bring himself to regret it.

He pulled his head back, finding your eyes wide, kiss-stung lips parted in shock. A deer in headlights.

“D-did you just—” you stuttered. He could feel your heart fluttering like a hummingbird under his fingertips. “Y-you love me?”

He smiled, something tender unfurling in his chest. “I do, very much,” he murmured, softening his voice like he was speaking to a frightened animal.

“Bat, I—” you words caught in your throat, and a flicker of hope kindled in his heart. “I have to go.” You turned heel and dashed out of the classroom, nearly taking out Evan and Xeno, who were pretending not to listen by the door.

They grimaced, approaching Barty cautiously.

“Sorry, mate,” Xeno said, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Why?” Barty asked, shouldering your bag that you abandoned in your haste.

“Because she—mate, are you with us?” Evan waved a hand in front of his face.

Barty smacked his hand away. “I’m fine, I knew she wasn't going to say it back,” he shrugged.

Sure, it would have been amazing if you said it back, but you didn't have to say it for him to know it was true. He knew you struggled with big displays of emotion, and he wasn't about to goad you into saying something you weren't ready to.

He knew you felt it. You told him with every kiss, every touch, every gesture, from softly tracing his tattoos while you cuddled, to picking fights in the middle of class to defend his honor. Barty knew the truth, and you'd realize it on your own soon enough.

Xeno and Evan were looking at him like he had three heads.

“So why did you say it?” Evan asked.

“Because I felt it?” Barty didn't understand why they were so confused. He’d always worn his heart on his sleeve with you, and that wasn't about to change just because you were finally together. He knew you liked to have all the cards before you made a decision, and now you did.

“But she like, freaked out,” Xeno said, like Barty couldn't practically read the thoughts flying through your mind. “That doesn't worry you?”

Irritation curled along his spine, sharpening his tongue. “I’ve got it under control, Lovegood,” he bit. “Don't strain yourself pretending to give a fuck.”

“Junior—” Evan started.

“Are we ready for dinner? I'm starved,” Barty chirped, uprooting the conversation, and the seed of doubt it was planting in his mind.

Reader’s POV

You sat curled in your bed, staring at the emerald curtain separating you from the rest of the dorm. Barty's words echoed in your mind, ricocheting painfully against your skull.

I love you so much.

I love you so much.

I love you so much.

With every repetition came the same cycle of feelings: terror, elation, guilt, and terror again. You cared for Barty, Merlin, did you care for Barty. It ate you up inside, all the feelings you had for him. Drove you half-mad most of the time.

He was your favorite person, your comfort and your home. You wanted to be with him all the time, and you never wanted to be with anyone.

But love? It seemed impossible, enormous. You choked on it, drowned under it. And though it sounded so sweet on his lips, you just couldn't say it back, and it was tearing you up inside.

You knew how deeply his abandonment wounds went, how sensitive he was to rejection, and you never ever wanted to hurt him that way again. Especially not when he'd brought nothing but wonder and excitement into your life.

He didn't seem particularly upset, but you'd run off so quickly, you weren't sure how he'd actually taken it. For all you knew, you'd shattered his heart, and he'd never want to see you again.

Oh fuck, what if he was if was going to break up with you?

A fresh wave of terror clutched your heart, and you cuddled your stuffed cat closer, praying you hadn't fucked this up.

“Y/n?” Pandora called gently, peeling open your curtain to peek at you. “Barty’s here. Looking rather…fretful.”

Shit, shit, shit. He was here to dump you. This was it.

You stuffed your kitty under your pillows and pushed yourself into a sitting position, wiping at your tear-streaked cheeks. “Let him in,” you mumbled.

Pandora nodded, stepping back, and Barty’s head poked through, dark brows pulled together in concern.

“Oh, baby,” he sighed, taking in your probably pitiful state. “Can I come in?”

You nodded, scooching over so he could climb into your bed. He immediately enveloped you in his arms, cuddling you into his chest. Cigarette smoke clung to his clothes and hair, mixing with the faded traces of his familiar cologne, and it immediately soothed some of your panic.

He was here, and he didn't hate you.

Barty’s heart thumped steadily under your cheek as he peppered kisses along the crown of your head, his hand slipping under your hoodie, well, technically his hoodie, to brush against your skin. He was unusually quiet, his movements slow and gentle.

After a few minutes of loaded quiet, you couldn't hold your tongue any longer.

“I’m really sorry, B,” you mumbled, tracing the lines of the tattoo on his chest peeking through his half-buttoned shirt.

“For what, tres? You did nothing wrong,” he shushed you, squeezing you tighter.

You sniffled, tears springing to your eyes.

He shifted, turning so you were beneath him and he was looking down at you. “Have you spent the last few hours thinking you did something wrong?” He asked, looking genuinely distressed at the suggestion.

Your lips folded into a tight line, not trusting yourself to speak, and you nodded.

“Treasure, no,” he gasped, cradling your face and kissing away the tear that rolled down your cheek. “My sweet, darling, gorgeous girl, you did absolutely nothing wrong. I didn't say that under the assumption you'd say anything back. I said it because I wanted to, because I—” the words caught in his teeth, like he had to bite them back before they wrangled out of his control once again.

“I'm just not ready,” you whispered, shame turning your guts to stone.

“And that's okay—hey, look at me.” He brushed his nose against yours, the softest nuzzle. When you managed to drag your eyes to his, you found them so sincere, so warm. “It's okay, baby. I promise.” He held his pinky up, the nail painted to match your manicure, and you curled your pinky around his. “I promise,” he repeated, resting his forehead against yours.

You couldn't help the nervous giggle that bubbled out of you, relief making you giddy. “I thought you were here to break up with me,” you admitted, reaching up to stroke the sharp angle of his jaw, carding your fingers through his wild hair.

“You what?!” Barty cried, rearing back in shock. “I’d sooner cut my cock off. Perish the fucking thought this instant. Baby, I’m yours.” He swung his leg over you, pining you beneath him. “You must never think that again, understand?”

“Bat—”

His fingers slipped under your arms, tickling along your ribs and making you squeal, bucking underneath his hold as you tried to escape. He was grinning like a fool, and only stopped when he managed to catch both your wrists to pin your arms over your head. “I've got you now, babygirl,” he purred, leaning down to whisper against your ear. “And guess what?”

“Hm?” You arched into him, the frantic, ticklish energy quickly morphing into something heady, intoxicating. The cloying heat only Barty could stoke in your belly.

“I love you,” he whispered against your pulse, sealing it with a kiss against the tender skin.

You sucked in a quick breath, heart tripping over itself, and you could tell instantly that he caught it, his lips curling into a smile.

“My darling, I love you so much.” He licked a stripe up your throat, the scalding caress of his tongue coaxing an airy whine from your lungs. “My favorite girl.” Kiss. “My most precious treasure.” Kiss. “I’m so in love with you it’s driving me mad—”

“Do you ever stop talking?” You silenced him with a greedy kiss, all teeth and tongue and desperation, elated that he was still yours, that he wanted you, loved you, so deeply. You wanted to devour him whole, never feel, never taste, never know anything but him.

Barty chuckled when you broke the kiss to breathe, releasing your hands so you could grab at his shirt, desperately trying to undo the buttons. He braced his hands against your headboard, letting you paw and take whatever you wanted from beneath him while he watched through lust-fogged eyes.

“You sure act like you love me,” he teased, and you pinched his hip, shooting him a glare.

“I love your dick,” you bit back, palming him through his pants, and finally, he shut the fuck up.

Barty’s POV

The Slytherin common room was raging, flashing green and cloudy with fog, music thumbing through the floor and up Barty's legs.

He was deep in a game of beer pong, absolutely smoking Regulus while a crowd watched on. But mentally, he was plotting his next escape to your dorm, where he'd been periodically bringing you drinks in exchange for kisses while you read your new romance book.

This next time, he’d probably stay with you instead of returning. You were probably starting to feel the effects of both the raunchy writing and the alcohol right about now, and that was a combo he wouldn't dare miss.

Just when he lined up his shot, determined to finish poor Reg off, he spotted you coming down the stairs. Dressed in tattered jeans and a pair of fishnets, one of his Sex Pistols tee's hanging loose on your frame…

He completely whiffed the shot.

He didn't care.

“Treasure!” He cried when you spotted him across the room, and everyone swiveled in surprise.

You sauntered over, a big, melty smile on your face, and threw your arms around his neck.

“Hiii, handsome,” you cooed, pulling him down for a kiss.

He could taste the booze on your breath, syrupy and disorienting. “Made the drinks a little strong, did I?” He chuckled, steadying you with an arm around your waist.

“Whaaat? No, m’fine—Dora!” You suddenly lurched away from him, throwing yourself at your best friend. “I missed you!”

“Hi, love. I missed you more,” Pandora laughed, hugging you back and casting Barty an accusatory glare, though her eyes glittered with amusement.

Barty shrugged and held up two fingers, answering her silent question of how many you'd had.

Pandora's eyes widened and she pointed at herself, then you, then held up two fingers behind your back.

Barty burst out laughing, then cajooled you out of Pandora's arms and back into his. “Baby, have Panda and I both been bringing you drinks?”

You giggled, hiding your face in his chest. “And Evan brought me a shot,” you said.

“He did?!” Barty pretended to be shocked, glancing over at his best friend, who held up his hands in innocence. “So you're right pissed, then.”

You stared up at the ceiling, like you were deeply contemplating this, then slowly lowered your glassy eyes back to his. “Perhaps,” you said carefully, and he snorted a laugh.

Merlin, you were fucking adorable.

“C’mon, Crouch. Game's not over,” Regulus griped.

Barry glanced down at the cups, finding Regulus had sunk two balls while he was distracted. “Guess it's time I catch up,” he hummed, shifting you to his side and taking the two big gulps of stale beer.

You wrinkled your nose in distaste. “I can go get some fresh ones,” you offered, attempting to take a stumbling half-step away from him.

“Nope.” Barty hauled you back into his side, arm bracketed along your lower back. “You're staying right here with me, little lush.”

With you under his arm, he sank his final shot, officially beating Regulus, then whisked you off to the dancefloor to celebrate his victory.

He was in heaven, booze pumping hot and thick in his blood, your body pressed in against his front, writing with abandon to the rock music blaring from the speakers. You looked supremely fuckable, glossed with sweat and starry-eyed, a wild grin on your pretty lips.

He bent down, nosing into your neck while you rolled your hips against his, too drunk to realize what you were doing to him. Or too drunk to care.

“Babygirl, you're killing me,” he purred against your balmy skin, his grip tightening on your hips to stop your movements. “Better stop unless you want me to bend you over the bar right here, right now.”

“Nuh-uhhh,” you whined, spinning in his arms to face him. “M’just dancin’.”

“Sure, sweet thing. And I'm a monk,” he chuckled, watching you press kisses to the inked valley of his sternum, his shirt most of the way unbuttoned by your tricky fingers. You were such an affectionate drunk, but it wasn't often you indulged enough to get drunk in the first place. He groaned when you glanced up at him, round eyes framed by thick lashes, and his cock gave a merciless kick against his trousers.

You grinned, kissing your way up his neck before pecking his lips. The taste of his own sweat on your lips made his mind go dark, lust shredding through the tenuous leash he had himself on.

“Bat,” you murmured, tugging on his chain to get his attention.

“Baby,” he replied, voice rougher than it was moments before.

You kissed him again, tongue dipping past his lips to brush against his before retreating again, taunting him. “Can I tell you a secret?” you whispered.

He nodded, legs locked to keep himself upright.

You cupped your hand around his ear, leaning in close enough that your breath tickled the hair around his ear. “I love you too.”

It was like a bucket of cold water was doused over his head, his heart seizing. Fuck, how amazing the words sounded on your lips, but you were so drunk. Too drunk to know what you were saying, let alone remember it tomorrow.

He knew you loved him, but he didn't want to hear it like this. Not for the first time. He wanted you to say it and mean it, and not need liquid courage to make you feel safe enough to admit it.

“Honey, fuck, I love you so much, but you don't mean that,” he said, gently folding your hands into his and leading you off the dancefloor.

You resisted, pouting. “I do mean it! I love you!”

“Treasure, please—”

“Don’t ‘treasure’ me. I love you, and I'm sorry I didn't say it sooner,” you argued, lips pulling down into a frustrated frown. Then, softer, just for him—“I love you, Barty.”

He winced, like a lance was shoved through his chest. “Stop it, you're drunk,” he said, fighting to keep his voice gentle while he tugged you somewhere quieter.

People were watching, your friends pushing forward to see what the fuss was about, and panic beat like a drum in his head.

“No! Why won't you let me love you?” You yanked your hands out of his hold. “You love me!”

“I do, but you can't—you don't know what your saying, love—” He couldn't the thought of you saying it now and not being able to tomorrow. That maybe you didn't mean it, that you were just telling him what he wanted to hear. False validation hurt far worse than none at all.

“What's going on?” Pandora interjected, stepping between the two of you.

Anger flared hot under Barty's skin. “Fuck off, Pan,” he bit.

“Hey—” Xeno barked.

“Don't fucking start with me, Xe.” Barty stepped up to his friend, ringed fingers curling into a fist. Fucking Xeno, putting doubts in his head…

Evan jumped between them before it escalated further. “Alright, that's enough. This is between Barty and y/n—”

“He upset her!” Pandora argued, her arms wrapped around your shoulders.

“M’fine!” You shot back, jerking out of her arms and nearly sending yourself to the ground.

“You aren't fine,” Barty growled, shoving Evan and Xeno out of the way and catching you before you toppled completely. “You need to go to bed.”

You deflated at his tone, moisture pooling along your lower lashes, and he felt like that biggest ass on the planet. “Why are you so angry with me?” You whispered, and his heart cracked.

“I'm not—fuck, baby. I could never be angry with you.” He pulled you into his chest, wrestling down the hurt churning in his gut. “Let's just get you to bed, yeah? Together?”

You hesitated, contemplating resisting further, but then you nodded, the last of your restraint dissolving from your muscles.

“Barty—” Pandora warned.

“I've got her,” Barty snapped, tightening a possessive arm around your shoulders. “Can you all just fucking trust me for once?”

They all fell quiet, looking back and forth from him to one another. He didn't give them a chance to respond, pushing through the semicircle they made around you and leading you up the stairs.

Neither of you spoke, the silence of your dorm only broken by his shuffling around and your sniffles. He hated himself for making you cry, wanted to tear his hair out and claw off his skin in repentance, but he just couldn't stand hearing you say that and not knowing if you meant it. It was the worst kind of torture.

He helped you into your pajamas and removed your makeup, then tucked you into bed with some water and a hangover cure ready to go on your nightstand.

You snuggled into your pillows, stuffed kitty folded into your chest, and blinked up him with sorrowful eyes. “Will you stay?” You asked, and his heart tried to punch through the wall of his chest.

He sighed. “’Course, love,” he said, pressing a kiss to your temple. He rummaged through your things, finding a pair of his sweatpants, and changed into them before crawling into bed beside you and shutting the curtain.

You nosed into his neck, arms bundled against his chest, and he cushioned your head with his bicep, the other draped over your waist.

“Don't let me ruin this,” you mumbled, voice sleep-addled and sad.

He kissed your forehead, guilt ringing hollow against his ribs. “You couldn't, treasure. You're stuck with me,” he tried to joke, but it was mirthless.

You shook your head, lips brushing along his clavicle, then your breathing deepened, muscles going lax, and you passed out in his arms.

He kissed your head again, nuzzling into your hair, and let his eyes wander to the crack in the curtain, where he knew he'd watch the sunrise in a few hours. Usually, he was able to sleep with you, the warmth and weight of your body soothing his mind enough to let him rest. But he knew there were no dreams waiting for him tonight.

So he'd hold you, and try not to think too hard, and watch the room inevitably fill with light.

Reader's POV

You woke up to an empty bed and a pounding headache, morning sunlight blazing through the gap in your curtain.

“Fuck me,” you groaned, sitting up and grabbing the potion from your bedside table, popping the cork and slamming it back. Immediately, the potion began to work, the sharpness behind your eyes dulling and your stomach settling.

Merlin, how much did you drink last night? You barely remembered anything after dancing with Barty—wait, where was Barty?

You were fairly certain he'd come to bed with you, and found evidence of that in the dented pillow on your left, the smell of his cologne lingering on the fabric.

You remembered him being angry about something, angry with you, but you couldn't remember why, the specific moments slithering through your fingers like silverfish.

You pulled aside your curtain, finding Pandora and Xeno tangled in her bed, Pandora braiding ribbons in her boyfriends platinum waves while he slept.

“Hey,” you croaked.

“Morning, sunshine. You fucked up,” Pandora said, waggling a finger at you.

You groaned, slumping back onto your pillows. “What did I do?”

“Told Barty you loved him. Loudly and in front of everyone.”

Your jaw fell open. No, no, surely you didn't do something so careless? “I couldn't have—”

“You did, and he's losing his mind over it. Been “showering” for about two hours,” Xeno grumbled, shifting a bit on Pandora's chest.

You couldn't believe yourself. That wasn't how Barty deserved to hear that, not after days of patiently waiting for you to pluck up the courage. You had to fix this. Had to make sure he knew the truth, and that it wasn't a drunken mishap, but the truth in your heart.

Throwing your covers off, you slipped out of bed, padding out of the room and sneaking over to the boys dorm.

You bumped into a freshly-showered Evan halfway to the boys bathroom.

“Hey, wait.” He caught you by the wrist. “If you're going in there to hurt him, don't,” he warned, glacial eyes narrowing.

“I'm not, Ev,” you promised.

“Because I like you, y/n. You're the same kind of bitch as me. But if you're fucking with my best mates heart, I'd hate to have to hate you.” He brushed past you, his words hanging heavy in the air.

You tried not to take it personally, Evan and Barty were fiercely protective of each other, but it still stung that he thought you'd intentionally hurt Barty.

Of course you wouldn't, you loved him.

You loved him.

Fuck, you were so stupid.

You pushed into the bathroom, steam thick and tepid. Only one shower was running, gray smoke curling around the gossamer plumes of steam, and the bathroom seemed otherwise deserted.

“Colloportus,” you cast, locking the door behind you. You approached the shower, knocking lightly on the wall. “Bat, you in there?”

An arm shot out from the curtain and yanked you in, pj’s and all.

“Barty!” You crashed into his wet, naked chest, the blast of hot water soaking you.

“Didn't expect you up for hours, drunkard,” he teased, petting the wet hair from your face, but his smile faltered when he noted the absence of yours.

You sputtered a little, trying to regain your resolve despite the shock. “I-I’m really sorry, Barty,” you said, reaching up to cup his face, stroking away the beads of water running down with your thumb. From the red around his eyes, deep purple stains underneath them, it was clear he hadn't slept at all.

“Sorry for what?” He asked, brows drawing together. He was putting on a brave face, but you could tell that you'd hurt him, and it made your heart splinter.

“For telling you the way I did instead of the way I should have.” You brought his hands to the hem of you soaked-through shirt, guiding them to lift it up and over you head, wanting to be as close to him as you could in this moment—no barriers.

“Baby, you don't have to—”

You shimmied your shorts down, the fabric landing with a wet plop on the tile floor. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pressing your body against his, searing heat blooming everywhere your skin touched. “I want to,” you murmured, drawing him down for a feather-light kiss. “I need to.”

He loosed a shaky exhale, eyes flitting nervously over your face while his hands came to a tentative rest on your hips.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself. “Bartemius Crouch Jr., I love you. I love you more than anything. And I’m sorry—”

Barty turned, crushing you against the wall and stealing the last of your apology with a fervid kiss. “I love you more,” he growled, a visceral purr of approval against your ear. “Not so hard, hm?”

You nodded, a pitiful whine plucked from your throat when his fingers prodded between your legs, wasting no time spreading you open and smearing your slick over his palm.

“My brave girl, I'm so proud of you,” he cooed, sinking knuckle deep into your clenching heat, making you keen. “So good f’me, aren't you?”

“I was just so scared,” you whimpered, hips rocking into his hand as he parted your gummy walls, scissoring you open with a second finger.

“I know, honey. I know you better than anyone,” he murmured, a possessive edge sharpening his voice. “I knew you loved me, just like I knew you wanted me months ago. Before even you did, silly little thing.”

“Yes, Barty—fuck,” you moaned.

He curled his fingers, pressing against the spot that made your knees give out, white blooming behind your eyes. He silenced your cries with his mouth, smothering you while he fucked you with his fingers, the lewd squelch of your pussy barely muffled by the thundering water.

“Say it again,” he gruffed, his free hand coming up to wrap around your throat, holding you up by the febrile column.

“I love you,” you gasped, loosing air as his hand tightened, the heat in your belly building higher and higher, near to combusting.

“Again.”

“I luh—” you wheezed, unable to draw enough air to finish the phrase.

“Heart’s beating so hard, treasure. All for me?”

You nodded, head going fuzzy from lack of oxygen and the looming orgasm, putty in his merciless hands.

His eyes were black, obfuscated with lust and providence, a ferality barely tethered.

You were about to break, dragged roughshod to release, when suddenly his hand retreated, leaving you empty. Gutted.

But then he was pushing inside you, splitting you down the center with his thickness, so full you swore you could taste him in your throat. His grip loosened on your neck, allowing you a swig of air as he groaned, rutting savagely into your softness.

“So fucking tight, little cunt’s like a vice,” he grated, lifting your legs for a deeper angle, leaving you suspended and helpless to receive whatever he gave you. “Gonna come for me, baby? Let me fill you to the fucking brim with my love?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you babbled, nails dragging down his shoulders as you desperately tried to hold on while the world fell away.

“Go on, tres. Give it to me. Don't hold back.” He huffed into your neck, his thrusts getting rougher, sloppier as he swelled inside of you.

Your orgasm blasted through you, ripping you apart at the seams, and you sank your teeth into his shoulder, muffling yourself as he fucked you through it.

“Fuck, that's it—fucking take it—” his own release slammed into him, and he bottomed out with a punishing snap. You could feel his cock surging against your ruined pussy, filling you completely, body and soul.

His grip on your relaxed as the strength bled out of him, his lips tracing a path up your throat, finding your lips in a lissome, sodden kiss.

“I love you,” you whispered, tears pooling behind your eyes as the onslaught of feeling dissipated.

“I love you,” he replied, peppering kisses all over your face in the way that never failed to make you smile. He set you gently on your feet, an arm around your waist in case you stumbled. “Are you okay, though? Really?”

You nodded, pecking his cheek as you stepped back under the deliciously warm stream of water. “I'm in love, what could be wrong?”

He grinned, blinding as the sun, and scooped you back up in a toothy, buoyant kiss. “Absolutely nothing, my love. Absolutely nothing at all.”

© agreeewrites 2025. do not copy, translate or claim my writing as your own.

[gaycragula]

Cold and Complacent

Pairing: (MK1) Bi-Han/Noob Saibot/Male Reader Warning(s): NSFW/18+ under the cut, spoilers for the end of the Khaos Reigns DLC AO3 Link Account Navigation Word Count: 3179

Warning(s): Mildly dubious consent at first, restraints/light bondage, blood licking, pain kink, bi-han intentionally drawing blood, bottom reader, top noob saibot/bi-han, bi-han used throughout in place of noob saibot, spit as lube, not beta read

Bi-Han. Your former Grandmaster. Your former lover. 

After his betrayal to Liu Kang, the truth of his father’s demise, the truth behind his greed for power, you no longer considered him either of those things. You’d gone with Kuai Liang when he and Tomas had fled. 

Sometimes you regret it. Memories of your time with Bi-Han, sharing a bed, meals, bathing together make you miss what used to be even though you know you won’t ever get it back. He made his decision, you made yours. You doubt anything could ever repair that bridge that had long since burned to ash.

Or so you thought, at least.

After the situation with Titan Havik was resolved, you were put in charge of the former cryomancer’s holding container. It was an honor to be trusted by Liu Kang to the point that he’d trust you with a task of this magnitude. Or maybe it was the god’s way of testing you.

Though Bi-Han no longer looked like himself, you knew his mind was the same. Liu Kang had cleansed that much.

Sometimes you sit next to the container and look at your ex-lover, looking over the changes his body had gone through. The graying skin, the green glow that resonates from his chest. He still holds some features without that hood on.

His face was the same shape, his nose and lips. He was still pretty. 

It’s been a few months since then. Liu Kang comes every day to find out if he can figure out a way to properly restore Bi-Han. You’re lucky enough to be able to watch him do so and get live updates on the progress. 

Today, however, Liu Kang is away. He’d be away for a few days, not that you were worried. You had plenty of help at your beck and call if you needed it. You sit at the small desk in the room, your laptop open to keep yourself entertained for a few more hours until you were summoned for lunch. 

It’s quiet in the temple, peaceful. You can hear rain hitting the walls outside and it just adds to the overall peacefulness.

You let your guard down. Perhaps a foolish thing on your part, getting too complacent with how peaceful things have been. Bi-Han had always warned you about getting complacent. 

So you don’t hear the creak of the container behind you as it shifts. Or the quiet clanking of metal as someone comes up behind you. 

A hand covers your mouth and you reach for the panic button under the desk. Your hand never makes it, a black tendril wrapping around your wrist and stopping it just centimeters from the button. 

“What have I told you about getting complacent?” A voice growls out next to your ear. The tendril wrapped around your wrist continues to coil around your arm, traveling further up before it wretches your arm back and forces it behind the chair. 

The position was uncomfortable to say the least and you try to tug your arm free from the tendril. It doesn’t work. In fact, it gets you claws digging into your cheek and you can feel just the slightest bit of blood begin to trickle down your cheek.

“Do not struggle.” A second hand closes around your neck while the first uses its grip to tilt your head back so you were looking up at the being behind you.

Bi-Han. Or rather, what’s become of him now. 

Fuck.

You don’t believe he’s going to kill you. He would’ve already done so if it was his goal. You hope. 

The hand around your throat squeezes and your body tenses on instinct. “We have a lot of catching up to do,” Bi-Han growls. You don’t like the tone of his voice.

A second tendril wraps around your other wrist and, despite your struggle, it’s forced to join the first one behind the back of the chair. Two more wrap around your legs, keeping you completely pinned in place.

Bi-Han’s hands leave you but, before you can curse him out, a fifth tendril replaces them, coiling across your mouth and around your neck. It allows Bi-Han to pull your chair back so he can stand in front of you. 

White eyes stared at you for a moment, almost like he was inspecting your restrained form. You wonder for a moment if the tendrils feel pain. Your jaw shifts minutely and Bi-Han is grabbing your jaw in an instant, his claws finding gaps between the tendrils to do so. “Don’t even think about it.”

His claws dig into your skin hard enough to draw blood again. “Do you understand?”

You can find it in yourself to nod and he lets go on your jaw, pushing your head back in the process. Adding salt to the wound already. “Good. You still know how to listen.”

Prick. He plants his hands on the arms of your chair and leans over you. The tendril around your mouth twitches before it slowly unravels from your mouth. You stay quiet for the time being. You can tell your decision pleases Bi-Han just from the growl he gives.

“Tell me boy,” he starts, leaning in closer to you. His breath is still cold even after the physical alterations to his body and it has you unconsciously leaning away from him. “How long did you think it would be before I found you?”

What? You barely stop yourself from scoffing. “You hardly found me,” you say, hiding your laugh with a cough. You’d been watching over him for months. The little bastard just broke out of his cage.

The tendril around your neck tightens and you can feel your throat begin to close. Air struggles to reach your lungs and you can feel parts of your face begin to numb as your vision begins to spot. A choked groan escapes your mouth and the tendril loosens just enough for you to breathe again.

“You still don’t think before you speak,” Bi-Han growls, watching gleefully as you struggle to regain your bearings. “You look so much better when you’re like this.”

He grabs your jaw again though it’s almost gentle this time. He tilts your head side to side before prying your mouth open with his thumb. One of his claws tap against your teeth and all you can do is allow it. He runs his thumb over your gums, then pulls your lower lip away from your teeth before forcing your jaw shut again.

It takes everything in you not to snap at him for treating you with such blatant disrespect. But you know you’re in no position to do as such. “Liu Kang left you to keep guard?” Bi-Han scoffs, finally letting your jaw go and taking in your restrained form once again.

“From outside threats,” you correct with a low huff. You were already upset being restrained and Bi-Han chastising you was of no help.

Bi-Han gives a cold chuckle in response. The tendrils around your limbs undulate over your skin. It feels.. strange. 

Your hands flex, wrists twisting to see if the things would loosen up at least a little. They don’t. In fact, they tighten a bit more. 

The ones around your legs, however, force your legs to spread apart even as you try to keep them closed. Holy hell, they were strong. What were these things made out of??

Another tendril pops up between your legs, immediately making itself comfortable and pressing against your groin, pushing and kneading against it. “What are you-?” You start to say but your words trail off into a quiet groan as the tendril begins massaging you through your pants, encouraging your cock to respond to its touch.

“Still as easy to please as ever,” Bi-Han says, stepping between your legs to take your chin in his hand again. He forces you to look up at him as the tendril begins to apply more pressure, massaging more intentionally. How the hell did he still remember what made you tick?

And why did your body still respond to it? It’s not long before the tendril moves away, revealing the lovely tent in your trousers. 

Bi-Han tears his gaze away from your face to look at your crotch. His eyes narrow and you can only assume his face has turned into a sneer. “Pathetic,” he chuckles.

Your heart jumps, breath hitching. You swear you can feel your cock twitch too. You were always embarrassed how your body reacted when Bi-Han called you pathetic in that low growl of his. 

His claws dig into your cheeks again while he brings his free hand to palm you (quite roughly) through your pants. Gods forbid he’s ever gentle with you. And gods forbid that you don’t respond to it.

You grit your teeth but your body betrays you. Your hips twitch and jerk as much as they can against the tendrils. Choked breaths manage to slip through your teeth, your eyes fluttering as you struggle to keep quiet. You couldn’t give in.

Cold lips find your jaw and that’s all it takes to do you in. Your back arches away from the chair, your head falling back against the chair as Bi-Han kisses along your jaw. His lips feel the same. They’re the same cold, chapped lips. It surprises you. 

They trail across your jaw down to your neck. Where he bites you. “Fuck-!” You stop yourself before you curse him specifically. To his credit, he licks over the mark in a poor attempt to soothe the pain.

His hand never stops moving against you, palming and groping you through your pants. You can no longer stop the sounds spilling from your lips. You don’t know if you care at this point.

The mix of Bi-Han’s hand on you and his lips against your neck is making your head go fuzzy. You don’t even register the tendrils around your limbs loosening until Bi-Han hauls you out of your chair. Only to bend you over your desk. The panic button is long forgotten as you use your arms to cushion your head.

You’re watching him over your shoulder, watching as he takes in your form with hungry eyes. He looks like a man starved.

You swallow when Bi-Han begins to push your shirt up your back, goosebumps rising to your skin with the action. A claw traces up your spine before it drags back down. You hiss in pain, your body telling you to pull away from the pain while your head begs for more. You can feel the warmth of your blood against your cooled skin as it seeps from the scratch.

Then, Bi-Han bends down, his tongue running over your spine, licking up the blood he’d drawn out with his claw. “Bi-Han!” You gasp out, a shiver tearing up your spine at the feeling. 

He simply chuckles against your skin, his tongue lapping at your spine until he’s got you squirming, your hips trying to push back against anything they can. “Words,” he growls out against your back.

Of course he’d make you say it..

“Please.. fuck me,” you manage out, still trying to hold onto at least a sliver of your dignity. No response and no extra movement. “Bi-Han, please,” you plead, trying to push back against him. 

You hear him click his tongue dismissively before his hands are grabbing at your hips, forcing them to keep still. You could’ve sobbed.

You know exactly what he wants. You swallow the last bit of pride you have. “Please, Grandmaster,” you force out. 

“Good,” Bi-Han basically purrs in approval. His fingers hook in the waistband of your trousers and slowly tug them down your hips and thighs to sit at your knees. Embarrassingly, you’re wearing a pair of his boxers that you ‘stole’ from him when you were dating. It’s got his name embroidered in the waistband.

And you know he knows. He plucks at the elastic, letting it snap back against your skin a few times before your boxers join your pants at your knees.

You let out a quiet gasp as the cool air of the temple hits your heated cock. You for sure feel it twitch this time. 

You’re pulled from your thoughts when something cold drips onto your ass. He spat on you. Go figure. A glove lands next to your head and you just barely register what it means before two fingers are circling around your hole, smearing the spit around. At least he took the damned clawed glove off.

The tip of his finger teases you, pushing against your taint a few times without breaching. You’re about to open your mouth when he finally pushes a finger inside. You can’t bite back your groan. 

Bi-Han loved the sight before him. Having you on your stomach under him like this was like honey to him. Something so.. addicting about being in control of your pleasure. Watching you try to stay still to please him. 

His finger pumps in and out of you and he watches how it disappears inside you, listens to the sounds you make. The quiet hisses, the soft moans and keens don’t escape him. 

A second finger joins the first and you let out another kiss with the stretch. It had been a while since you’d last gotten intimate with anyone. Considering the last time you’d gotten intimate with another person, the person had been Bi-Han before he betrayed Liu Kang.

He’s surprisingly gentle with you as he scissors you open, prepping you meticulously. He finally allows you to begin to meet the movements of his fingers. And you take full advantage of it, pushing back against his fingers, matching his movements.

A third and a fourth are quick to join after that. The stretch is pleasant after a few moments and it’s not much longer before you’re wanting more. You voice as much to Bi-Han. “More.. please,” you rasp. “Grandmaster,” you add quickly.

You hear him growl behind you but his fingers are quick to leave you clenching on nothing as he pulls them out. Metal clinks behind you as Bi-Han undoes his belt and you feel more spit drip onto your ass. Then, you feel the head of his cock push against your taint. 

You take a deep breath to brace yourself. Bi-Han does not grant the time to do so, his hips pushing forward and breaching you. It brings a pained gasp from you and your body tensing around him. It does little to deter Bi-Han who continues pushing into you until he bottoms out, his hips flush against your ass.

One hand grips your hip, the other pressing against your upper back to keep you still as he pulls out a little, just to push back in slowly. He continues doing as much, pulling out a little more each time until your body relaxed enough for him to pick up the pace. 

He’s not gentle about it once he’s sure you’re not in too much pain. Bi-Han fucks you hard and fast, his hips slamming into yours, the sound echoing between your choked moans of pain and pleasure. 

He grunts and huffs above you, calling you pathetic a couple more times just to hear the embarrassed whines that leave your lips when he does. The hand on your back moves and you’re just vaguely aware as it wraps around your neck.

Bi-Han hauls you up, your back now flush against his chest. He holds you in place by your neck, tilting your head back just enough to kiss you. God, he needs chapstick. His tongue pushes into your mouth when you moan, tasting you. What used to be his.

You grip the edge of the desk for dear life. Until his hand starts squeezing around your neck. You grab his wrist, not yet pulling it away from you. Bi-Han parts from the kiss, watching you pant as you catch your breath.

His fingers press against your pulse points. He can feel your heart racing underneath them as he slowly starts applying more pressure. He gleefully watches as your eyes lid and unfocus. A light squeeze around his wrist, however, makes him lessen his grip again, letting you gasp for breath.

“Good boy. You remember,” he praises against your ear. Your breath hitches and your cock twitches with the praise. Your head still felt fuzzy, your vision swimming. But god did you love it. 

His hand remains on your neck as he continues to fuck you, his hips becoming more and more erratic as he chases his orgasm. His lips meet your neck, the hand on your hip moving to wrap around your cock and jerk you off sloppily. You pant Bi-Han’s name like a mantra, begging for release from your Grandmaster.

A choked gasp tears from you when Bi-Han starts choking you again. He doesn’t ease you in this time, squeezing your neck to the point you’re sure you’re going to pass out. The edges of your vision begin to fade and you know you’re treading a thin line.

 He lets you go completely when you squeeze his wrist a second time and you fall forward against the desk again. A hand lands by your head as Bi-Han steadies himself against the desk. His hand continues pumping your cock, using your precum to make the glide easier.

Your moans mix with his grunts as you get closer and you can barely warn him before you’re coming, shooting spend onto the front of the desk. Bi-Han feels you go limp under him when your orgasm hits you and he pulls out, pumping his cock until he’s making a mess of your ass and the backs of your thighs.

You’re vaguely aware of the feeling of cum sliding down your skin. It’s not until a rag touches your skin that you come back a little. 

Bi-Han cleans you up quickly before pulling your pants back up for you. He leaves you leaned against the desk, watching you try to regain your bearings. Your chest is heaving as you try to catch your breath.

He’d put his glove back on at some point, two clawed fingers gripping your chin and forcing your head up to look at him. “Your Grandmaster is the only one who can make you feel like this, do you understand?”

You nod at first. The grip on your chin tightens and you groan quietly. “Yes, Grandmaster,” you manage to rasp out. 

Bi-Han lets out a content huff and tilts your head back to admire the big bruise around your neck. That won’t be going away for a while. “Now, tell me how to get out of here,” he demands.

You shake your head and, for a second, Bi-Han gives you a look of utter confusion before the look disappears. Before he can respond, however, you can hear the door to the temple creak open. 

Bi-Han glares at you and you just smile weakly as you bring your hand out from under the desk, the button underneath dimly flashing. “Apologies, Grandmaster.”

[fairlyabookie]

A Cat's Woe

Author's note: I've been thinking about cats lately...

Content warning: wholesome

A slobbering lump of fur snarls pitifully, its paws grabbing at air as a pair of hands gingerly lather its pelt with shampoo. A hand strokes at the crown of its head, tapping its nose as if to scold the feline.

“Calm down, Lucius. We must have you cleaned up for your papa.” 

The feline wallows in self-piteous meows, clinging onto your arm with a paw. A helpless chuckle bubbles from your lips, 

“What am I to do with you, you troublesome feline?” 

You continue coaxing the feline, hoping that it would be enough for him to calm down as you conclude his bath. The finished result came to a mob of black and white fur clinging onto your arm, Lucius’ features indecipherable from the slob. You couldn’t wait to take a picture for Trein to see, the sight truly pitiful from the usual enigmatic cat.

“Come now, Lucius. We’re done with your bath. Let’s get you dried up.” 

You coo once more, picking up the feline out of the bathtub. As if relieved to finally get out of the water, Lucius shakes off some water from his pelt, splashing you in the process. Much to his chagrin, you entrap him with a thick towel, capturing him in a cocoon of cloth. He mewls indignantly, his amber eyes glaring daggers at you. 

“[Reader], I take Lucius is finished with his bath?” 

You hear a muffled voice coming from the other side of the door. Lucius mewls, his gaze fixated at the door in anticipation for his master. 

“Yes, Trein. I’m about to dry him. You should see him right now. He looks absolutely miserable.” 

Lucius turns his gaze back to you, his expression even gloomier than the last. 

“I’m sure he is. When you’re done, dinner is ready. I’ve made the specialty: vichyssoise.”

A smile graces your lips at Trein’s statement. 

“Perfect, thank you, Trein. Lucius will be done with drying in no time.” 

“Thank you, [Reader].” 

You shift your gaze back to Lucius, where he shirks under the cocoon of blankets as he notices a sudden drop in temperature around him. 

“Now, my fair feline, be a good boy and get you all dried up for your papa.” 

A pair of hands close in onto the feline, his orbitals growing bigger as saucers, a diabolic image of you reflecting in his eyes. What he hated most from this bath time was getting dried; first, it was cold water harshly splashing him wave after wave and now, the frenzied assault of a cotton towel repeatedly tussling his fur with biting texture. A flurry of indignant mewls fill the bathroom, persisting to see his owner than to continue with this farce. 

“Hang in there, Lucius. We can’t have you walking around looking like a mop.” 

You gently chide as you add one more step to his routine, combing through his now dry fur. The feline doesn’t pay any mind, merely calculating his next move as revenge for this human’s handling of him in the wretched waters. His mildly wet tail swats at your direction, splashing you with mere droplets of water.

“Lucius!” 

~ ~ ~ ~

Emerging from the bathroom with a sleek layer of fur was a satisfied Lucius, resting on a disheveled [Reader]’s arms. As soon as he catches a glimpse of his owner, a loud purr rumbles from the feline, jumping from their arms to be with him. 

“I see that you’ve taken a bath, Lucius. Good job, good job.” 

Lucius purrs out his chest cheekily as he finds himself comfortable in Trein’s arms. 

“Now, let’s proceed with dinner. Goodness gracious, whatever happened to you, [Reader]?” 

The sudden shift of tone garnered the feline’s attention; much to his amusement, it was [Reader], splattered with water and fur, the victim of his petty revenge. You glare pointedly at the feline before answering with a smile, 

“Oh, Lucius was having too much fun in the bath. Don’t mind me.” 

Trein arches an eyebrow at his feline, who doesn’t pay his master any mind. 

“Now then, it’s your turn to get cleaned up, my dear. Come along, our dinner can wait.” 

Lucius sags on his perch, indignation written on his features. Meow I have to wait for this stupid human, c’mon! He can only wallow in misery once more as Trein guides [Reader] back to the bathroom. He spares a glance over to his nemesis, who smirks in his direction. 

[gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan]

Bonding Rituals

Previous =-= Next

Author's note: More of Claude in mermay. That's @sleepyfan-blog for letting me borrow Cedric.

Summary: Claude hears some strange noises and investigates, what he sees is some strange bonding, and vaguely masochist ritual between a couple of Black Templars.

Warnings: none? Let me know if I need to add anything!

Tagged: @barn-anon, @bleedingichorhearts, @c-u-c-koo-4-40k, @egrets-not-regrets, @kit-williams

Tagged: @sleepyfan-blog, @whorety-k

He continues to swim through the water, he’d put the wretched mirror, that might be cursed back into one of his pockets. There are quite a few different pods and schools of space marines in these waters, loyalist, renegade. All of First Born, and he’s only sensed the rare Primaries Space Marine. One of the primaris marines that he’s sensed that are nearby is a good friend of his Cedric- who he’s not seen a long time, since their assignments came down and they were to be sent to different chapters. He’s… he’s fine. Just… it’s the stress from everything and getting shifted into these strange waters after being nearly killed in battle that has him all out of sorts and… seeing Lies in the Mirror.

If he was… if he was a dreadful, hated shape shifter, surely he would know? The Mechanicus would have said something? Or not. But his pod, they don’t shift, or, at least they hadn’t. The Primaris Space Marines who exhibited Oddness or Powers far faster or more strongly were taken away by the Mechanicus… never to be seen or heard of again. That’s why he never said anything about the whispers, the green, the giggles. For it would have him die while in training and his body parts used to further the goals of their handlers. Dying is something that happens, to all, but he’d rather die in glorious service, rather than found wanting and Not Being What He Should be.

Claude had been swimming about lazily, it was during one of his days off and during his free time, he was ... mostly recovered from learning about that Lie in the Mirror. That shard of a mirror that feels like it burns in his armor's pocket. But for some reason he can't discard it, try and trade it away or something. When he tries he gets a wicked headache and some voice within him warns him not to.

So he doesn't and very reluctantly has kept it. As he starts to spiral and brood about the mirror shard he hears an odd clanging noise. And voices speaking in one of the primary languages that the Black Templars speak, as well as more odd clanging noises. Curious, he swims in the direction of the noises, laughter and voices speaking. He sees a mildly scowling Cedric who has his Apothecary 'you are doing something stupid and I have to watch' face.

One of the other Black Templars that he recognizes is Ramiel. He's in an odd large stick with another back templar seated across from him precariously on the wooden stick. He sees that Ramiel was just given a large, heavy dark pan. The pair of Black Templars seem to the shit talking each other- from the way they are posturing. Then Ramiel brings up the pan, takes a swing and smacks the other Black Templar on the side of his head. The other Black Templar sways a moment, before righting himself. Claude hadn't meant to let out the worried and startled trill, as all three Black Templars turn to look to him.

"What are you two doing?" Claude asks them flummoxed.

"We are seeing who's better at taking hits to the head," Ramiel explains, "The person who loses is the one who falls off of the stick."

"That sounds like a good way to get a concussion." Claude says with a frown.

"It is!" Cedric says glaring at his fellow Black Templars, "but this is also one of the bonding rituals of the Black Templars."

Claude has some questions and statements that he'd like to ask, but he knows that a lot of his questions or words wound sound highly insulting at best, and they'd likely get offended at his line of questions. But- as he blinks, with sudden clarity and understanding. He now understands Black Templars a Lot Better and why they are Like That. They beat the shit out of each other with Heavy Pans. For Fun. He's heard the rants from Apothecary Type Space Marines about the dangers of Head wounds and concussions, and how, even with the advanced medicines, technology and healing factors, that Concussions are still quite... tricky and long-lasting injuries that could have long term consequences for the person receiving the concussion. Even years later.

He looks towards Cedric, who huffs out, "The Black Templar Apothecaries have tried to get this particular bonding ritual ended, or at least replaced with a less effective thing to beat our brothers with."

"It wouldn't be as fun or as meaningful!" Protests the eldest of the Black Templars.

Cedric's expression soured, while Ramiel almost shrunk in on himself. Claude eyed Ramiel, who'd been nearly dead upon arrival on Ancient Terra. He's mostly recovered, but is so much quieter than he remembers his brother- no, he's a cousin now, being. Then again, Ramiel's had the honor of becoming an Apprentice Chaplain, of which type he doesn't know. He's also noticed how clingy Cedric's been with Ramiel, and how anxious the latter has been around other Black Templars, other First Born Cousins as well.

He's unsurprised that Ramiel's likely had to suffer the wrath and overly critical and harsh reprisal in their Era from their First Born brothers and cousins for being themselves. He heard about the schism that happened in the Black Templars, and heard of how many of the Primaris were being slaughtered for being 'abominations' which they are not. They are good, loyal, obedient, strong, clever, Angels of the Imperium.

He wonders if any of their First Generation of Primaris Marines have had good stories with First Born or not. Except for the time they spent with the Ultramarines, who'd sent them from Mars to their chapter assignments. Then he remembers what Catius had told him of what happened to him before he'd arrived on Terra and a bitter, sour taste floods his tongue and his expression soured.

"I have heard that Catius has found some of his fellow... brothers who were on the same ship as him, back before his arrival on Terra," Claude says.

Catius had stripped his armors of colors, and from his nightmares and what he'd told him, he's going to respect the other's decision. Although, he's curious of what he's going to do next, and which colors he's going to choose. Whether it's is old ones, which he's going to reclaim, or if he's going to choose a different Chapter to paint his armor in. Claude is drawn out of his thoughts by hearing another loud clang and Ramiel starting to flail and falls off of the wooden stick. The older Black Templar roaring in delight that he'd won the bout. While Cedric swims over and checks them both to make sure they haven't done more than superficial damage. Both of them had been wearing their helmets during the 'smack each other in the temple with a heavy pan' 'ritual' and only had minor bruising.

[vampirevatican]

fighter, bloodlust mc? i think of this a lot when the characters im into come anywhere close to a fighting scenario... so allow me to share my thoughts via multi-fanon post

MDNI - nsfw (v light imply) below

SLASH FIC

i always like to think what would the slashers think if their prey actually had fight in them. had a murderous intent but only in the name of survival. we had that one scene where the darkness takes over for a little and obviously: ghost likes it, mike is intrigued, jay is into it but a little off, and leather isn't sure how to feel.

Ghost hasn't felt this way since Lysa. Actually no, since his first kill. Maybe both? He wouldn't be able to explain it. It was just something about the way you handled his and Mike's knives as if they were your own.

It was one of those team work moments, the guys were struggling a bit and when you shouted at him and Mike to give you their weapons they could only look at each other, to you and back again before saying fuck it.

He was glad he did, he was sure Mike was too because the silent prince of murder seemed eager to do something after the threat was gone. He couldn't blame him... they needed to fuck the red, unbridled, bloodlust, right out of those pretty eyes.

SHARK BAIT

honestly i know how each of them would react, but i always focus on the actual fighters. because rhin would understand the fight or flight response being fight, hell he has it. but for the fuck of it? nooooo.

GW thought you were weak, meek and pitiful. I mean for all of your fear stink he couldn't bring himself to think you'd be a fighter, let alone so good at it. When he went to train you for the first time, he made a mental note but after that day he didn't expect you to actually spend time in the training grounds. Or even better, be ripping through training dummies and holding one of their weapons like it was nothing. Safe to say, he was impressed and maybe you stole a little more of his heart that day.

OBEY ME

satan and belphie are the immediate thoughts for this. however i think we forget they're demons. so i love the thought of them seeing mc actually defend themselves and use magic.

As the seven watch you sling around the poor demon bastard that tried flirting with you, they were in shock. When your shadow magic threw the wretched asshat against a wall with a thud, they figured that was it but were even more surprised when you went up to promptly kick them over and over. The demon did have it coming. You warned him over and over, you have a boyfriend to you have a husband to outright telling him to fuck off. But he didn't listen.

If anything as some of them heard the sickening crunch to the demon's ribs and nose, they were a mix of proud and even mildly aroused. It wasn't at the front of each of their minds but after witnessing this, they decided to never get on your bad side.

[imp-writes]

FANFICTION FRIDAY!

SCREAMING IN THE FINAL TWO MINUTES ENJOY CHAPTER FIVE OF DESALUNIER CHRONICLER I AM SO SORRY IT IS RUSHED

Chapter 5: Joseph

The next morning dawned clear, crisp and bright, the cloudless sunrise highlighting the array of autumn leaves in outlines of gilded golden beams for those awake to see it, which Claude was certainly not. He awoke to the sound of knocking at the door and the paler, late morning beams cast upon his bed. He immediately began coughing. His lungs were always wretched in the morning. Rather than trying to answer, he stumbled to the door and opened it himself.

“Claude, are you alright?” It was Emily. Claude waved a hand as his fit subsided.

“Good morning, Emily-san,” Claude said, internally wincing at how coarse his voice sounded. “I’m fine, thank you.” Emily’s face didn’t change.

“The others were worried when you didn’t show up for breakfast again, so I came to look in on you.”

“Ah, I’m afraid I’m just a late-riser,” Claude smiled, grinned even. This answer did seem to satisfy the doctor as her face relaxed to a serene smile. Quite a contagious one at that.

“Alright, well there’s still some breakfast on the table if you get there before Naib and Luca, if he remembers.”

“His memory’s that bad?” Claude asked with a touch of concern after what he mentioned the day before. Emily shook her head.

“It’s as he said. He has his bad days. The rest of the time I would say he’s simply absent-minded. He forgets to eat when he immerses himself in his work. He and Tracy might not stop for days if no one reminded them.” Claude chuckled and Emily excused herself.

Claude made his way downstairs to find Eli, Boy, Aesop, Luca and Naib at the table Luca, Eli and Boy waved. Claude nodded and took a seat at the table.

“Help yourself!” Luca invited, reaching over and taking a couple of muffins himself. Eli chuckled. Claude still didn’t feel particularly hungry, but took a croissant to oblige and spread it with jam.

“It looks like the moon will be out tonight,” Eli commented. “Tonight, after the game, we should go speak to the Lord Photographer.”

Claude had completely forgotten about the letter he still kept in his pocket. Now he could feel its outline through the cloth and it was akin to an itch. He wanted to take it out, put it elsewhere, but that would be awkward so he simply bore it and nodded, unable to reply with a mouthful of croissant. Eli seemed to notice his unease.

“Don’t worry too much, Claude. Most of the time, the hunters do us no true harm. Many of us are good friends with each other. I do not think this meeting is going to be dangerous.” Claude nodded again.

“Who’s in today’s game, by the way?” He asked, hoping to change the subject, “I didn’t stay for the invitation last night.”

“Emma, Tracy, Kevin and Andrew!” Luca replied. “Hunter is Jack!”

“Jack…?”

“The Ripper,” Naib explained, “The hunter you encountered in your first game.”

“..oh I see.”

“Andrew’s good against Jack, now that he’s getting better at rescuing and using his skill,” Boy commented. I think this will be a fairly strong team against him.”

“We’ll hope so and cheer them on,” Eli said.

“Skill?” Claude asked.

“Yeah! Each of us has a skill that can give us an advantage against the hunter or at the very least buy more time!” Boy said. “Mine is I can make a wish for something in a chest and then I have a chance of getting it!”

“I rely on my child here, Bloudewedd,” Eli grinned, stroking the owl on his shoulder. The owl seemed pleased with his words and preened herself a bit.

“We never did get to see yours, now did we?” Luca said, the curious gleam back in his eye. Claude didn’t know whether to be just as interested or mildly disturbed at the idea Luca might try to experiment on whatever his so-called skill was.

“No…I guess I was too frightened to use it.” Claude admitted.

“That’s alright! The first game is always the hardest. Especially because you didn’t get the usual explanation.” Claude smiled, a bit abashed, but none of them seemed to be as annoyed as he feared.

“Do the hunters also have different skills?”

“Yep! You got it!” Luca said. Each of the others at the table took turns explaining the skills of various hunters. Claude tried to write each down in the meantime, but struggled with some of the terminology they used.

“You’ll catch on soon enough,” Eli reassured him. “So, what are everyone’s plans for the rest of the day?”

“I will be meeting with Burke-san and Tracy today,” Luca said, “But otherwise I shall be in my lab.” Naib shrugged in reply and Aesop just didn’t, probably in the hopes that someone else would. Boy-kun raised his hand.

“I’m going to help Emma in the gardens today! Claude, you should come too!”

“I could,” Claude replied, I suppose fresh air would do me good. And I didn’t really have any other plans either. Other than the meeting tonight of course.” Boy bounced up from his seat.

“We should get going then!!” He said, taking Claude’s arm starting off. Claude protested in his typical library tone, but followed as quickly as he could anyway. Luca tapped a finger on the air.

“So. You really think you will be alright tonight?” He asked Aesop and Eli. Eli nodded and Aesop shook his head at the same time.

“Can’t be worse than what happened last time.” Naib said.

“True. No need for pessimism,” Luca tried to encourage the embalmer, who sighed and gave two tiny thumbs up in reply.

“That’s the spirit!” Eli said.

***

It was indeed a gorgeous day for gardening. The crisp September weather wasn’t too warm, too cool, or too dry. The ground was pleasantly cool and the sun warmed from above, illuminating every flower petal it could reach with it’s gentle touch. The sky was a thick, deep blue that seemed to grow more intense the more you looked at it, and gentle white cumulus clouds puffed across the sky making various shapes.

Emma talked to her flowers and Boy and Claude helped her water, weed, and trim them to keep them in perfect condition. The work was light since Emma kept up on the it with impressive diligence. The only thing that made Claude regret his decision was the fact that it was, in fact, September. The wonderful fall month when the wildflowers and trees were giving their one last bloom of the season…and all their pollen.

“Claude, are you sure you’re okay?” Emma asked. It must have been at least the third time in ten minutes. In honesty, Claude’s lungs felt tight an itchy and it felt like the pollen was sticking in his throat, drying it out and making the coughing worse. But he nodded anyway. He was starting to feel tired again. The familiar aches of his shoulders, back and abdomen from constant coughing returned with a vengeance. He sighed and leaned himself up against a tree. At least there was no blood today. Boy handed him a cup of water, which he took with gratitude. The cool water felt like it tightened his throat, but it washed the awful dusty dry soreness away.

“I’ll be alright,” he said, clearing his throat just a little to get the frog out of it.

“Maybe we should head back,” she said. “You might need to rest before you meet Joseph-san.”

Claude sighed again and leaned his head back on the tree bark. He didn’t want to go back. He loved being out listening to the other two and feeling, smelling, tasting and seeing everything around him in this gorgeous weather…he felt like he hadn’t been able to do that for a long time. But he knew Emma was right. If he wore himself out now and didn’t make it…what might Joseph do?

“Alright,” he said at last, trying to restrain another fit. “You’re probably right. I should rest before supper. I’m sorry I couldn’t help you finish anything.”

“You don’t have to apologize nano!” She said, “Having friends around makes it more fun!”

“We can always finish what we started tomorrow,” Boy added, offering a hand to Claude. Claude accepted and both Boy and Emma helped him up and supported him as much as he needed. They chattered all the way back, Claude mostly listening. They walked him all the way to his room and then bid him a good rest.

Claude ended up falling asleep for a few hours while reading until Tracy came to let him know the others were eating dinner, so he joined them. Most of the talk was about the up coming game and previous ones. The mucus he’d swallowed earlier from the pollen problem cause his stomach to turn at the thought of much food, so he spent most of his time at the table in silence, writing, sipping on tea.

 Eventually, the others started leaving the table for this, or the other reason until only Eli, Boy, Aesop and Claude remained. They looked at each other and sighed.

“I guess we should get going,” Eli said, “The game will be over soon, and the moon is shining bright.” They other three nodded and rose from their chairs. Claude brought an extra jacket. The weather had been perfect, but now that the sun was gone there was a chill. The last thing he needed was to have a cold on top of his already raw throat.

“Ah Boy-kun!” Luchino greeted, “Eli, Aesop…ahh and the Newbie has come to visit, hmm? Well this is a rare group, I must say.”

“The letter you gave me, from Joseph,” Boy explained, “Requested to meet with some of us.” Luchino turned his head to regard Boy with newfound interest, symmetrically waving his knife.

“Oh?” He hummed, “well that’s an interesting thought. I wonder what the Photographer has in mind.” His attention turned to Claude now, who swallowed nervously as Luchino entered his personal space. “So you’re the new survivor, hmm?”

“Yes, sir,” Claude said, taking the smallest step back from Luchino’s approach. The hunter hummed again.

“You’re about what I expected from Jack’s description.” He shrugged. “I hope you’ll improve in the games before we meet.”

“Now, now,” Eli cut in, “Give him some time to adjust, Luchino-san.” Luchino shrugged and bowed with a toothy smile.

“Robbie is waiting for you, Boy.” He said, turning his attention yet again. “I may join in as well if I feel so disposed.

“I’ll be there shortly!” Boy replied brightly. Claude wondered how he didn’t seem the slightest bit intimidated by this hunter, who was well over seven feet and looming over all of them with a shiny knife. But, he supposed, Boy must be used to it by now.

“I’ll see you later!” Boy said, turning to the other three, “I hope everything goes well!” He followed Luchino as the others pressed on to an area filled with ruined walls.

It was quiet and tranquil. Silver light from the moon lined the edges of the walls and windows, and shone a little bit on the ivy the grew into the cracks in the stone. It was the kind of place one felt like it’s only respectful to tread quietly. No one said a word. There was nothing really to say.

“This is where we met last time,” Aesop said.

“I imagine he’ll be along shortly,” Eli said. A world-weary sigh nearly cut him off as Joseph appeared from behind one of the walls, followed closely by Kuro.

“We’re already here.” Joseph said. Claude realized his mouth was open and shut it. It was like looking into a mirror. Well, not exactly…more like into a window of time. Joseph’s hair, his clothes, his eyes, his appearance matched Claude’s almost exactly, if he’d been perhaps forty years older.

“Ah, good evening, Lord Photographer, Black Guard,” Eli greeted in perfect courtesy. Claude barely heard Eli’s greeting as Joseph’s eyes bored into his. Pale, intense…questioning? Expectant? It didn’t seem like an intentional boring. His eyes were almost half-lidded and his expression was neutral, bored even. But there was still a flicker of searching intensity beneath that Claude couldn’t quite translate. Realizing he’d just been gawking, Claude quickly bowed to the both of them.

“Pleasure to meet you.” He said quickly. “Forgive my stare…It was just as shock to meet someone who looks so alike to myself.” As soon as he said that, the questioning look he thought he saw in Joseph’s expression was gone. Something else replaced it, or nothing at all. Claude couldn’t quite tell. Kuro bowed in response, though it was more akin to a nod. Joseph seemed unbothered. Aesop had been fairly quiet up until now, politely nodding and then stepping to the side shadows. But now he spoke up.

“What do you want, Joseph?” he asked. Claude wanted to try and calm him down, or at least reassure him. Aesop was fiddling his hands together, forcing himself not to tug on his shirt. His shoulders were taut and his eyes bright and sharp with apprehension, looking the hunters boldly in the eye even if only for a fraction of a second at a time.

“And why should I tell you, Mouse?” Joseph droned, looking pointedly at Aesop. “You weren’t invited.”

Claude couldn’t hide the slight smile at the nickname. It was oddly fitting for Aesop. He did his best for Aesop’s sake, but was pretty sure his anxious friend had seen it. That thought sobered him up enough to get his smile under control.

“Well, if we could I would like to get to the point,” Claude said, attempting to diffuse the intensity of the conversation and still get answers, “I haven’t heard who will be in tomorrow’s game and, if I am called, I will need time to prepare.”

“Tch, there’s no point in that.” Joseph’s scoff reached his shoulders. “Everything’s always reset again like nothing ever happened. Nothing gained from victory or defeat. No sense of accomplishment. We’re just toys in a game to be taken out and played over and over again.”

“Oh. I see.” Claude wasn’t sure what else to say.

“Anyway,” Joseph went on, “I wanted to know why you came to the Manor.” Claude blinked. He could feel Eli and Aesop in close proximity to him. They’d moved closer. It wasn’t much comfort, but he found a little comfort in their intentions. He opened his palms, opting for honesty.

“I’m afraid I don’t remember,” he replied, “I received a letter from who I’ve heard called the Baron, but I don’t remember why I was to come here. I’ve thought perhaps I was looking for some people’s stories to write, but I’m not so sure…everyone here seems to have reasons more deeply driven than that.”

“Mhmm.” Joseph shrugged a little bit again. Claude’s head tilted a little in curiosity at his response.

“Is…something wrong?” Claude asked. The end of his sentence trailed off in a cough. His chest started tightening again. He felt Eli take his arm to keep him up in case he needed it. He fought to recompose himself again and ward off the fit.

“You should go.” Joseph said. “That was all I wanted to speak about. If you don’t remember, it’s pointless.”

A break in the fit at last. Claude took a breath, slowly, carefully to not agitate his throat again and nodded.

“Very well then,” he said, “I’m sorry I wasn’t of more help. I should like to come back and listen to stories from you all.”

“Robbie and Michiko will be better use to you.” Joseph said rather curtly. “Don’t ask for me.” Claude didn’t have the energy to contain his slight disappointment.

“Alright then. Again, my apologies. Good night to you both and pleas-“ he started coughing again. He heard Eli give goodbyes for them all as he and Aesop started escorting Claude back.

“Are you alright?” Eli asked when Claude finally caught a break. They’d been walking slow for a spell, but eventually he’d had to outright stop and just hack for a while. His eyes watered, his throat and chest felt sore and raw and he knew his face was flushed. He nodded.

“I’ll be fine, thank you.” He replied, a bit hoarsely. They took the rest of the slow walk back to the survivor’s manor in silence.

***

“So?” Kuro asked. The trio of survivors had long been out of earshot and the two had been sitting in the ruins for almost ten minutes, not uttering a word. Joseph pulled a photo out of his coat pocket and handed it to Kuro. Kuro accepted and looked at it.

“It’s him.” Joseph said. He’d failed to hide the crack in his voice.

[akiss-from-a-rose]

"I told her while she was sunbathing at the country club that she wasn't a meal on display," Aaliyah said, raising an eyebrow. "I might have also mentioned that to both of you, but, really, I'm not going to spill species secrets around just anyone. That's how I was taught. Was it wrong? Probably." She laughed quietly before rectifying it. "Absolutely." She sighed. "Okay, smart ass. Keep 'um, actually'-ing me, you fucking nerd." She wasn't attempting biting, and she hardly found herself to be defensive. It was mildly amusing, and there was something close to pity, but Aaliyah made it a habit not to really pity anyone. A product of her upbringing, both living and unliving. "Again, you don't know me, Brielle. Very few do, I get that. I go for that. But you can't just state hard facts about me, like who or what I care about, without actually knowing me." She took the clan position because maybe, just maybe, she cared too much. Aaliyah didn't really have the language for it, but she cared deeply about the state of the vampires in this wretched town. Enough to sift out the tough love. Enough to take up the mantle of leader while only really wanting to desperately search for her friend, one of only a handful that she'd ever had in centuries.

Aaliyah just shook her head. "No, you're right, I didn't give you the chance to make a rational decision because we don't get those extra moments, Bri. We don't get the choice of, oh, I'll be a little mad. A human woman not controlling herself? She might yell, maybe hit. Perhaps she could cause some damage. A starving vampire not controlling herself?" She shook her head. "I'm not going to sit in front of the council while those fucking witches drag a clan member through the mud for fucking eating someone at a party. I won't even risk the chance of that happening. So was it rash to grab you? Perhaps. Would I do it again? In a heartbeat. I was protecting the best interest of the clan, I was protecting you, hell. I was protecting your fucking boyfriend from the potentiality of having to listen to your trial while Meena and I have to figure out your punishment. Something that wouldn't have been light for even contemplating hurting the coven advisor's sister." She got what Bri was saying, but there hadn't been much she could do about Jake. "His words were cruel. He was acting out of fear. Does that mitigate it? No. If he doesn't apologize, then I can offer to rip out his tongue, but he also wasn't my priority in that moment. Suck it up in that moment, yes, but wait. Get back at them strategically. I do recall telling you that I didn't want to put you in a box."

Any effort to get through seemed to be a mission in futility. Aaliyah almost didn't understand what she was trying to accomplish. "I'm not trying to be menacing. I'm being honest. You won't like it because it sucks. It will suck. It's not a pun. When you have control issues, when you have feeding problems, it's not easy. It fucking sucks, and it continues to suck for years. I think that you could have an easier time of it than I did. You wouldn't have to deal with my sire, for one. If you think I'm a bitch, then you have no idea. And you have a daylight ring." She was almost wistful, just for a moment. "I missed the sun so much. Longed for it. I used to try and grind up marigolds. I thought if I could put it on my skin, the way that they sooth and heal would help. It didn't. I burned, many times. I was called a fool. She was right, of course, but." She gave Bri a long look. "It doesn't matter if you were or weren't meant to be this. You are this. You have to find a way to live like this."

Aaliyah couldn't help it. She laughed, actually happy. "I'm really not, but it's nice of you to come out of the closet. I have been rather curious if you fight all of Professor anak Bandi's battles for him, even the ones he's unaware of. You were practically ready to break his computer when he was Zooming into council meetings. I've always wondered how human lovers must feel. Do they find themselves as weak as we so often act like they are? Does he need your protection as much as you offer it?" She couldn't help the curiosity, and it was genuine. She'd never stayed with a mortal for so long as to see them as anything more than a temporary fascination. She'd only turned a handful for companionship, but she'd never been especially coddling of any of them. "It's beautiful. Mankind used to spend hundreds, sometimes thousands of years building monuments, cathedrals. Some desperate clawing at permanence. And they are sad. But... ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Whether you're a skull in the wall or dust in the wind, it's sad because they're dead, not because of their eternal resting place." She snorted. "I've lost my touch if the only reason you think I'm a bitch is because I insult your boyfriend. I think I've also kicked your roommate out of my club three times. Her picture's on the wall, now. Do Not Allow Entry. And what is a Shrek?" she asked, like she hadn't seen the movie when it first came out, a fascinating innovation in animation. "I like to think that I have layers like a hornets' nest. Far more applicable." Full of tiny, dangerous little components packed with stinging, hateful creatures.

The irony, in Aaliyah's eyes, was that Brielle was just as set in her own thought processes as she believed everyone else was set in their opinions about her. "I really haven't heard the eulogies. Such a thing is fun in theory, less so in practice. Making an entire town come to a party and then speak about someone that they may not properly know very well is a well intentioned idea that is, more often than not, less than ideal in practice. Besides, I didn't say that everyone in this goddamn town cares about you, I said people. You still have people that care about you. Maybe it's one hundred, maybe it's just one, but that can be enough. And Benjamin has lived here long enough to understand the risks. I remember the former Coalition leader, and I remember that your professor stepped up as soon as he was needed. He loves you, and he loves this town. I don't think something like that is going to do him in." The man had more backbone than she felt obligated to give him credit for. Most humans did. They willingly chose to live in a place where their neighbors had wings or turned into wolves or craved blood. There was an incredibly amount of bravery there.

"I'm not being condescending. I'm not patronizing you. I'm just talking. This is the way I talk, and it's the way I've talked for a while, now. And I'm attempting to get you out of that booth. It worked. But if you want to have a drinking, go for it. Maybe make me a little card. One sip for saying 'fuck.' Down a shot for moral superiority from a confess serial killer," Aaliyah said, laughing a little before she looked at Bri, her eyes a little soft. "If you want an actual funeral, this isn't it. I imagine you didn't get a lot of mourning done in there." Her expression ticked up in amusement as she listed off some of the members of the clan and their various selling points. "She's eccentric. That happens, sometimes. He has cultivated a displeasure for most things. That happens, too. It's nice that they're happy, even if unhelpful. She needs all the rest she can get right now. And you're right, they're both rather new, and the last people I'd wish to get advice from about control are Tried to Eat My Boyfriend's Leg and Had a Sunburn for a Year From Sleeping Outside." She hummed. "No, not a bat signal. We don't turn into bats. Look, I get you might think it's too little, too late. And that's fine. But I work on payroll for Eclipse on Tuesday afternoons. I offered you help with payback at the gift exchange. I'll offer you something similar, now: help with being a vampire, sans neon sign. No non-vampire pals, no busy crowds where I, and most people, really, are so often on defensive. Again, I'm telling you that you probably won't like it. Not to cow you but to let you know that it's just not fun. I didn't like it. I hated it, really, and it took me years to get the hang of this bullshit. But you're much smarter than me."

"Actually you told the both of us during White Elephant two years ago. I was sitting right next to her," She explained. "And I could have, but I trusted you and, as I know now, I shouldn't have," She stated, pressing her lips together as she gave her a small shrug. "It's called a hyperbole. You know, a mild exaggeration for dramatic effect? And I'm well aware when you became advisor. I'm not attacking you. I'm simply pointing out the obvious," She explained calmly. "We both know you don't really care about me, so why bother with the pretend?" Bri reasoned. She already had to question pretty much every relationship in her life. Why add another to the rather long list?

"See. That doesn't exactly sound like you care. Though as for whether or not I would have taken a rational suggestion in that moment, did you even give me a chance to? I lunged at Frankie because she caught me off guard, my emotions got the best of me and I was starving. But, I stopped the moment I-" she paused. Her eyes momentarily drifted to the floor as she muttered under her breath, "Shoved Poppy. Just before you stepped in and, I'm not saying I don't appreciate the advice or the fact that you did, but I also know that, while people came to comfort me, not one actually told him to stop when he was strewing a list of insults my way. Instead, you essentially told me to 'suck it up' and I get it. That's pretty much the only advice anyone ever seems to give around here. 'Suck it up and get over yourself'. But, that doesn't exactly make me want to hang out with other vampires let alone ask them for any other tips. No offense." She had tried to. She had asked Ken to show her how to reverse compulsion and he pretty much rolled his eyes at her and made it abundantly clear she should know how already, though he had been more helpful than most. Ronnie and Safiye were just as lost as she was and Ralph, she was fairly certain was off in some other world.

"And that, right there, is why I've been figuring it out my own. I might have wanted you to teach me control before that ominous as fuck warning? Seriously?" She asked, she shook her head the smallest bit back and forth. "You clearly don't want to help me and I don't even think you could even if I did volunteer for your hellish bootcamp which seems unnecessarily menacing. I was never meant to be this and don't think I haven't notice how my body is still actively rejecting it. I was supposed to die a human and, if it wasn't for the Sheriff's spell, I would have."

"You're awfully defense, you know that?" She pointed out softly, though her voice took on a far sharper tone as she called Ben a 'droll boy toy'. "Though, I'm sorry, a droll boy toy? Go fuck yourself and just because it's art, doesn't mean it's not tacky. While as for catacombs, they're... sad. All of those skeletons piled on top of each other until they practically form of wall of mismatched limbs you can't tell apart from one another? Unless they were some notable official, they become lost amongst the many. Faceless skulls that will go on being unremembered," She wrapped her arms across her chest as she thought of how similar it would have been for her if she hadn't been brought back. No one would have even known where she was buried. "I don't see you as a villain. Maybe, a bit of a bitch, but to be fair, you do like to insult my boyfriend a great deal, so... next you're going to tell me you're like Shrek. An onion with many layers," She mumbled under her breath, not bothering to point out Aaliyah saying that her questions was an 'exercise in self-flagellation' she had outgrown, she was further supporting Bri's entitled bitch theory.

Instead, she stood there quietly. Her gaze hyper-fixated on the crowd with her arms crossed over her chest. It was only when she was told that people cared about her, that she cut Aaliyah off. "No. They don't," Her dark brown eyes met Aaliyah's as she told her, point blank, "You've heard the eulogies. Majority of this town either doesn't give a fuck about me or hates me and they have since the first day I was resurrected. You want to talk about a complaint box? I've been called pretty much every name in the book, not to mentioned was told I smell of death which was an added dose of prejudice for no apparent reason. My friends have forgotten my birthday, stabbed me, mooched off of me, admitted to being afraid of me and fucked my boyfriend before we got together and I do mean plural friends for that one. The only family I have in town left unsure if they'd ever return, knowing they'd forget about me, and they said goodbye for what might have been forever if they hadn't come back over a note. The only person I have in my life who I know for certain loves me unconditionally and would never leave is Ben and he's missing his fucking leg now because of this godforsaken town. So, when I say why bother it is because there is literally no point. I know plenty about myself. I know I've spent the past three years trying to be liked by you god awful people and it doesn't change anything. It doesn't matter how I act. It doesn't matter what I do, all roads end the same. So, why bother? You can call it self-flagellation, if you want to, but I call it me no longer giving a fuck because there are a very few of you who are actually worth it."

"I wasn't in there throwing a fucking pity party. I was saying goodbye to the girl who died, which was originally supposed to be the whole point of this thing," She rolled her eyes as she kicked herself up off of the booth she had been leaning again. "I never had a funeral, though... wow. Are you going to be condescending this entire conversation? Because at this point, I might as well make it into a drinking game," A dry laugh broke from her lips. It was truly ironic how much Aaliyah seemed to think she had a read on the situation. "I've been letting myself 'feel it' for the past three years and I've been to nearly everybody else. Gia's unhinged, Ken barely puts up with me, Ralph and Ernie are still living in 1955, Meena's recovering from being malled by a wolf, Rio's often to busy to even get a coffee let alone fill me in and Saf and Ronnie are just as new at this as I am. So, save the whole 'I've got to want it and seek it out' pep talk. I've been seeking it out. What more do I have to do? Invest in a literal bat signal? Carry around a flashing neon sign that says 'help'?"

[himi-wiz]

Hehe

Chuuya for bingo! <3

(And Dazai, if you want to.)

YOU. YOU HAD TO HUH.

Definitely don't know you anon. And therefore I can lie about it but here we go:

Dazai —

Interesting lad in the most atrocious manner possible. Admittedly I still needed to read the novels but I think Dazai is an odd character which I've never quite gotten completely even from the start of my initial bsd phase at 2014-2015. Now I'm as old as him (which is bizarre to think about) and I get what's going on, I still don't think I'll ever quite grasp what's in his head. He has this apathy and intelligence I will never take hold of as someone who understands that I am extremely an ordinary individual and chooses to remain so — being oblivious and normal — for fear that I would turn out to be as isolated as he is.

I think it's terrifying.

To be too smart and think too much of yourself, to realise you're never going to be normal for you will always reason a way out of your greatest passions and your worst nightmares. And therefore you never truly fear anything nor could you truly love something wholeheartedly either. How could you when you can't trust in anything?

I am fond of the irl author, Mr. Dazai Osamu's dedication to his work of No Longer Human which I did read through ages ago and encounter some memorable quotes. But it's only rather recently I was able to fully comprehend the sheer terror it brings as the protagonist Yozo elaborates on the despair of understanding one's role in life is inevitably meaningless, akin to an insect realising its doom to fall prey to fate in a web full of lies.

Whenever I was asked what I wanted my first impulse was to answer "Nothing." The thought went through my mind that it didn't make any difference, that nothing was going to make me happy.

— No Longer Human, Dazai Ozamu

And I only have pity for such a being that is unable to unlearn that despair or at the very least, be able to stop, condense and move forward with these thoughts and live with them.

Our BSD Dazai however is given a chance to do so unlike Yozo thanks to Odasaku and it brings a fond affection to see him trying his best. I hope he does find his way and learns to enjoy the difficult journey stumbling around in life. But at the same time, it'll be foolish of me to presume just because he's moving towards the light, Dazai's darkness and general sense of dissatisfaction with people and life would change.

Dazai is not kind, he is not gentle, he's inconsiderate, deplorable, utterly wretched nuisance of a man who can and will use you if he decides it's worthwhile for him to do so, otherwise he has little interest in you even if he can sees through all your struggles and how he could help you, he wouldn't, certainly not intuitively desire so.

And I much prefer that viewpoint for it's more remarkable that Dazai is choosing when he does good. And how he's actively trying to be the side that reaches out to someone else and be there for them. To let himself be tied to people he feels isolated from and be vulnerable enough to take bets and place his trust on the Armed Detective Agency (and Chuuya and Akutagawa) so he could save lives he honestly doesn't care much for. How fascinating.

And so when fans do brush that darkness aside, I can be mildly peeved. But hey, it's still valid and okay to have some fun with just comfort and softness of just wishing happiness for a character you like. It can hard to decipher these layers if you don't know where to look too. Or perhaps am I reading too deep into this? Who knows. Asagiri sure has a way of writing nuances like these and it's so delightful to unpack them.

I still don't understand Dazai on a fundamental level.

That is more of my fault as I am someone who both emotionally and socially impaired so much that I use myself as a medium to "empathise" with people. I merely mimick emotions — like I don't feel sad if someone lost a loved one, I 'force' myself to feel bad if I am that person, I play out the scenario of losing something precious to me and I take that sadness to apply it to the person.

That's how I can predict people well enough, aside from those who are far too passionate in an ideal or passion I can't understand like Kunikida, those who learn to hate everything, and those who comprehend the reasons why they hate and shift to a complete apathy, able to pinpoint all the ways they're wrong — ways they don't fit, they aren't human enough, but are ultimately far too timid and cowardly to work on why they are outsiders and maintain a distance for it's far safer this way.

Dazai is still that person who's terrified of attachment and rejection, still struggling to believe in people more than he trusts his mind and vision of the world around him. And he appears to be doing his best, so perhaps I would fall in love with his character a little more when I finish rereading No Longer Human, the dark era stuff and other bsd side stories.

For now let's see how he'll end up.

Chuuya—

I refuse to elaborate on him.

Suffer anon.

[the-iceni-bitch]

The Bitch is Back

Pairing: Ransom Drysdale x fem!Reader (OTP)

Words: ~2.8k

Summary: You run into Ransom’s cunt of an ex again and it goes about as well as expected.

Warnings: explicit language, Ransom looking like a whole snack, fluff, that blonde bitch, Linda being a cunt, extremely abusive language and allusions to past emotional abuse, more angst than I had intended, my undying love for these two idiots, too many feelings

A/N: I hate her, I hate her, I hate her, I hate her, I hate her, I hate her! Sorry everyone, the angst took over this one and what I had intended to be another fun romp a la Girl Fight turned into a pit of emotion that I couldn’t dig myself out of. I’m gonna go cry.

“Baby, you know we can just go home, right?” Ransom gave you a tired but indulgent smile when he looked at you, tucking his fingers under your chin and tilting your head back so he could look into your eyes while you swallowed thickly.

“No, I’m not gonna give your mother the satisfaction of seeing me duck out of this thing.” You got that stubborn set to your jaw that told him to quit trying to take care of you, because proving to his bitch mother you could actually make it through one of these stupid events without causing some kind of scene was more important than your comfort right now.

You felt bile rise in your throat and swallowed it again. This was fucking ridiculous, you weren’t even on a boat, just the dock. But you still felt like you were going to vomit at any second, watching the motion of the boats rocking on the water making your gut lurch. It almost made you wonder if Linda knew about your stomach’s aversion to being on water when she had insisted on the two of you attending their fucking sailing club’s final regatta. 

“Here we go, one scopolamine patch.” You could’ve kissed Anne when she handed it to you, grateful that Ben’s boat was moored in this marina so you didn’t have to spend the rest of this stupid thing constantly swallowing your own vomit. “Why didn’t you bring your own?”

“She said she’d be fine if she didn’t actually go on the boats.” Ransom ignored the glare you shot him when he talked to Anne over your head, rubbing your arm softly when he pulled you closer to him.

“Did I tell you how much I hate that you two get along?” You frowned when Ransom pressed his lips to your hair, slapping the patch on your neck and sighing when you felt your stomach start to settle.

Anne just laughed at you, shaking her head as she sipped on her cocktail and leaned against Ben. The fact that this guy actually treated you like you deserved did a lot to endear him to her, even if he was an asshole sometimes.

You had been worried at first about introducing Anne to Ransom’s idiot friends, no matter how much they had grown on you. But your friend could hold her own, her no nonsense attitude endearing her to the girls as she chewed out Logan for some dumbass comment while Dylan and Chaz just chuckled that now there were two of you.

This was one of the few things that you actually felt out of your element with, since you could not give a single fuck about sailing with your stupid seasickness. But you could tell Ran was enjoying himself, and every fucking time he got near the water he looked so fucking windswept and dreamy so it was well worth the nausea. That was all gone now though, the scopolamine making you feel just the tiniest bit drowsy and pleasantly warm while Ran pulled you tight against his chest as he whistled for his team’s boat between nuzzling himself into your hair with pleased little hums. Even Linda giving you some vicious side eye couldn’t break you out of your good mood, the warmth of Ransom wrapped around you like a balm for your typical nervous energy. Then you heard Jess mutter an “oh shit” and the sound of a bratty, whiny voice broke right through your pleasant haze and made your spine stiffen.

“Rannie?” That fucking blonde bitch would show up to something like this, just to ruin your day. “I thought that was you. Oh, still with your tramp, I see.”

“Sloane.” His grip around you grew almost painfully tight, growling into your neck as he did his best to take deep breaths. “Don’t you have some puppies to skin, or something?”

You grabbed his hand and wound your fingers through his as you felt him tense up, pressing your lips to the inside of his wrist in an attempt to help him calm down. It had been your sincere hope that after you beat the shit out of this cunt you would never have to see her again, but when had you ever been that lucky?

“Aww, Rannie, thought you couldn’t talk without this bitch’s permission.” She looked mildly uncomfortable when you shifted your gaze to her, your eyes narrowing in a warning that she chose to ignore. “Been missing you a whole lot, baby, when’re you gonna stop slumming around?”

“What the fuck do you want, Sloane?” You were chanting over and over in your head that you were not going to fight this cunt, catching Anne starting to square up from the corner of your eye and giving her a small shake of the head to get her to stand down.

“I’m not talking to you, slut.” She must’ve been drunk, you had definitely taught her her lesson last time. “Just because you can give this bastard a good, sloppy fuck doesn’t mean you get to keep him. You don’t know what he really needs, and he’s too fucking stupid to tell you. God, you’re only sticking with him because he’s such a good fuck, right? That’s like, his only redeeming quality, except for the money. And you and your low class pussy don’t even know what to do with such a fine piece of eye candy.”

“Ok, you need to leave, Sloane.” Ransom may have been full of the anxiety he always felt around his ex, but the way your whole body was wound tight like a spring let him know you were ready to get violent. So he pressed a brief, soothing kiss to your hair and moved to guide this drunk bitch away from another beating.

“Don’t you fucking touch me, god, you really are a fucking moron.” Sloane jerked away from him when he tried to guide her away from your group, turning and sneering derisively at him. “Fuck’s sake, Linda was right, she really should have aborted you so we wouldn’t have to deal with your stupid bull shit.”

“What the fuck did you just say?” You reached your arm out to grip Ransom’s shoulder on instinct when he recoiled like he had been slapped, pulling him towards you protectively as you stared disbelieving at the people around you. “What the fuck did she just say?”

Sloane was just grinning at you wickedly as she sipped on her drink, like she had never and would never do anything wrong in her life. You almost forgot your promise you’d made to not get yourself kicked out of this event, but then Ran was clutching at your waist and making a choked sound and you turned back to him with concern.

There was no one to hold back Anne though, and she hadn’t made any promises about being on her best behavior. So she handed Ben her purse and punched that bitch right in the jaw.

You just gave a grateful look to your best friend before she bitch slapped that twat, security already starting to rush towards the fight as you guided Ransom towards the parking lot while he tried to regulate his breathing.

“Baby? Hey, Ran, look at me.” You’d never seen him look so completely lost, his eyes glistening with pent up emotion when you finally got him to look at you and you felt your heart break. “Oh honey, can you make it to the car?” He just nodded at you as another strangled sob escaped his throat and every fiber of your being ached to give him some form of comfort. “Ok, gimme the keys.”

He handed them to you and you wound your arm around him to guide him towards the beemer, letting him lean heavily on your shoulder and murmuring soft, soothing noises to him as you tried to think of something you could do for him. You knew that bitch was an abusive piece of work but Ran had been so hesitant to talk about it and you didn’t want to push him about it before he was ready, but if the way he reacted to her barb was any indication of how she treated him you might end up killing that bitch.

Ransom’s breathing seemed even more ragged by the time you reached the beemer, barely giving you a chance to shove the front seat down so the two of you could climb into the back and you could instruct him to stretch out over your lap. Your own throat was starting to get tight when he let out a wretched sob, the fingers of one hand running through his hair while the other smoothed over his chest as you watched his face closely.

“Baby, I need you to breathe for me, ok?” You were trying your best to keep your voice low and even, taking a deep breath and waiting for him to mirror your actions until he was pressing his face to your stomach with a piteous whine once his breathing had regulated slightly. “That’s it, you’re doing so good, Ran, just keep breathing.” 

He sighed deeply when you continued murmuring soft words of praise to him, his fingers curling over yours on his chest as he looked up at you and felt the softness of your gaze spread like warmth through his body. 

“I’m sorry.” He moaned when you pulled gently on his hair, his voice raspy with the tears he’d managed to swallow.

“No, baby.” You curled over him and brushed your lips over his forehead, trying not to cry when he wrapped his arms around your neck and let out another shaky breath. “You don’t apologize, ever, you hear me?”

“I thought I was over this shit.” He buried his face in your neck and breathed deep, your warm scent washing over him and finally making him relax. “I don’t want to put this on you.”

“Listen to me, Ransom.” You pulled back a little so you could gaze into his eyes, resting your forehead against his and maneuvering until you were laying next to him across the backseat. “I don’t know if you really think I’m just with you for the sex or what, but when I say I love you, I fucking mean it. I love all of you, so much, and that means that you can put all of it on me, ok? I’m not going anywhere.”

“Fuck, I love you, too.” He whined when you pressed your lips to his gently, drinking you in and pulling you to him as tight as possible when you let him deepen the kiss. “Need you so much.”

“I know, Ransom, I’m here.” You moved your lips up to his cheeks when he finally let his tears start to fall, kissing each one that stained his cheeks as you splayed your body over his while he held you. “My sweet boy, it’s ok. Let go for me, baby.”

He buried his face in your shoulder and did as you asked. It wasn’t loud or dramatic, but you could feel the warm wetness of his tears against the bare flesh of your neck while his chest heaved against yours. You cooed soft words of encouragement into his hair as he wept, letting a few of your own tears fall as you felt the tension slowly seep from his body.

Neither of you were sure how long you laid there tangled with each other, but eventually Ransom felt the last of the pain drain out of him until he was sinking against the seat with exhaustion. Having you there with him was like a balm for his soul, the way your eyes moved to search his once you felt him let out a deep sigh making his lips quirk in a small smile. His eyes were brilliantly blue from the tears he had shed, but you could see a glimmer of something hopeful there, and that made you relax. You sighed when he framed your face with his hands and pulled your lips back to his, the kiss chaste but full of emotion that he was too exhausted to vocalize at the moment.

“You ready to go home?” You pressed your hand over his heart when you leaned back a little, glad to feel that it had slowed down to a normal rhythm as he nodded for you. “Ok, you just stay back here and rest, alright? When we get home I’m gonna draw us a nice bath and we’ll just spend the rest of the day vegging.”

“That sounds good.” He watched you climb back into the front seat with a deep breath, squeezing your hand when you let it linger on his chest before letting you pull it away with reluctance.

You peeked at him through the rear view mirror before pulling out, relieved when you watched his eyes drift closed as he sagged into the seat and let his exhaustion take over. It almost hurt you how much you loved that man, and if you ever saw that cunt who hurt him again, there was a good chance you were going to jail for him.

Ransom was still dozing by the time you pulled up to the house, but he roused quickly when he felt you shake him awake. He let you help him out of the car and smiled warmly at you when you brought your hand up to cup his jaw, humming contentedly when you let him bury his face in your hair as you guided him into the house.

You pressed a kiss to his cheek once you were inside and instructed him to go to the en suite while you got some wine, watching him closely as he headed up the stairs before moving to grab a good bottle from the rack. There was a buzzing from your purse and you pulled out your phone, texting Anne that everything was ok and no, you didn’t need her to smash that bitch’s windows in. She was detailing all the ways she was going to fuck that cunt up and making you chuckle when suddenly the last caller ID you expected flashed across your screen.

“Can I help you with something, Linda?” You poured the Syrah into a decanter and moved to grab a couple of glasses, curious why exactly she was calling you.

“Y/N…” she sounded massively uncomfortable but you could not bring yourself to give a single fuck. “I just… I heard what Sloane said and I wanted to make sure Ransom was alright. He wasn’t answering my calls though.”

“Good for him.” You chewed on your lip as you considered what you wanted to say to her. “Was she lying?”

“What?”

“Did you tell your own child you should have aborted him? Or was that abusive cunt you kept forcing down your son’s throat being a lying bitch?” 

“I never… I didn’t tell him.” She still sounded like she thought she was in the right, and you might have spit in her face if she was in front of you.

“Oh, but you said it, didn’t you?” You sneered and downed the glass of wine you’d poured when you saw her number pop up. She didn’t deny it, and you quickly moved to pour yourself another glass. “You’re a fucking piece of work, Linda.”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you.” You could  practically hear her spine straightening over the phone and you rolled your eyes at her. “You don’t know what it was like trying to raise him. Stubborn and spoiled and…”

“Goodbye, Linda. Don’t fucking call either of us again.” You hung up before she could continue, tossing your phone across the counter and draining your glass before grabbing the decanter and glasses before heading upstairs.

“Hey, baby.” He was already soaking when you walked into the steam filled en suite, his head leaning back against the edge of the drop in tub and giving you a lazy grin. “You have trouble picking a wine?”

“No.” You set the decanter and glasses on the tray at the tub’s edge and pinned your hair off your neck before getting undressed and sliding into the water with him. “I had to talk to your mother.” 

“Oh, you had to?” He pulled you against his chest and sighed when you tucked your face into his neck.

“Yeah, I wanted to make sure she didn’t disturb us for the rest of the weekend.” You took a deep breath when he started trailing his fingers over your spine, the warmth of the water seeping through your body and helping you relax as you sank into him. “You wanna talk about what happened?”

“Later.” His arms wound tightly around you, nuzzling into your hair and breathing in the scent of you that always made him feel like he was home. “Just wanna hold you for now.”

[bapydemonprincess]

Maybe, “sometimes we wear masks for so long, to hide what we truly feel, that those layers become an extra skin.” for Bardlau? 💛🖤

“Sometimes, we wear masks for so long, to hide what we truly feel, that those layers become extra skin,” The Chinese man was carefully telling the Yank, as the other man had clearly been going through a rough patch.

Once again not sleeping an ounce.

Once again not eating a crumb.

Once again avoiding everyone and keeping to himself, even through out the day though he’d still had to do daily tasks as a servant.

He was also currently puffing away frantically at a smoke, and clearly had been smoking a few more than he should in one sitting.

“It’s better this way..” Bard had gruffly responded, not even looking at the other man attempting to help him.

Just staring into space.

A lingering silence followed..

It was clear as the silence carried on with no follow up what-so-ever, Bardroy had meant that was that.

It was simply better that way.

The only alternative was non-negotiable.

....

Likely because before Bardroy had settled into choosing to mask these kinds of emotions, he’d gone through unexplainable agony.. anguish... sadness.

And he never ever wanted that again.

...

Slowly nodding finally, Lau reached over and patted the man’s tense and firm shoulder.

He wouldn’t argue. He wouldn’t try to barter.

He would never try to change or fix Bardroy.

He’d let him be however he wished to be.. for as long as he wanted.

.

.

.

This show of understanding was a powerful tool; a stepping stone.

That lead to progression- maybe not in Bardroy’s mental circumstance -but in the Chinese man and the Yank’s relationship to each other as a whole.

To a point where Lau was allowed to touch the taller, gruffer man more. To fully wrap him up in his lean arms. To pull him close.

There was no problem in Lau being much smaller than the other man, for despite a big difference in size, his body’s comforting contact was somehow.. perfect to Bard.

Good enough to cling too eventually, with big calloused but shaking hands.

 Tough enough to hold onto the bigger man, as if for Lau’s dear life, and for hours and hours... 

Until the sun came back.

And the birds started singing again.

This became a perfect hobby, a good change of pace.

An understanding agreement.

A new, unique layer to the mask the former American soldier wore.

.

.

.

But... Bardroy wasn’t the only one wearing a mask... He wasn’t the only one with “extra skin”...

.

.

An attack was made on Lau’s establishment.

A gang made up of wretched, angry, racist British men came trying to terrorize the Chinese district, thinking it would go down so perfectly.

Especially when they had bombs and the newest efficient firearms on the market.

They were still a small group, though, and mostly were taken out over the course of the attack.

There may not have been such rough customers like this in a long time, but Lau had always, always been prepared just in case.

With not only his employees, the lovely ladies of his den, who were all trained not only in serving but in fighting, but as well as of course the hired body guards too.

...

Except...

Ran Mao came back to him with a ... bullet lodged in her gut...

Proving that indeed the firearms were certainly becoming a bit of a problem now...

They were able to get the bullet out, thankfully, but.. 

Ran Mao had been wounded.

She had to rest. For the wound to heal and close. For her body to be able to move and function properly again not only from the damage but from the blood loss.

She certainly didn’t like the prospect.

But when she was finally too drained to put up a fight, and basically passed out from sheer exhaustion from fighting against it for so long..

Lau..

.

.

Sebastian shoved a letter into Bardroy’s hands one afternoon, looking mildly annoyed as if this letter was a segue into a big accident the American had caused unknowingly.

The American blinked, ripped open the envelope, and quickly looked it over.

Master Chef

 It is in your best interest not to meet with Lau until further notice. He is not seeing any client at this time. Not accepting guests or invites either. Please understand this is a personal issue. You will hear back at some point in the future. Thank you.

.

It was unsigned.

.

Bardroy looked up, and met the expected gaze of the butler.

Who only lifted one of those thin black eyebrows of his as if to say “Well? What are you going to do?”

.

Bardroy took out his lighter and set the paper on fire.

And as soon as it was ashes he went shooting off like a bullet, into action.

Not even bothering to change or go grab perhaps a horse to speed things up, he’d raced off, out into the forest surrounding the manor.

Clearly in a mindset to reach the Chinese man his own way.

.

.

Hours later Lau’s den was filled with shrieks of ladies and men alike, as someone came barreling through, like a human shaped battering ram, and not a single person could grab him.

“LAU, WHERE THE FUCK ARE YA! COME OUT, Y’DAFT FUCK, THINKIN’ YA CAN SEND A FUCKIN’ LETTER T’ME AN’ KEEP ME AWAY, WHO THE FUCK DO YOU-”

“Sir, in here!” One girl squeak out, smartly trying to help the American and recognizing who he was.

She frantically ushered him to a particular back room, which actually did not smell at all like the rest of the famed opium den..

There was still something unique in the air, a scent of some kind perfumey incense that burned in the corner.. somehow warding off anything else in this closed off room.

Oh, and there was also Ran Mao on a bed on the floor.

And Lau lying down on the floor against her.

Clinging to her.

.

Bardroy shifted in place, all anger and outrage vanishing like smoke suddenly.. Or like he’d just started awake from a black out, as he stared at the view in front of him.

“...Oi, Lau...” He uttered softly, confusion dripping from just those first two words, “I uh, I guess I... um..”

Lau suddenly turned his head, looking over his shoulder at the man he knew so well, suddenly in his private quarters.. 

Like a stranger.

Even if Bard could only see the one eye from that angle, staring at him and shimmering in the dim lighting, and not blinking or not half open or completely closed for once.. 

He had a feeling.. 

Lau was not welcoming him in.

“I.. know there was some kinda.. struggle, but.. That was.. a month ago, eh? Yeah.. Uh... I.. I guess Ran M-Mao must... must’ve taken a.. “

“One. Bullet.”

Bardroy soaked in those two words, coming from the other in a tone that.. He’d never heard from him.

Lau sounded.. almost.. Hysterical..

Like this one fact of “one bullet” had driven him a tiny bit.. over the edge.

“One. Bullet. Bardroy. One.. one bullet of one of those new fancy firearms.. was.. was all it took.. Was all that was needed to tear through the body of...”

His words broke up, specifically his English, and the rest was in Chinese that the yank certainly did not recognize, and even just the tone alone had Bardroy feeling..

A familiar urge to either flee or ..

He dropped to his knees before the curled up man facing away from him.

He reached out.

A hand came out and a sharp dagger was inches from Bard’s face.

Lau was sitting up now, body still half twisted away in the direction of the bed, but he hand one arm holding him up, as the other arm had not wasted any time in flinging around to dive for the other man’s approaching visage.

But.

Bard had grabbed that fast hand with both of his.

He stared at the blade inches from his eyes and nose.

And then at the man along the arm, the face of Lau with eyes both open, golden brown and shining with water.

Red tinged the white of the eyes.

Eyelids shadowed and ragged.

Lined clear as day on a forehead and cheeks.

Red starting to gradually creep into those high cheeks too.

“Lau...” Bardroy breathed, staring into those eyes. Concentrating on not only the hand in his clutches still (but now shaking violently), but the rest of the figure before him..

This... shadow of a figure.

“Again... it’s only been a month... She’ll be fine, Lau. She’ll survive.”

“BUT SHE WAS REDUCED TO THIS.. ONE BULLET AND.. AND NOW--”

“Lau... She’ll adapt. I don’ even know ‘er that good, but I can tell she will. She’ll be--”

“BUT I LET THIS HAPPEN TO HER, BARD--”

“LAU. YOU HAD NO CONTROL OVER WHAT THE FUCK COULDA HAPPENED TO--”

“I COULD HAVE KEPT HER FROM GOING OUT, I COULD HA--”

Ran Mao’s leg suddenly lifted from the blanket and rose up, only for her foot to come down and bonk her wailing older brother in the head.

“Shut up.” She uttered in a tone that implied she was still half asleep and her face was still half nestled in the pillow.

But she’d had enough of these two going on right next to her bed.

Bard let go of Lau’s hand and Lau promptly dropped the blade.

His other hand was on his face now, rubbing at his eyes.

Bardroy sighed as he watched the other man.. just watched this man he’d known for over a few years crumple right before him.

Even now when it was plain that Ran Mao was indeed fine, still recovering from her wound, but she would be just fine!

But Lau...

The fact remained in his mind.. 

That she had gotten shot.

And to him:

He’d let her get shot.

And now this was how he was dealing with it.

Bardroy.. looked in space as he recalled the past though...

How Lau would laugh off situations and catastrophes..

Or act like had had no clue what had happened.

Or at the last minute come through with a quick delivery of violence, unexpected and swift to attack.

But in this situation...

That.. mask of his.. it... hadn’t been able to stay up.

It hadn’t been able to withstand the reality of what had happened..

To the one human being Lau truly cared the most for.

He couldn’t laugh and act confused like he didn’t know what was going on.

He couldn’t fix it with killing anyone or destroying anything.

There was nothing he COULD do.

...

This was all to familiar to the other man.

The man that Lau himself had stated wore a “mask” that became layers of skin..

...

Bardroy once again reached out..

Gently he touched the man’s lurching shoulder, and waited for the man to look up again, as he’d still been covering his face as the minutes ticked by..

Bardroy in this moment tried to.. mirror a look he himself had been given.

A look of understanding.

A look of care.

A look that expressed that he would not try to change or fix Lau.

Whatever had made the man like this, in his past, Bard knew and expressed he had no right to try changing.

But Bard would be there for him.

Like Lau had been there for him.

A crack in their masks...

But they stayed together despite it.

[unascended]

THE WEIGHT IN THE PALM OF HIS HAND WAS AS CUMBERSOME AS THE ONE IN HIS CHEST. Astarion took her soul coin, clutching at it like the desperate thing that he was. How was he to say no when she held out something to him - something of value both personal and literal? After everything Karlach had said, he felt as if his tongue (or perhaps his very being) had been scalded. It was as if he'd pressed against her bare flaming skin only to come away charred and cracking. There was no balm to soothe how wretched her goodness made him feel by comparison.

Even still Astarion felt she misunderstood him. Karlach was looking for something in him that no longer existed. Perhaps it never did. Or worse: if it did how did he justify, well, ALL OF IT? There was so little left of himself to make sense of because of Cazador, and so little that made sense in the world at all. (He made sense of it by believing it was all bad, even himself.) Was he responsible for the children? For every beautiful corpse he'd thrown in a muddy pit while Godey or some beady eyed werewolf kept watch? For the sex and the deceit and the way he hated it, hated his body, hated how it'd been used, hated -

Slender fingers unclenched from around Karlach's soul coin, his swimming ruby stare flickering over it in a silent battle against the urge to shed tears. No, he wouldn't cry. A single hard swallow, a deep breath, and Astarion turned his gaze on her with sharp intensity.

"Of course I want freedom," he began, tone icy and distant. "So does everything kept in a cage."

Despite the fight bubbling to the surface in him to spill past his lips, his fingers curled around the coin one final time. This time he pulled his hand back, pushing it up between his middle and index fingers to begin rolling it over his knuckles. Flippant treatment for something so priceless offered to him, maybe, but he had no intention of giving it back now that it was his. Maybe it'd make a good bargaining chip when they reached the Shadow Cursed lands in a couple of days. If he were lucky enough to meet Raphael again. (If he could bring himself to truly part with it.)

"The difference between you and I, darling..." His tone was more biting than his expression - no, his eyes denoted fear. Fear of himself. Perhaps of her getting close to him for real and hating what she saw. "The difference is you had the free will to run. If you were corrupted you didn't stay that way, but I don't think you were. Zariel might have cut out your heart, Karlach, but a part of you still held onto it even when it was hopeless. Even when it was stupid to."

There was a soft metallic clink as Astarion's thumb caught the edge of the soul coin and flipped it into the air. Snatching it up, he finally pocketed it and leaned forward with folded hands resting between his spread thighs. With his head bowed he could see all manner of tiny critters scuttling through the dirt at his feet. He grimaced, plagued by memories of the bugs he'd eaten when he was starved and rats were off the menu.

"Mine stopped beating two hundred years ago. You clung to your love for this plane and the people in it to get you by. I learned to hate it. Faerûn has its mildly redeeming qualities, sure, but... I had to hate it. Because if I didn't..." The fingers of his left hand squeezed his right so hard he felt his bones ache with it. "Maybe I would have died. Maybe someone else would be in my place. I would be forced to face the idea that there might have been people who loved me once, and I had to accept that there never will be again. Not really."

Desperation crept into his voice again, like a starved beast prowling in the night. Cazador had carved him hollow of all hope. He'd lived two centuries stripped of even the most basic agency over himself, and she expected him to play hero? "Why should I save anyone but myself? Oh, I'm sure you think your reasons are so compelling. So no one else has to feel what we did. That's so sweet, Karlach, really, but since when did anyone look at ME and think that?"

Burning red eyes caught the firelight when he finally looked up at her again. In his gaze there was a well of rage and misery so bottomless that it put the Abyss to shame. Even if he knew she was right, he had to argue. He couldn't just not - he had to make sense of it. He couldn't.

"For two hundred years I've had to live with knowing that the objectively right thing for anyone who came across me to do would be to put a stake through my heart. The right thing to do would never be to save me. To help me. To take pity on me for being tormented every moment of my miserable existence. No one looks at THIS -" His fangs flashed at her, left hand dropping the right to jerkily point at his own gaping maw. "- and thinks I'm suffering. They see a monster and they leave it to rot. Or hunt it. Even the Gods wouldn't help me. So why should I help anyone?"

With his vitriol drained like a pus-filled wound, Astarion deflated. Any anger in his expression melted into sadness because he knew she was right. Even so, he had no idea how to go about righting whatever was so wrong with him that he'd ended up here to begin with.

"I don't know how to be better. I hardly think I know what better is to begin with. But if it helps you be better - I'll keep the coin. I'll make sure we fix your engine. I'll see to it you never have to go back there." A tear carved a wet valley down his cheek, setting his teeth on edge and his shoulders stiff. He looked, maybe, like he might want to say: But I want to try. Instead he said, "That is at least some good I can do. You would do it for me."

BEING GOOD NEVER CAME WITH A REWARD IN AVERNUS . Devils sought to exploit you, and to ruin you. To take any hash of weakness, any give, any falter, and they would use that - take, and take, and take, until there was nothing left. All devils were unapologetically like that - no matter what kind of pretty face they'd put up or feign of innocence. There was always something more going on behind the scenes, because those skeevy little fuckers were sly. In the beginning, Karlach really wanted to be good, and she did all she could to help those that really needed it. A passing ration here, a slip of a refugee there - but it didn't last long. That good heart of hers was sullied the moment Zariel honed in on her potential, and tore it free of her chest. That good heart of hers was sullied when Zariel cast it away, and perverted her body. Shoved something dripping with malice into a place it didn't belong. It had no home in a body like Karlach's - and every other little pet project died from this procedure.

WHERE DID THEY DIE , SHE WONDERED ?

Was it from breaking all of their ribs? Rending their flesh from the very bone, tear through arteries and shoving long metal tubes in through their limbs? Was it from bloodloss, or just sheer fucking pain? Was it fast, or did it take days to die? Perhaps it was when Zariel ripped out the still-beating heart from their chest, pulling it before their very gaze, with a wicked gleam in those soulless eyes. Or when their heart was severed, nodes being forced into a machine on the table next, infernal metal tubes attached to it next. Was it when the engine roared to life - did it scorch them from the inside, out? Did they survive the process, then? No. None of them did. Every creature who was forcibly perverted by Zariel's disgusting machinery that was not some denizen of this plane died from the procedure. It was too much stress for their bodies to handle, too much trauma. Too much pain. NO ONE WAS MEANT TO SURVIVE THIS PROCESS . That's why it was called experimentation, why the engine was a prototype. It wasn't meant to inhabit bodies - just cold steel. It wasn't meant for someone living.

BUT BY SOME FUCKING MIRACLE , KARLACH DID .

She was the only one. Every other subject died on the table, bloodless, scorched, debauched, and aberrant. Countless pounds of flesh and bone, thoroughly strung out like macabre feast suited only for the utterly deviant and twisted monsters with their own special places among the Styx. The ones who willingly serve Zariel, and beg for all of her attention like touch-starved mutts. It was most deplorable - and yet, when her body recovered, she yearned for that same attention. Malice loves malice, and that thing shoved into her achy-breaky body loved nothing more than it did Zariel. THUS BEGAN THAT VICIOUS CYCLE OF OBSESSION , OF ADDICTION , AND IT WAS FUCKING RUINOUS . Karlach tried her best to keep her wits about her, but it was impossible to think when she was fighting for her life one moment, and high off of Soul Coins the next. Her moral compass, with time, began to skew. Help was few and far between now, and after only six years in Avernus, did that hope start to dwindle and die. She never stopped looking for a way out- but sacrifices were made, and they were no longer on her plate. It was about controlling what she could - and too many innocent victims of the Blood Wars were spared by her axe. She never wanted to kill them - but she could hear the murmurs. The hopes. That another tiefling would come, like herself, and they could become another fleshy experiment.

In that, a line was drawn. Morality fighting with her skewed compass, battling like her consciousness did her addiction, and she felt wholly unworthy to be the judge, or the jury. BUT SHE WOULD BE THE EXECUTIONER . Even if that did nothing more than shorten what fate they were destined to have - she could save them the agony. It wasn't something she was proud of. It wasn't something she would even mention, not ever. Speaking it into existence would only solidify Wyll's statements, calling her a devil, a monster. She would stick to her guns, she was a victim of the Blood War - but her hands were not clean. They never would be, and not enough water in the planes would wash away the atrocities she had to commit.

That level of self-loathing from Astarion was quiet. Too quiet. But Karlach was one who could pick out that thousand-yard stare - she saw that, too, in the mirror, if she spaced out enough. Keeping it covered was the real trick - and her blind optimism would have to do. It wasn't fabricated, not really. BECAUSE SHE WAS A FREE WOMAN . Just not as free as she wanted to be. That, and the sins of her past would drag her down like a ball and chain. Even still, she had to march on. This time, it's not just about her, anymore. They all need to survive this, and they all need a big, strong rock to lean on. Her eyes flicker up to meet his again - and he looks utterly deprived of care. Care for the things about him, or care for himself? Outward, inward? It would take a bit to suss out, she suspected. He said he doesn't care - but it felt like a cover. He cared about something - and maybe that was freedom. She latched onto this.

" Nay, let's say you don't care. " Karlach amuses this thought, hands kneading together with contemplation, and her vented shoulders deflate a touch. " Still better than hate. There's not a lot of things I hate, Astarion. List is quite stubby, if I'm honest with you - but I'll let you in on a secret. " She didn't get closer, for fear of making her companion who had gotten closer to her heart in the past decade than even she had been into a crispy little critter. But, she did lean in a touch, ensuring her gaze met his own with blazing intensity. " You want something more. And it's freedom. " She pauses, to survey any change in expression, any hint of admission, before she leans back slowly, allowing the weight of her words to settle in. Then, crimson hues shift to the stars above, and she watches him - the movement of his head, of those little peeping scars on his throat. A certainty. MAYBE RIGHT NOW , HE WAS A FREE MAN . Good things weren't meant to last. All the more reason to treasure them most.

" It's always a gamble, y'know. Saving others. Acting selfless. " She continues on, after that brief pause, shoulder shrinking in at how her engine revs. Bathing in blood made her oily blood pump - and indulging sex made a low heat brew in her belly. Two things she desperately needed, like him, but she had some atonements to make. THAT , AND SHE COULDN ' T INDULGE IN MUCH OF ANYTHING WHEN SHE BURNED LIKE HELLFIRE . " But it's not an expectation. " Karlach continues after that beat, lips tugged into a pointed frown. It was hitting a little too close to a proverbial home, and that ragged laugh that left him was forced. Too devoid of humor for her to entertain. When she swallows, it's thick. Her tongue feels thick.

" Sometimes we gotta do things 'cause they're right. 'Cause maybe, you and I wouldn't be in the places we're in now, if someone had done it for us. I'm not gonna sit here and ponder on all the what-ifs, since that's just shite, but-- " And she sighs again. This wasn't just for him, after all. But his words made her engine stir - and it wasn't with innocence. " All I've done is gone berserk. I don't know what it was like in your shiny palace, but don't think it was any better or any worse than what it was like, in Avernus. I had to do a lot of shit to survive, 'n... A lot more than that. It's war - and there are no winners in war. No one comes out the way they went in. If I'm honest with you, if I let myself go berserk again? I . . . I don't rightly know what you'll see. That being said- " And she leans up, shoving a hand into one of her pockets - where she squeezes what's inside. There's a beat of hesitation, but she intends to make a promise. She produces something strange - soaked in the stench of brimstone, and utterly haunting in the palm of a hand. A strange, infernal coin, that she was desperately holding onto. She almost flinches, holding it out - but forces her arm to steady. Offering HER Soul Coin to the rogue. " Can't risk it. PLEASE , TAKE IT . "

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Anonymous asked: I have always appreciated your thoughtful views on the defence of the British monarchy, and as a university historian it’s reassuring to see someone using history to make invalubale insights to a controversial institution. I wonder what are your own thoughts on the passing of Prince Philip and what his legacy might be? Was he a gaffe prone racist and a liability to the Queen?

I know you kindly got in touch and identified yourself when you felt I was ignoring your question. I’m glad we cleared that up via DM. The truth is as I said and I’m saying here is that I had to let some time pass before I felt I could reasonably answer this question. Simply because - as you know as someone who teaches history at university - distance is good to make a sober appraisal rather than knee jerk in the moment judgements.

Contrary to what some might think I’m not really a fan girl when it comes to the royal family. I don’t religiously follow their every movement or utterance especially as I live in Paris and therefore I don’t really care about tabloid tittle tattle. I only get to hear of anything to do with the royal family when I speak to my parents or my great aunts and uncles for whom the subject is closer to their heart because of the services my family has rendered over past generations to the monarchy and the older (and dying) tight knit social circles they travel in.

Like Walter Bagehot, I’m more interested in the monarchy as an institution and its constitutional place within the historical, social, and political fabric of Britain and its continued delicate stabilising importance to that effect. It was Walter Bagehot, the great constitutional scholar and editor the Economist magazine, who said, “The mystic reverence, the religious allegiance, which are essential to a true monarchy, are imaginative sentiments that no legislature can manufacture in any people.” In his view, a politically-inactive monarchy served the best interests of the United Kingdom; by abstaining from direct rule, the monarch levitated above the political fray with dignity, and remained a respected personage to whom all subjects could look to as a guiding light.

Even as a staunch monarchist I freely confess that there has always been this odd nature of the relationship between hereditary monarchy and a society increasingly ambivalent about the institution. To paraphrase Bagehot again, there has been too much ‘daylight’ shone onto the ‘magic’ of the monarchy because we are obsessed with personalities as celebrities.

Having said that I did feel saddened by the passing of Prince Philip, the Duke of Edinburgh. After the Queen, he was my favourite royal. Anne, Princess Royal, would come next because she is very much like her father in temperament, humour, and character, so unlike her other brothers.

I have met the late Prince Philip when I was serving in the army in a few regimental meet-and-greet situations - which as you may know is pretty normal given that members of the royal family serve as honorary colonel-in-chiefs (patrons in effect) of all the British army regiments and corps.I also saw him at one or two social events such the annual charitable Royal Caledonian Ball (he’s an expert scottish reeler) and the Guards Polo Club where my older brothers played.

I’ll will freely confess that he was the one royal I could come close to identify with because his personal biography resonated with me a great deal.

Let’s be honest, the core Windsor family members, born to privilege, are conditioned and raised to be dull. Perhaps that’s a a tad harsh. I would prefer the term ‘anonymously self-effacing’, just another way of saying ‘for God’s sake don’t draw attention to yourself by saying or doing anything even mildly scandalous or political lest it invites public opprobrium and scrutiny’. The Queen magnificently succeeds in this but the others from Charles down just haven’t (with the exception of Princess Anne).

However, many people forget this obvious fact that it’s the incoming husbands and wives who marry into the Windsor family who are relied upon to bring colour and even liven things up a little. And long before Kate Middleton, Meghan Markle (very briefly), or Lady Diana Spencer, were the stars of ‘The Firm’- a phrase first coined by King George VI, Queen Elizabeth II's father who ruled from 1936 to 1952, who was thought to have wryly said, "British royals are 'not a family, we're a firm,” - it was Prince Philip who really livened things up and made the greater impact on the monarchy than any of them in the long term.  

Prince Philip’s passing belied the truth of a far more complex individual: a destitute and penniless refugee Greek-Danish prince with a heart breaking backstory that could have been penned by any 19th Century novelist, and also eagle eyed reformer who tried to drag the royal family into the 20th century. At the core of the man - lost scion of a lost European royal dynasty, a courageous war veteran, and Queen’s consort - were values in which he attempted to transform and yet maintain much older inherited traditions and attitudes. Due to his great longevity, Philip’s life came to span a period of social change that is almost unprecedented, and almost no one in history viewed such a transformation from the front row.

Prince Philip would seem to represent in an acute form the best of the values of that era, which in many ways jar with today’s. He had fought with great courage in the war as a dashing young naval officer; he was regularly rude to foreigners, which was obviously a bonus to all Brits. He liked to ride and sail and shoot things. He was unsentimental almost to a comic degree, which felt reassuring at a time when a new-found emotional incontinence made many feel uncomfortable. Outrageous to some but endearing to others, he was the sort of man you’d want to go for a pint with, perhaps the ultimate compliment that an Englishman can pay to another Englishman. This has its own delicious irony as he wasn’t really an Englishman.

There are 4 takeways I would suggest in my appraisal of Prince Philip that stand out for me. So let me go through each one.

1. Prince Philip’s Internationalism

It may seem odd for me to say that Prince Philip wasn’t English but he wasn’t an Englishman in any real sense. He was a wretch of the world - stateless, homeless, and penniless. That the Prince of Nowhere became the British Monarchy’s figurehead was more than fitting for a great age of migration and transition in which the Royal Family survived and even flourished. That he was able to transform himself into the quintessential Englishman is testimony not just to his personal determination but also to the powerful cultural pull of Britishness.

He was born on a kitchen table in Corfu in June 1921. A year later in 1922, Philip, as the the great-great-grandson of Queen Victoria and nephew of Constantine I of Greece, was forced to flee with his family after the abdication of Constantine. He grew up outside Paris speaking French; ethnically he was mostly German although he considered himself Danish, his family originating from the Schleswig border region. He was in effect, despite his demeanour of Royal Navy officer briskness, a citizen of nowhere in an age of movement. From a very young age he was a stateless person, nationally homeless. Indeed, Philip was an outsider in a way that even Meghan Markle could never be; at his wedding in 1947, his three surviving sisters and two brothers-in-law were not permitted to attend because they were literally Britain’s enemies, having fought for the Germans. A third brother-in-law had even been in the SS, working directly for Himmler, but had been killed in the conflict.

Even his religion was slightly exotic. He was Greek Orthodox until he converted to Anglicanism on marrying Elizabeth - what with his wife due to become supreme head of the Church and everything  - but his ties with eastern Christianity remained. His great-aunts Princess Elisabeth of Hesse and by Rhine and Tsarina Alexandra are both martyrs of the Russian Orthodox Church, having been murdered by the Bolsheviks; Philip’s mother went on to become an Orthodox nun and a “Righteous Among the Nations” for saving a Jewish family during the Nazi occupation of Greece, spending much of her time in squalid poverty.

His parents were part of the largely German extended aristocracy who ruled almost all of Europe before it all came crashing down in 1918. When he died, aged 99, it marked a near-century in which all the great ideological struggles had been and gone; he had been born before the Soviet Union but outlived the Cold War, the War on Terror and - almost - Covid-19.

The world that Philip was born into was a far more violent and dangerous place than ours. In the year he was born, Irish rebels were still fighting Black and Tans; over the course of 12 months the Spanish and Japanese prime ministers were assassinated, there was a coup in Portugal and race riots in the United States. Germany was rocked by violence from the far-Left and far-Right, while in Italy a brutal new political movement, the Fascists, secured 30 seats in parliament, led by a trashy journalist called Benito Mussolini.

The worst violence, however, took place in Greece and Turkey. Following the defeat of the Ottoman Empire, what remained of Turkey was marked for permanent enfeeblement by the Allies. But much to everyone’s surprise the country’s force were roused by the brilliant officer Mustafa Kemal, who led the Turks to victory. Constantinople was lost to Christendom for good and thousands of years of Hellenic culture was put to the flames in Smyrna.

The Greek royal family, north German imports shipped in during the 19th century, bore much of the popular anger for this disaster. King Constantine fled to Italy, and his brother Andrew was arrested and only escaped execution through the intervention of his relative Britain’s George V. Andrew’s wife Alice, their four daughters and infant son Philip fled to France, completely impoverished but with the one possession that ensures that aristocrats are never truly poor: connections.

Philip had a traumatic childhood. He was forged by the turmoil of his first decade and then moulded by his schooling. His early years were spent wandering, as his place of birth ejected him, his family disintegrated and he moved from country to country, none of them ever his own. When he was just a year old, he and his family were scooped up by a British destroyer from his home on the Greek island of Corfu after his father had been condemned to death. They were deposited in Italy. One of Philip's first international journeys was spent crawling around on the floor of the train from an Italian port city, "the grubby child on the desolate train pulling out of the Brindisi night," as his older sister Sophia later described it.

In Paris, he lived in a house borrowed from a relative; but it was not destined to become a home. In just one year, while he was at boarding school in Britain, the mental health of his mother, Princess Alice, deteriorated and she went into an asylum; his father, Prince Andrew, went off to Monte Carlo to live with his mistress. "I don't think anybody thinks I had a father," he once said. Andrew would die during the war. Philip went to Monte Carlo to pick up his father's possessions after the Germans had been driven from France; there was almost nothing left, just a couple of clothes brushes and some cuff-links.

Philip’s four sisters were all much older, and were soon all married to German aristocrats (the youngest would soon die in an aeroplane crash, along with her husband and children). His sisters became ever more embroiled in the German regime. In Scotland going to Gordonstoun boarding school, Philip went the opposite direction, becoming ever more British. Following the death of his sister Cecilie in a plane crash in 1937, the gulf widened. As the clouds of conflict gathered, the family simply disintegrated. With a flash of the flinty stoicism that many would later interpret, with no little justification, as self-reliance to the point of dispassion, the prince explained: “It’s simply what happened. The family broke up… I just had to get on with it. You do. One does.”

In the space of 10 years he had gone from a prince of Greece to a wandering, homeless, and virtually penniless boy with no-one to care for him. He got through it by making a joke of everything, and by being practical.

By the time he went to Gordonstoun, a private boarding school on the north coast of Scotland, Philip was tough, independent and able to fend for himself; he'd had to be. Gordonstoun would channel those traits into the school's distinct philosophy of community service, teamwork, responsibility and respect for the individual. And it sparked one of the great passions of Philip's life - his love of the sea. It was Gordonstoun that nurtured that love through the maturation of his character.

Philip adored the school as much as his son Charles would despise it. Not just because the stress it put on physical as well as mental excellence - he was a great sportsman. But because of its ethos, laid down by its founder Kurt Hahn, a Jewish exile from Nazi Germany.

Hahn first met Philip as a boy in Nazi Germany. Through a connection via one of his sister’s husbands, Philip, the poor, lonely boy was first sent off to a new school - in Nazi Germany. Which was as fun as can be imagined. Schloss Salem had been co-founded by stern educator called Kurt Hahn, a tough, discipline-obsessed conservative nationalist who saw civilisation in inexorable decline. But by this stage Hahn, persecuted for being Jewish in Nazi Germany, had fled to Britain, and Philip did not spend long at the school either, where pressure from the authorities was already making things difficult for the teachers. Philip laughed at the Nazis at first, because their salute was the same gesture the boys at his previous school had to make when they wanted to go to the toilet, but within a year he was back in England, a refugee once again.

Philip happily attended Hahn’s new school, Gordonstoun, which the strict disciplinarian had set up in the Scottish Highlands. Inspired by Ancient Sparta, the boys (and then later girls) had to run around barefoot and endure cold showers, even in winter, the whole aim of which was to drive away the inevitable civilisational decay Hahn saw all around him. To 21st century ears it sounds like hell on earth, yet Philip enjoyed it, illustrating just what a totally alien world he came from.

That ethos became a significant, perhaps the significant, part of the way that Philip believed life should be lived. It shines through the speeches he gave later in his life. "The essence of freedom," he would say in Ghana in 1958, "is discipline and self-control." The comforts of the post-war era, he told the British Schools Exploring Society a year earlier, may be important "but it is much more important that the human spirit should not be stifled by easy living". And two years before that, he spoke to the boys of Ipswich School of the moral as well as material imperatives of life, with the "importance of the individual" as the "guiding principle of our society".

It was at Gordonstoun one of the great contradictions of Philip's fascinating life was born. The importance of the individual was what in Kurt Hahn's eyes differentiated Britain and liberal democracies from the kind of totalitarian dictatorship that he had fled. Philip put that centrality of the individual, and individual agency - the ability we have as humans to make our own moral and ethical decisions - at the heart of his philosophy.

At Dartmouth Naval College in 1939, the two great passions of his life would collide. He had learned to sail at Gordonstoun; he would learn to lead at Dartmouth. And his driving desire to achieve, and to win, would shine through. Despite entering the college far later than most other cadets, he would graduate top of his class in 1940. In further training at Portsmouth, he gained the top grade in four out of five sections of the exam. He became one of the youngest first lieutenants in the Royal Navy.

The navy ran deep in his family. His maternal grandfather had been the First Sea Lord, the commander of the Royal Navy; his uncle, "Dickie" Mountbatten, had command of a destroyer while Philip was in training. In war, he showed not only bravery but guile. It was his natural milieu. "Prince Philip", wrote Gordonstoun headmaster Kurt Hahn admiringly, "will make his mark in any profession where he will have to prove himself in a trial of strength".

2. Prince Philip and the modernisation of the monarchy

In his own words, the process of defining what it meant to be a royal consort was one of “trial and error.” Speaking with BBC One’s Fiona Bruce in 2011, Philip explained, “There was no precedent. If I asked somebody, 'What do you expect me to do?' they all looked blank. They had no bloody idea, nobody had much idea.” So he forged for himself a role as a moderniser of the monarchy.

He could not have had much idea back in 1939. Back then in Dartmouth in 1939, as war became ever more certain, the navy was his destiny. He had fallen in love with the sea itself. "It is an extraordinary master or mistress," he would say later, "it has such extraordinary moods." But a rival to the sea would come.

When King George VI toured Dartmouth Naval College, accompanied by Philip's uncle, he brought with him his daughter, Princess Elizabeth. Philip was asked to look after her. He showed off to her, vaulting the nets of the tennis court in the grounds of the college. He was confident, outgoing, strikingly handsome, of royal blood if without a throne. She was beautiful, a little sheltered, a little serious, and very smitten by Philip.

Did he know then that this was a collision of two great passions? That he could not have the sea and the beautiful young woman? For a time after their wedding in 1948, he did have both. As young newlyweds in Malta, he had what he so prized - command of a ship - and they had two idyllic years together. But the illness and then early death of King George VI brought it all to an end.

He knew what it meant, the moment he was told. Up in a lodge in Kenya, touring Africa, with Princess Elizabeth in place of the King, Philip was told first of the monarch's death in February 1952. He looked, said his equerry Mike Parker, "as if a ton of bricks had fallen on him". For some time he sat, slumped in a chair, a newspaper covering his head and chest. His princess had become the Queen. His world had changed irrevocably.

While the late Princess Diana was later to famously claim that there were “three people” in her marriage - herself, Prince Charles and Camilla - there were at least 55 million in Philip and Elizabeth’s. As Elizabeth dedicated her life to her people at Westminster Abbey at the Coronation on June 2, 1953, it sparked something of an existential crisis in Philip. Many people even after his death have never really understood this pivotal moment in Philip’s life. All his dreams of being a naval officer and a life at sea as well as being the primary provider and partner in his marriage were now sacrificed on the altar of duty and love.

With his career was now over, and he was now destined to become the spare part. Philip, very reasonably, asked that his future children and indeed his family be known by his name, Mountbatten. In effect he was asking to change the royal family’s name from the House of Windsor to the House of Mountbatten. But when Prime Minister Winston Churchill got wind of it as well as the more politically agile courtiers behind the Queen, a prolonged battle of wits ensued, and it was one Philip ultimately lost. It was only in 1957 that he accepted the title of “Prince.”

Even though he had almost lost everything dear to him and his role now undefined, he didn’t throw himself a pity party. He just got on with it. Philip tried to forge his own distinct role as second fiddle to the woman who had come to represent Great Britain. He designated himself the First Officer of the Good Ship Windsor. He set about dusting off some of the cobwebs off the throne and letting some daylight unto the workings of the monarchy by advocating reasonable amount of modernisation of the monarchy.

He had ideas about modernising the royal family that might be called “improving optics” today. But in his heart of hearts he didn’t want the monarchy to become a stuffy museum piece. He envisaged a less stuffy and more popular monarchy, relevant to the lives of ordinary people. Progress was always going to be incremental as he had sturdy opposition from the old guard who wanted to keep everything as it was, but nevertheless his stubborn energy resulted in significant changes.

When a commission chaired by Prince Philip proposed broadcasting the 1953 investiture ceremony that formally named Elizabeth II as queen on live television, Prime Minister Winston Churchill reacted with outright horror, declaring, “It would be unfitting that the whole ceremony should be presented as if it were a theatrical performance.” Though the queen had initially voiced similar concerns, she eventually came around to the idea, allowing the broadcast of all but one segment of the coronation. Ultimately, according to the BBC, more than 20 million people tuned in to the televised ceremony - a credit to the foresight of Philip.

Elizabeth’s coronation marked a watershed moment for a monarchy that has, historically, been very hands off, old-fashioned and slightly invisible. Over the following years, the royals continued to embrace television as a way of connecting with the British people: In 1957, the queen delivered her annual Christmas address during a live broadcast. Again, this was Philip’s doing when he cajoled the Queen to televise her message live. He even helped her in how to use the teleprompter to get over her nerves and be herself on screen.

Four years later, in 1961, Philip became the first family member to sit for a television interview. It is hard for us to imagine now but back then it was huge. For many it was a significant step in modernising the monarchy.

Though not everything went to plan. Toward the end of the decade, the Windsors even invited cameras into their home. A 1969 BBC fly-on-the-wall documentary, instigated by Philip to show life behind the scenes, turned into an unmitigated disaster: “The Windsors” revealed the royals to be a fairly normal, if very rich, British upper-class family who liked barbecues, ice cream, watching television and bickering. The mystery of royalty took a hit below the waterline from their own torpedo, a self-inflicted wound from which they took a long time to recover. Shown once, the documentary was never aired again. But it had an irreversible effect, and not just by revealing the royals to be ordinary. By allowing the cameras in, Philip opened the lid to the prying eyes of the paparazzi who could legitimately argue that since the Royals themselves had sanctioned exposure, anything went. From then on, minor members of the House of Windsor were picked off by the press, like helpless tethered animals on a hunting safari.

Prince Philip also took steps to reorganise and renovate the royal estates in Sandringham and Balmoral such as intercoms, modern dish washers,  generally sought to make the royal household and the monarchy less stuffy, not to have so much formality everywhere.

Philip helped modernised the monarchy in other ways to acknowledge that the monarchy could be responsive to changes in society. It was Prince Philip - much to the chagrin of the haughty Princess Margaret and other stuffy old courtiers - who persuaded the Queen to host informal lunches and garden parties designed to engage a broader swath of the British public. Conversely, Prince Philip heartily encouraged the Queen (she was all for it apparently but was still finding her feet as a new monarch) to end the traditional practice of presenting debutantes from aristocratic backgrounds at court in 1952. For Philip and others it felt antiquated and out of touch with society. I know in speaking to my grandmother and others in her generation the decision was received with disbelief at how this foreign penniless upstart could come and stomp on the dreams of mothers left to clutch their pearls at the prospect there would be no shop window for their daughter to attract a suitable gentleman for marriage. One of my great aunts was over the moon happy that she never would have to go through what she saw as a very silly ceremony because she preferred her muddy wellies to high heels. 

A former senior member of the royal household, who spent several years working as one of Prince Philip’s aides, and an old family friend, once told us around a family dinner table that the Duke of Edinburgh was undoubtedly given a sense of permanence by his marriage into the Royal Family that was missing from earlier years. But the royal aide would hastily add that Prince Philip, of course, would never see it that way.

Prince Philip’s attitude was to never brood on things or seek excuses. And he did indeed get on with the job in his own way  - there should be no doubt that when it came to building and strengthening the Royal Family it was a partnership of equals with the Queen. Indeed contrary to Netflix’s hugely popular series ‘The Crown’ and its depiction of the royal marriage with Philip’s resentment at playing second fiddle, the prince recognised that his “first duty was to serve the Queen in the best way I could,” as he told ITV in 2011. Though this role was somewhat ill-suited to his dynamic, driven, and outspoken temperament, Philip performed it with utter devotion.

3. Prince Philip’s legacy

One could argue rightly that modernising the monarchy was his lasting legacy achievement. But he also tried to modernise a spent and exhausted Britain as it emerged from a ruinous war. When peace came, and with it eventual economic recovery, Philip would throw himself into the construction of a better Britain, urging the country to adopt scientific methods, embracing the ideas of industrial design, planning, education and training. A decade before Harold Wilson talked of the "white heat of the technological revolution", Philip was urging modernity on the nation in speeches and interviews. He was on top of his reading of the latest scientific breakthroughs and well read in break out innovations.

This interest in modernisation was only matched by his love for nature. As the country and the world became richer and consumed ever more, Philip warned of the impact on the environment, well before it was even vaguely fashionable. As president of the World Wildlife Fund (WWF) in the UK for more than 20 years from 1961, he was one of the first high-profile advocates of the cause of conservation and biological diversity at a time when it was considered the preserve of an eccentric few.

For a generation of school children in Britain and the Commonwealth though, his most lasting legacy and achievement will be the Duke of Edinburgh Awards (DofE). He set up the Duke of Edinburgh award, a scheme aimed at getting young people out into nature in search of adventure or be of service to their communities. It was a scheme that could match the legacy of Baden Powell’s scouts movement. 

When Prince Philip first outlined his idea of a scheme to harness the values of his education at Gordonstoun by bringing character-building outdoor pursuits to the many rather than the fee-paying few, he received short shrift from the government of the day. The then minister of education, Sir David Eccles responded to the Duke’s proposal by saying: “I hear you’re trying to invent something like the Hitler Youth.” Undeterred he pushed on until it came to fruition.

I’m so glad that he did. I remember how proud I was for getting my DofE Awards while I was at boarding school. With the support of great mentors I managed to achieve my goals: collecting second-hand English books for a literacy programme for orphaned street children in Delhi, India with a close Indian school friend and her family; and completing a 350 mile hike following St. Olav’s Pilgrimmage Trail from Selånger, on the east coast of Sweden, and ending at Nidaros Cathedral in Trondheim, on the west coast of Norway.

It continues to be an enduring legacy.  Since its launch in 1956, the Duke of Edinburgh awards have been bestowed upon some 2.5 million youngsters in Britain and some eight million worldwide. For a man who once referred to himself as a “Greek princeling of no consequence”, his pioneering tutelage of these two organisations (alongside some 778 other organisations of which he was either president or a patron) would be sufficient legacy for most.

4. Prince Philip’s character

It may surprise some but what I liked most about Prince Philip was the very thing that helped him achieve so much and leave a lasting legacy: his character.

It is unhelpful to the caricature of Prince Philip as an unwavering but pugnacious consort whose chief talent was a dizzying facility in off-colour one-liners that he was widely read and probably the cleverest member of his family.

His private library at Windsor consists of 11,000 tomes, among them 200 volumes of poetry. He was a fan of Jung, TS Eliot, Shakespeare and the cookery writer Elizabeth David. As well as a lifelong fascination with science, technology and sport, he spoke fairly fluent French, painted and wrote a well received book on birds. It’s maddening to think how many underestimated his genuine intellect and how cultured he was behind the crusty exterior.

He didn’t have an entourage to fawn around him. He was the first to own a computer at Buckingham Palace. He answered his own phone and wrote and responded to his own correspondence. By force of character he fought the old guard courtiers at every turn to modernise the monarchy  against their stubborn resistance.

Prince Philip was never given to self-analysis or reflection on the past. Various television interviewers tried without success to coerce him in to commenting on his legacy.But once when his guard was down he asked on the occasion of his 90th birthday what he was more proud of, he replied with characteristic bluntness: “I couldn’t care less. Who cares what I think about it, I mean it’s ridiculous.”

All of which neatly raises the profound aversion to fuss and the proclivity for tetchiness often expressed in withering put-downs that, for better or worse, will be the reflex memory for many of the Duke of Edinburgh. If character is a two edged sword so what of his gaffes? 

There is no doubt his cult status partly owed to his so-called legendary gaffes, of which there are enough to fill a book (indeed there is a book). But he was no racist. None of the Commonwealth people or foreign heads of state ever said this about him. Only leftist republicans with too much Twitter time on their hands screamed such a ridiculous accusation. They’re just overly sensitive snowflakes and being devoid of any humour they’re easily triggered.

There was the time that Philip accepted a gift from a local in Kenya, telling her she was a kind woman, and then adding: “You are a woman, aren’t you?” Or the occasion he remarked “You managed not to get eaten, then?” to a student trekking in Papua New Guinea. Then there was his World Wildlife Fund speech in 1986, when he said: “If it has got four legs and it is not a chair, if it has got two wings and it flies but is not an aeroplane, and if it swims and it is not a submarine, the Cantonese will eat it.” Well, he wasn’t wrong.

Philip quickly developed a reputation for what he once defined, to the General Dental Council, as “dentopedology – the science of opening your mouth and putting your foot in it”. Clearly he could laugh at himself as he often did as an ice breaker to put others at ease.

His remarking to the president of Nigeria, who was wearing national dress, “You look like you’re ready for bed”, or advising British students in China not to stay too long or they would end up with “slitty eyes”, is probably best written off as ill-judged humour. Telling a photographer to “just take the fucking picture” or declaring “this thing open, whatever it is”, were expressions of exasperation or weariness with which anyone might sympathise.

Above all, he was also capable of genuine if earthy wit, saying of his horse-loving daughter Princess Anne: “If it doesn’t fart or eat hay she isn’t interested.” Many people might have thought it but few dared say it. If Prince Philip’s famous gaffes provoked as much amusement as anger, it was precisely because they seem to give voice to the bewilderment and pent-up frustrations with which many people viewed the ever-changing modern world.

A former royal protection officer recounts how while on night duty guarding a visiting Queen and consort, he engaged in conversation with colleagues on a passing patrol. It was 2am and the officer had understood the royal couple to be staying elsewhere in the building until a window above his head was abruptly slammed open and an irate Prince Philip stuck his head out of the window to shout: “Would you fuck off!” Without another word, he then shut the window.

The Duke at least recognised from an early age that he was possessed of an abruptness that could all too easily cross the line from the refreshingly salty to crass effrontery.

One of his most perceptive biographers, Philip Eade, recounted how at the age of 21 the prince wrote a letter to a relation whose son had recently been killed in combat. He wrote: “I know you will never think much of me. I am rude and unmannerly and I say things out of turn which I realise afterwards must have hurt someone. Then I am filled with remorse and I try to put matters right.”

In the case of the royal protection officer, the Duke turned up in the room used by the police officers when off duty and said: “Terribly sorry about last night, wasn’t quite feeling myself.”

Aides have also ventured to explain away some of their employer’s more outlandish remarks - from asking Cayman islanders “You are descended from pirates aren’t you?” to enquiring of a female fashion writer if she was wearing mink knickers - as the price of his instinctive desire to prick the pomposity of his presence with a quip to put others at ease.

Indeed many people forget that his ‘gaffes’ were more typical of the clubbish humour of the British officer class – which of course would be less appreciated, sometimes even offensive, to other ears. It’s why he could relate so well to veterans who enjoyed his bonhomie company immensely.

But behind the irascibility, some have argued there also lay a darker nature, unpleasantly distilled in his flinty attitude to his eldest son. One anecdote tells of how, in the aftermath of the murder of the Duke’s uncle and surrogate father, Lord Mountbatten,  Philip lectured his son, who was also extremely fond of his “honorary grandfather”, that he was not to succumb to self-pity. Charles left the room in tears and when his father was asked why he had spoken to his son with so little compassion, the Duke replied: “Because if there’s any crying to be done I want it to happen within this house, in front of his family, not in public. He must be toughened up, right now.”

But here I would say that Prince Philip’s intentions were almost always sincere and in no way cruel. He has always tried to protect his family - even from their own worst selves or from those outside the family ‘firm’ who may not have their best interest at heart.

In 1937, a 16-year-old Prince Philip had walked behind his elder sister Cecile’s coffin after she was killed in a plane crash while heavily pregnant. The remains of newly-born infant found in the wreckage suggested the aircraft had perished as the pilot sought to make an emergency landing in fog as the mother entered childbirth. It was an excruciating taste of tragedy which would one day manifest itself in a very princely form of kindness that was deep down that defined Philip’s character.

When about 60 years later Prime Minister Tony Blair’s spin doctors in Downing Street tried to strong arm the Queen and the royal household over the the arrangements for the late Prince Diana’s funeral, it was Philip who stepped in front to protect his family. The Prime Minister and his media savvy spin doctors wanted the two young princes, William and Harry, to walk behind the coffin.

The infamous exchange was on the phone during a conference call between London and Balmoral, and the emotional Philip was reportedly backed by the Queen. The call was witnessed by Anji Hunter, who worked for Mr Blair. She said how surprised she was to hear Prince Philip’s emotion. ‘It’s about the boys,” he cried, “They’ve lost their mother”. Hunter thought to herself, “My God, there’s a bit of suffering going on up there”.’

Sky TV political commentator Adam Boulton (Anji Hunter’s husband) would write in his book Tony’s Ten Years: ‘The Queen relished the moment when Philip bellowed over the speakerphone from Balmoral, “Fuck off. We are talking about two boys who have just lost their mother”. Boulton goes on to say that Philip: ‘…was trying to remind everyone that human feelings were involved. No 10 were trying to help the Royals present things in the best way, but may have seemed insensitive.’

In the end the politicians almost didn’t get their way. Prince Philip stepped in to counsel his grandson, Prince William, after he had expressed a reluctance to follow his mother’s coffin after her death in Paris. Philip told the grieving child: “If you don’t walk, I think you’ll regret it later. If I walk, will you walk with me?”

It’s no wonder he was sought as a counsellor by other senior royals and especially close to his grandchildren, for whom he was a firm favourite. His relationship with Harry was said to have become strained, however, following the younger Prince’s decision to reject his royal inheritance for a life away from the public eye in America with his new American wife, Meghan Markle. For Prince Philip I am quite sure it went against all the elder Prince had lived his life by - self-sacrifice for the greater cause of royalty.

This is the key to Philip’s character and in understanding the man. The ingrained habits of a lifetime of duty and service in one form or another were never far away.

In conclusion then....

After more time passes I am sure historians will make a richer reassessment of Prince Philip’s life and legacy. Because Prince Philip was an extraordinary man who lived an extraordinary life; a life intimately connected with the sweeping changes of our turbulent 20th Century, a life of fascinating contrast and contradiction, of service and some degree of solitude. A complex, clever, eternally restless man that not even the suffocating protocols of royalty and tradition could bind him.

Although he fully accepted the limitations of public royal service, he did not see this as any reason for passive self-abnegation, but actively, if ironically, identified with his potentially undignified role. It is this bold and humorous embrace of fated restriction which many now find irksome: one is no longer supposed to mix public performance with private self-expression in quite this manner.

Yet such a mix is authentically Socratic: the proof that the doing of one’s duty can also be the way of self-fulfilment. The Duke’s sacrifice of career to romance and ceremonial office is all the more impressive for his not hiding some annoyance. The combination of his restless temperament and his deeply felt devotion to duty found fruitful expression; for instance, in the work of Saint George’s House Windsor - a centre and retreat that he created with Revd. Robin Woods - in exploring religious faith, philosophy, and contemporary issues.

Above all he developed a way to be male that was both traditional and modern. He served one woman with chivalric devotion as his main task in life while fulfilling his public engagements in a bold and active spirit. He eventually embraced the opportunity to read and contemplate more. And yet, he remained loyal to the imperatives of his mentor Kurt Hahn in seeking to combine imagination with action and religious devotion with practical involvement.

Prince Philip took more pride in the roles he had accidentally inherited than in the personal gifts which he was never able fully to develop. He put companionship before self-realisation and acceptance of a sacred symbolic destiny before the mere influencing of events. In all these respects he implicitly rebuked our prevailing meritocracy which over-values officially accredited attainment, and our prevailing narcissism which valorises the assertion of discrete identities.

Prince Philip was Britain’s longest-serving consort. He was steadfast, duty driven, and a necessary adjunct to the continuity and stability of the Queen and the monarchy. Of all the institutions that have lost the faith of the British public in this period - the Church, Parliament, the media, the police - the Monarchy itself has surprisingly done better than most at surviving, curiously well-adapted to a period of societal change and moral anarchy. The House of Hanover and later Saxe-Coburg and Gotha (changed to Windsor), since their arrival in this country in 1714, have been noted above all for their ability to adapt. And just as they survived the Victorian age by transforming themselves into the bourgeoise, domestic ideal, so they have survived the new Elizabethan era (Harry-Meghan saga is just a passing blip like the Edward-Wallis Simpson saga of the 1930s).

There was once a time when the Royal’s German blood was a punchline for crude and xenophobic satirists. Now it is the royals who are deeply British while the country itself is increasingly cosmopolitan and globalised. British society has seen a greater demographic change than the preceding four or five thousand years combined, the second Elizabethan age has been characterised more than anything by a transformational movement of people. Prince Philip, the Greek-born, Danish-German persecuted and destitute wanderer who came to become one of the Greatest Britons of the past century, perhaps epitomised that era better than anyone else. And he got through it by making a joke of everything, and by being practical.

I hope I don’t exaggerate when I say that in our troubled times over identity, and our place and purpose in the world, we need to heed his selfless example more than ever.

As Heraclitus wisely said,  Ήθος ανθρώπω δαίμων (Character is destiny.)

RIP Prince Philip. You were my prince. God damn you, I miss you already.

Thanks for your question.

[happytroopers]

Sick days // Hunter x reader

My google history search after this: what do they call toilets in Star Wars? Star Wars rabies?

Summary: I would do anything for Hunter, even take care of him when he has food poisoning. I saw a sick day prompt list and didn't end up using anything but it inspired this cluster fuck

TW: throwing up, alcohol mention but no use, bad writing I just love him ok

"Hey, have you seen Hunter? I need him to sign off on some damage reports." You announced as you entered the cockpit of the ship as it barreled through hyperspace, throwing a pointed look at Wrecker who was the main reason for most of aforementioned damage reports.The other members of Clone Force 99 made some sort of acknowledgment of your existence. Wrecker grinned obliviously at you as continued doing bicep curls with a GONK droid while Tech made brief eye contact with you before going back to some sort of machinery he’d dissected. Crosshair was the only one to actually somewhat answer your question, giving you a sassily quirked eyebrow and motioning down with his toothpick. "I’m assuming that super vague motion would mean he’s in the cargo hold?" You pressed but you had already turned around to go find the sergeant. "Should we tell ‘er?" You heard Wrecker ask but when no one answered him, you assumed things would be fine. Besides after almost a year with the Bad Batch, you’d walked in on them in all sorts of compromising moments. Nothing would surprise you anymore.

After popping down the ladder into the cargo bay, you did a cursory sweep. Crosshairs rifle was disassembled on a crate for cleaning, more of Tech’s mechanical experiments in a heap by the bay doors, your own trunk of belonging… but no sign of Hunter. "Hunter? Are you down here?" You poked a little further into the sleeping quarters, like any room that housed four soldiers who didn’t know how to mop, the smell chased you right back out. Shaking your head you thought to yourself, That should be considered a hazard zone. You paused by the fresher to listen for water running but heard nothing, which officially meant Hunter hadn’t been anywhere you checked, Hell, did he jump out of an airlock? Just as you were about to give up, you heard an awful noise come from the fresher. Like a bantha dying in a fire. Did some animal stow away? Absentmindedly you considered getting Wrecker to handle it- the last thing you needed was contracting some planet-specific strain of rabies. But then you considered that in the process, Wrecker would probably destroy the entire bathroom. And then everyone would be without a bathroom for the next two days… and that could get ugly. Then the noise came again, bringing you out of your mental debate. With a heavy sigh, you decided you’d have to check it out yourself. So, after pulling a random tool off your belt, you let the door slide open. To your surprise, Hunter was the first thing you saw, bent at the waist over the vac tube, bracing himself with one shaking arm against the durasteel wall. His helmet was discarded carelessly two feet closer to the entrance, and the enhanced trooper was heaving breaths, looking rather haggard. Almost stupidly the first thing that came out of your mouth was, "Oh my God, did the animal do this to you?" Hunter actually startled, which had never happened before. He was impossible to sneak up on, it was his whole thing. When he did look up at you, he looked confused, among other things. His skin pallor was four shades lighter than it was supposed to be, slightly greenish gray, and dew dropped with sweat. "Animal? What animal?" "The animal that made that-" You cut yourself off suddenly feeling dumb, now lamely dropping your defense tool. Then the disbelief, "Oh my- that noise was you?" He didn’t get the chance to answer again, instead turning his head back towards the vac tube to wretch again. Now with that information, the haggard appearance made more sense. "Hunter… you look like shit." You scolded, hesitantly moving closer, “Like, legitimately corpse like.” The sergeant coughed a bit before throwing you glare, “Thank you, (Y/L/N), that’s very helpful. Did you need something?” Damage reports long forgotten, you ignored the question instead more concerned with the trooper in front of you, “Why the hell are you standing like that? What’s wrong with you? Are you sick?”

Hunter was confused with this sudden line of questioning, turning his head to gag a little bit but this time he kept it under control to answer you, “Clones don’t get sick.”

“So this is normal for you?” You snarked right back, “Here, try kneeling, it won’t take as much of a toll on your body like that.”

At first he didn’t listen to you, just when the ship hit a patch of turbulence it triggered another wave which forced him to a knee. Then it hit you, clones don’t get sick, they’re engineered with near perfect immune systems.

“You’ve never been sick before have you?” You whispered sympathetically, he legitimately didn’t know how to handle being sick. Frowning, worried welled up in your stomach. It was almost painful to watch the man be so sick, after all how many times had he saved you or helped you out of a tight spot, so you looked away until he quieted again. This time he took a minute to catch his breath so you took some liberties.

“First, let’s get your hair off your neck and face. You’ll feel less gross.” You promised, going behind him to gently scrape his long hair into a makeshift bun and tie it off with a spare hair tie.

“What are you doing?”  He croaked, but didn’t pull away from your hands.

“Taking care of you, now shut up and let me.” While your voice was still kind, you were just stern enough not to argue with you, “Now, lean up.”

You didn’t wait for him to follow the orders, instead you started unfastening pieces of armor on his arms before moving on to the chest and torso pieces. Moments later he was able to move a little freer and his armor from the waist up was neatly stacked to you right.

“There, that should help with the overheating.” You announced, not mentioned how he couldn’t bend over properly with a piece of plastoid against his abdomen. You gave him another once over, he was taking deep breaths with his eyes closed, little baby hairs already escaping your rather pitiful man bun situation. You’d never seen him so vulnerable.

“So clones don’t get sick, why are you throwing up like my roommate after her twenty first birthday?” You asked quietly, gently moving the stray bits of his forehead.

“Would you believe that I ate an expired meal ration?” He asked with enough doubt in your voice that you immediately shook your head.

“You’re not that stupid Hunter.”

“I lost a bet with Crosshair and had to eat part of the Yalbec stinger. Tech did say it was a delicacy on some planets.” He sighed, dry heaving again.

“I also remember him saying it was mildly poisonous to humans.” You reminded him, going past him to the shelves that held shower things. Reaching into your own caddy, you produced a rag before wetting it in the sink.

“Yeah, I lost the bet before he enlightened us.” Hunter admitted, visibly relaxing when you put the cold rag on his neck before sliding into a sitting position next to him, “How do you know all this stuff?”

“Well, us normies get sick a lot.” You teased, laughing when you caught the disgusted look on his face, “But, I learned most of this stuff taking care of my hungover friends.”

“Oh, just your friends?” It was Hunter’s turn to sass you, but you just rolled your eyes. The two of you fell into a halfway comfortable silence, so you took your data pad to do a little research on Yalbec poisoning.

“You don’t have to stay for this?” Hunter reminded you, using the back of his hand to wipe sweat off his forehead. When you looked back over to him, he was staring at you. Even when puking, his eyes could stare straight through you. Hurriedly, you dropped your gaze back to your data pad.

“Well, you spend all your time taking care of them,” you motioned up towards the cockpit, “And me. So someone has to look out for you when you need it, you don’t have to suffer alone.”

His eyes softened as he relaxed slightly, you were glad to see his coloring was already getting better. But after a few moments, even the softness of his stare brought a flush to your cheeks so you just cleared your throat, “Well, the good news is that the holonet says someone of your size and weight will be fine. Symptoms should pass within twelve hours at the most, and it’s already been five.”

“Thank you, (Y/N).”

Your head snapped back up, he rarely ever called you by your first name. Somehow it almost felt intimate.

“Of course, Hunter.”

You scooted a little closer so that your knees would touch. Closer than you had ever been to him, but he didn’t scoot away. You smiled at the small contact, shaking your head.

“Can I impart on you a bit of civilian wisdom?” You asked teasingly, not even waiting him to nod. You took the rag off his neck and used it to dab sweat off his forehead, “Don’t eat random things on a dare, especially things you cut off foreign animals.”

“You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

[astro-rain]

delicate; b.barnes

chapter twenty - “collateral damage”

delicate masterlist

word count: 2k

synopsis: bucky and y/n deal with the emotional fallout of her departure from wakanda.

pairings: bucky barnes x fem!reader

warnings: mildly suggestive content, nothing explicit, 18+ readers please.

The flight home was wretched. Sleeping on the jet was impossible. Every time she shut her eyes she saw his face. If her mind did somehow manage to drift off to sleep, Y/N dreamed of him and woke up trying not to rip her hair out.

"We can still stay in contact, right?" Bucky asked as they were walking back from the waterfall.

They had left their catharsis by the water, still upset, but now calmer and more logical.

"I don't think so..."

"What? Why? It's not like we don't have the technology to do it."

"I know, but.." Y/N trailed off, trying to think of a sensible excuse.

Obviously they could stay in contact if they wanted. But any kind of phone call would be able to be tracked or recorded. That, and she didn't want him to hang on to someone who betrayed him. She couldn't imagine the guilt she'd have hearing Bucky's "I miss you's" or "Baby doll's" from miles away, knowing she lied to him.

"You don't even have a phone..."

"That's an easy problem to fix."

"I know... I just think you should focus on the rest of your healing, and... you know, I'll have a lot of work once I get back...." she took a breath. "I don't know if it's super healthy for us to cling on to each other when it... may be better to move on..."

"Move on?"

"Yeah..."

Bucky stopped walking and turned to face her. They both stood still and he stared at her, confused, as if he was trying to figure something out. He knew her well. She was scared he'd see right through her.

"So let me get this straight. When you're here we can talk all the time and... plenty of other things. But when you're away we can't even call each other?"

"Bucky..."

"That's not all, is it?"

She sighed. "I'm just... worried... about- like-... getting in trouble. If someone overhears or tracks a phone call...What if someone finds out where the 'Winter Soldier' is and comes here to exact revenge?"

That was partly true. She'd never want anyone bad to find out where he was. But no one was tracking her phone calls; she wasn't really a person of interest. In all likelihood, it probably wasn't something she'd have to be terribly worried about.

However, if anyone overheard or saw Bucky on the phone, they'd know it was her, and she doubted anything she could say would convince them that she didn't tell him about the arm.

Or maybe no one would find out. She just didn't want to take the chance. The last time she took a chance, this happened. She wasn't willing to do it again.

He stared at her with dejected eyes. "You know you don't have to worry about me. I'll be okay."

She rested her hands on his forearms and laughed sadly. "Bucky, I don't think I'm ever not gonna worry about you."

He was already in her heart. She didn't think he could leave now.

He let his eyelids fall shut. "I really don't want you to go."

She closed her eyes as well and let her forehead rest against the top of his chest.

"I know. I'm sorry. I don't want to leave you either. But you're gonna do so well, even without me. And every day I'll wake up and think 'wow this man is sexy and has good coping mechanisms! I wish I was him!'"

In the midst of his sadness, she made him laugh. It was a despondent, quiet laugh, but she managed to lift his mood all the same - even if just a little bit. She'd always make everything better.

He gazed down at her, eyes heavy, and without even thinking about it... "I love you."

She looked down at the grass below her feet. "Buck..."

"I do. I'm sorry but I do."

She wrapped her arms around the middle of his back, pressing her face into the crook of his neck. He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her in tight, one arm up her back and the other cradling her head.

In the tiniest whisper, she let the truth flow out from her chest. "I love you, too."

The clouds provoked her, so peaceful and quiet, while her head was a big, loud mess. Y/N leaned her head on the window, glaring at them and wondering if she should've said what she did. That she loved him. Internally, she debated whether or not it would make things worse. But she wasn't going to see him again; she might as well have left him with the truth.

Time was lost to her. She thought she would be landing soon, but she couldn't be sure. She couldn't be sure of anything anymore.

-

Bucky sat at the lake - their lake - and just stared into the water. It felt so strange to him, that she was gone. One minute she was here and now he was just... alone.

It was so quiet. Too quiet. Of course being alone was quiet, but after Y/N left, the air just felt empty.

He wished he could talk to her. Whenever he was upset, all he wanted to do was talk to her.

"So, is this... d-do we say goodbye now?" he asked when they got back to his hut.

"Yeah..." she sighed. "yeah."

"Are you going back to Europe?"

"Yes. Belgium. Haven't been in my apartment in forever."

"Belgium," he wondered. "It's nice there. Safe. What are you gonna do for work?"

"Probably just continue where I left off on my research. Fancy brain stuff, ya'know?"

He grinned, proud. "My smart girl."

She looked around her, as if watching for something. Or someone.

"Buck, I think I have to go now."

"Just one more minute? Please. I wanna remember you like this. Not sad and crying."

Y/N smiled, grabbed his hands, and kissed his knuckles. Both flesh and metal. Because they were both part of him and she loved him. All of him.

Then, she placed both his hands on either side of her face. Softly she said, "remember me like this," before bringing their lips together.

He looked down at his vibranium arm, twisting his wrist to watch how the plates whirred.

Since the first moment he put it on, he had been using it to be gentle, loving, and affectionate. This arm was good. This arm wasn't used for death and destruction and violence.

With this arm he held her, kissed her, loved her. And now she was gone. And now it felt like dead weight.

— ONE WEEK LATER —

Whenever Bucky looked at his bionic arm he saw her. It began to make him sad.

His hair had been getting longer and longer. He could cut it now, now that he had two arms. But every time he tried, all he could do was stare at the arm and hear her voice in his head.

"That's your heart. That's you. You're all heart, Buck. You're so deeply, wonderfully human. All the way to your bones."

That was the first time he expressed real distress about missing a limb, he recalled. That was the first time they kissed. Funny how that transition was made, funny how she could remedy some of his worst emotions.

His days were boring and uneventful and nearly silent. He sat alone a lot. There was no laughter anymore, none of her laughter. There was no more holding, no more kissing, no more loving. The arm just felt... wrong? Like what it was born from had died.

-

In Belgium, Y/N felt incredibly uncomfortable. She knew she just needed to adjust to the change, after getting to used to life in Wakanda - life with Bucky. Her vacant apartment didn't feel as homey.

It had been, what, a year and a half? About a year and a half since she had been home. About a year and a half spent with Bucky.

Her apartment seemed so... barren. Void of life. And cold. She was used to the Wakandan heat. When she closed and locked the door behind her, she looked at the golden square that the sun cast through her window. It reminded her of that heat.

Y/N sighed, cursing her very own hippocampus for providing her with memory.

"God, I wish you had an AC in here."

She was in his bed. Well, she was on top of him, straddling him, in his bed.

"Is it hot or is it just you?" he joked, poking at her sides and trying to not pout at the loss of her lips.

"Ha. Ha," she rolled her eyes and brought her face back to his.

"Wait," Bucky said and gently pulled her face away to examine it. "You are a little warm."

"It's okay," she quickly tried to resume their previous activity.

"Hold on-" he got cut off as Y/N kept pecking his lips over and over.

"I have-"

Kiss.

"An idea-"

Kiss.

Lightly he pushed her shoulders away, nearly giggling. "Stop it! Just wait a second!"

Bashful, she conceded. "What?"

"Just-" he reached out and put the vibranium hand on her forehead, effectively cooling her down a bit. She closed her eyes and flashed a goofy smile.

"That feels nice."

Then, suddenly, he wrapped both his arms around her back and flipped them over so that he was on top. He smirked.

"Oh yeah, you just wait."

She hung her keys up and took a deep breath, absorbing the emptiness. This was her new normal; she just had to get used to it.

-

"I just- I don't really... I don't think I need it," Bucky tried to explain.

Want it, he thought. I don't want it. I can't stand to even look at it.

"You don't need it?" Shuri asked.

"Yeah, it-uh it takes a bit of getting used to and I think I just need a break. And I wouldn't want to damage it so... figured it's better with you."

He was better at lying than he gave himself credit for.

"Okay," Shuri accepted his answer and began to detach the bionic arm. "But you let me know if it's uncomfortable or painful anywhere so I can adjust it. Alright?"

"Alright. Thank you."

Finally he was rid of it- that cursed metal weighing down on his soul. Maybe now he could focus on other things. Maybe. It didn't seem likely...

However, as the days drew closer, it did make him slightly - only slightly -  less nervous about the trigger word experiment. Now he didn't have a weapon attached to him. Though he reckoned he was the weapon.

No. He wasn't supposed to think like that. He knew Y/N wouldn't want him to. He knew she would say something like, "You aren't what they tried to make you into. You're you and all HYDRA's awfulness can't change the good at your core. My Bucky. You're perfect."

He'd deny to high heavens that he was the farthest thing from perfect. Bucky had no clue how she could say such things. But her conviction never faltered.

Soon enough the day came. The experiment. All he could think about was how she was supposed to be there. He didn't want to do this without her.

But now, he found himself sitting at at a fire on some mountain with one of the Doras. It was dark and it was scary. He was scared.

"It is time," said Ayo.

Nevermind want. He wasn't sure if he could do this without her.

"Are you sure about this?"

"I won't let you hurt anyone."

He was still scared. He still didn't trust himself. But, staring into the fire, he thought back to a past conversation.

"You don't have to trust yourself. That's hard enough as it is and Hydra didn't make it any easier. You just trust me, alright? ... And I will not let anything happen to you."

Bucky didn't have to trust himself. He just had to trust her. Even if she wasn't here, even if she was on another continent, all he had to do was trust her. When Ayo began reciting the trigger words, that was the one thing thing he held onto. The one thing that kept him afloat.

His trust in her.

delicate taglist: @emmojoy @bakugouswh0r3 @thefridgeismybestie @strivingforelegance @ilovespideyyy @xpurpleglitter @bluelakeee @darkacademic2 @eclipsedplanet @paradisedixon @crazy-beautiful @coffee--writes @lilithknight1111 @buckybarnesishot310 @softladyhours @alwayssandy @those-sea-green-eyes @hero-ically @devilswaldorf @cc13723things @small-death-and-codeine @avengersgirllorianna @cataves @thatbitchsposts @talktomeaboutthestars @surrealpsycho @headheartbellarke @bubbly-moonwarrior @bluemoon-icecream @buckeyecreates @augustbucky @itsthemaree @undiadeestos

[manako-no-yami]

oh? an opportunity to plug my own fics? yes pls. thanks @crestfallercanyon for the tag!!!!

rules: recommend three of your fics, one that is the most popular and two that are “hidden gems”

Note: i’m going to focus on tmr fics because that’s the majority of what i have and what i think people follow me for lmao

Most Popular: ok so the 2 most kudos’d tmr fics i have are an nsfw thominho and an angsty omegaverse thominewt, both of which i don’t actually like all that much SOOOOO i’m gonna cheat and go for the 3rd most kudos’d tmr fic i have which is...

stupidity is all we have

Ship: newtmas

Summary:

Frypan and Minho have a plan. A plan to make Newt happy by getting him together with Thomas. It’s a good plan. Probably. Their biggest problem? Gally. (This plan may or may not involve mildly inconvenient destruction.)

Chuck has a plan. A plan to help his buddy Thomas confess to Newt. It’s not much of a plan. His biggest problem? Gally. (This not-plan definitely does not involve permanently borrowing some alcohol.)

This is good. Plans are good. Because everything always goes exactly as planned. Right?

-

Or, in which Frypan and Minho are willing to die for love, Chuck accidentally invents Molotov cocktails, Thomas develops a sudden obsession with tomatoes, and Gally just wants some goddamn bacon.

Hidden Gem: My least kudos’d tmr fic is actually one of my favorites. I wrote it for thomally week. It’s angsty kid!thomally pre-slash.

sins of the father

"Do you think we'll be like that, when we grow up?" "Maybe. Probably." "I don't want to be like that," Thomas says. "I don't want to grow up. They keep trying to prepare me for growing up but what about my life now? Why do I always have to be thinking about the future? Can't I just..." "...Be?"

-

Gally and Thomas are neighbors, but their home lives couldn’t be more different. Thomas has the white picket fence; Gally has the alcoholic father. After years of watching each other through their windows, what will happen when their adjacent worlds finally collide?

Hidden Gem: Another very low kudos’d fic is my tmrss21 fic. Also thomally, 18k, multichapter. Soulmates, demons, witchy stuff!

to hell with you

Gally likes his life. Sure, he and his friends have to deal with cranks and possessions every now and then. Sure, they have to quietly protect the unknowing populace from ghosts and demons. But it’s a good life. He likes his job, he likes his friends, and he’s engaged. He never thought he’d be able to have this sort of happiness—never thought a wretched orphan like him could get this lucky.

But strange things are happening. And with all the trouble comes a new face—Thomas, who seems to know more than he lets on. Gally doesn’t trust him, and he doesn’t like him. But he might have to learn how to, if they’re to find out who, or what, is behind all the mysterious deaths happening in town.

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uhhhhhh, tagging anyone! really. anyone can do this and pretend that i tagged you in it. because i’m too lazy to figure out who’s already been tagged and who isn’t and also i think people should be allowed to self-promo whenever they want lol