#my dear cold blooded king draft

[sourpatchys]

Title: Life in Carnet

Word count: 2.2k

Rating: PG-13, fluff. F!reader

Time: after Overhaul, before PLF

Summary: An issue has developed. Though, you can’t say you mind much. The future is yours.

A/n: This was supposed to be much longer and I may still add a second part later on, but it’s been sitting in my drafts for much too long and I decided it was finally time to just post it and let it out into the world!

Masterlist guidelines

—

The terrors of the underworld were almost too much for you at times. Watching over your shoulder just to be sure a knight in shining armor wouldn't pop out and slice you under the guise of misplaced justice.

There was no justice in a world so cruel. The arms of the masses kept those unfavorable in a tube. Never to be loved, never to be seen or heard. Though that tube would grow, freaks of nature holding hands inside the vessel, ready to break the glass.

It was almost poetic, knowing that loneliness could never touch you, it could only stand by and watch as you desecrated its makeshift grave.

You were not lonely— and you never would be again.

The deadly hands of the misunderstood held you close, a warm embrace that shunned all the coldness and misfortune in the world. You were like royalty, standing above those who were nothing but pawns ready to die for the cause.

You were not ready to die, you had finally spread your wings— you were ready to live.

And who better to stand by your side than the King of demise, Tomura Shigaraki.

In his own way, he had become the very thing he hated most— a symbol of peace. He gave hope to those the world had shamed, giving a reason to live to the ones left to rot in the gutters.

Hero's couldn't save everyone— Hero's didn't want to save everyone. Anyone who goes against their morals is doomed to suffer.

It pained you to see the children left to die on the streets, the addicts that had been deemed lost causes, and the broken who were left to crumble. You could see a piece of yourself in all of them, their rose tented glasses had been shattered and they were left to cut themselves on the glass.

Tomura didn't care much for any of them, and yet he had still managed to replace that in which had been broken.

He cared for the league, for the posey he had created with his own two hands. And he cared for you. The woman he saw cursing the world with blood stained hands.

Your introduction to the league wasn't pretty. You were dirty and untamed— having just taken the life of someone you held dear— there was darkness in your eyes.

No one asked you questions, no one made you feel like a freak. You became their healer— using your quirk to its fullest potential, never once holding back.

Your ability was known as the 'Touch of life'. Originally, you had hated your quirk. Being pawned off from person to person, forced to heal strangers who saw you as an object more than a person. Growing up you weren't allowed to attend school, forced to stay home and work— not a dime going into your pocket.

People were supposed to want to help people. That's what you had been told over and over again. You couldn't complain, you couldn't fight back or refuse to help.

You didn't want to help anymore.

The league never made you heal their scrapes and bruises, only asking for your services when it was absolutely necessary. You finally felt free— free to be a real human being.

And then Shigaraki, a man usually so careful with his hands, had sliced his palm. You couldn't even remember how— the memory had long since faded away. You grabbed him without thinking, taking his entire hand into your own, stitching the skin back together with a ray of light.

That's how you learned you were immune to decay. Your body fighting against his quirk so quickly it was at if he didn't have one at all.

And that's how you learned you loved your quirk after all.

Once it became apparent, he couldn't keep his hands off of you. He was like a wild animal hunting its prey— a touch starved villain feeling for the first time.

He was gentle with you, holding you close, running his calloused hands up and down your sides, forever in awe at the feel of your skin on his own. Awkward and untamed, vibrating with uncertainty and longing for more.

His kisses felt like fireworks, they seared into your skin, dangerous and yet oh so wonderful. He was addicted to you, and soon enough you were just as addicted to him.

Your relationship had no title— though with the way his scared lips would trail up your throat, nipping and pleading— you were sure it was love just the same.

Regardless of the tender kisses and soft touches, Shigaraki was still a deadly man. The king of the underworld, the high ruler of chaos.

So when you saw those glaring, unforgiving, bright pink lines, you found yourself being swallowed whole.

Your body was shaking, from fear or joy you couldn't be sure. It was unrealistic to bring a child into the world, especially when that world was crumbling— when the father was the one crumbling it.

You couldn't hold back a smile though, your anxieties fading quickly at the thought of a future. Placing your life giving hands over your abdomen— it felt right. You finally— undeniably— felt whole.

Dabi was the first one to notice you after you'd left the makeshift restroom, his piercing blue eyes looking you up in down with a frenzy.

"You look creepier than usual."

The rest of the leagues eyes met your own, their own curious glances boring into your soul.

"I have no idea what you mean by that— but I feel like I should be offended." You mocked a scoff, cocking your eyebrow in amusement.

Toga laughed, sitting up straight and tapping the cold cement floor beside her, urging you to sit with her. "You do look a little brighter than usual!"

You took the invitation, a small smile still grazing your lips. It was impossible to fully contain yourself— you were sure you'd explode if you had to reel in all of your facial expressions.

"I just got some good news is all— I wouldn't worry about it."

"Did that 12 handed freak finally propose or something?"

A small snort left your lips, "No, not to my knowledge. Speaking of— where is he?"

"Ohhh, so it does have to do with him!" Toga wiggled her eyebrows, giggling to herself.

Your relationship with Shigaraki wasn't a secret. Neither of you had said anything to anyone, but you weren't actively hiding it either— it just was.

Giving the teen a gentle shove you allowed yourself to let out a soft laugh of your own, "doesn't everything have to do with him?"

You got a strong mumble of agreement from the group, their annoyed expressions almost making you laugh fully.

"He said he'd be back before nightfall." Dabi finally metered, "Then again, who knows?"

Humming in response you decided to sit tight, pulling a heavily water damaged book out of your backpack.

— — —

Somewhere along the pages of Prince Charming finally realizing the girl of his dreams was only a few feet away— you had dozed off.

It wasn't often you got the privilege of sleep, the constant traveling and change of pace was hard on your body and mind. So being shaken awake wasn't exactly something you'd normally let slide— but seeing those carmine eyes so full of worry, you decided it wasn't a hill worth dying on today.

"Good morning." You sighed, slowly blinking the harsh tingling of your sleep deprived eyelids away.

Tomura wasn't amused by your lackluster approach, his body basically caging you in from where you sat, his eyes growing darker by the second.

"How are you feeling?"

At first his question confused you— your dreams still drifting away as reality tried to take over. Oh yes, that's right— he'd known you hadn't been feeling well.

If you weren't so sleepy you'd probably be more embarrassed over the fact that you had in fact— only grabbed a handful of pregnancy tests and booked it out of the closest convenience store. You hadn't even tried to get anything else.

A giggle left your lips as you leaned forward and gave your captor a kiss on the cheek, "it's fine don't worry about it."

Sighing he shifted so he was sitting beside you, his hand immediately grabbing yours. He loved holding your hand— you weren't sure if it was just to remind himself that he could or if it was lasting deprivation from being touched starved for so many years— but you couldn't find it in yourself to care, so long as he never let go.

"You haven't been eating right."

It was a statement meant to guilt you, to force you to tell him every single thing that's been bothering you— to outline your sickness in a bullet point list so he could take care of you.

"Is that so?" You turned to him with a raised brow, daring him to continue on with his spiel.

He, ever so observant, took the bait and ran with it.

"You can't keep anything down, you're light headed, and you're way too exhausted for everything to be fine." His voice broke a bit at the end, and with good reason. Not being in good health while simultaneously living on the streets isn't exactly a good combo.

He cared about you too much to let anything bad happen. After dealing with the yakuza he'd slowed down entirely, refusing to move too fast or too far until he knew exactly what needed to be done— all because you weren't feeling good. He'd never say it out loud— but it was easy to tell.

"It's not something I'll die from, modern medicine will make sure of that."

Turning his head and looking you up and down, he had a borderline disgusted look on his face.

"You've been sick for how long now? And you've shown no signs of getting better."

You hummed, putting your hand on your chin and pretending to think. "Yeah I'd say it's been a good two months now."

"This isn't a joke."

Giving him a serious expression, you replied "I know it isn't, you definitely aren't going to think it's funny—the league might though."

He smacked his head against the back of the crate the two of you were leaning on, looking up at the broken ceiling. "So you are dying."

"I already told you I won't die." You punched his arm, "I'll just be out of commission for a little while."

"And what, exactly, does that mean?"

You let out a nervous laugh, leaning your head on his shoulder, "it means next time we go out we're gonna have to steal some prenatal vitamins."

You felt his body stiffen under you after a few minutes, his mind putting the dots together painfully slowly. This isn't exactly how you thought this conversation would go— though knowing Tomura, he'd never expected this conversation at all.

"Oh."

Afraid to see his expression, you kept your eyes towards the floor, squeezing his hand that was still wrapped in yours.

"Is that okay..?"

It was silent for a while, the sound of the other members snoring being the only noises keeping you sane. You knew this may not go over well, even as excited as you were, Tomura had an entire world to destroy, he had people to kill and a kingdom to build. How would a baby fit into that life?

Finally, you felt a large inhale from under you— taking that as permission you looked up to his face, surprised when you saw the fond look in his eyes and the soft smile on his lips.

"Yeah, that's more than okay."

You sat up, lifting your head off of his shoulder to look him directly in the eyes, awe, ever apparent, on your face.

"Really? You aren't mad?"

A dastardly grin made its way onto his face, his pearly white teeth glistening in the moonlight. Truly— it was a sight to behold.

"I don't see anything wrong with carrying on my lineage— especially not with you." He chuckled, a dark frenzy coming into his eyes, "besides, you hang back anyways, nothings going to hurt you."

You thought on his words. It was technically true, being a healer meant you weren't fighting so much as laying low and taking care of the aftermath— the only change you could see happening is you not being on the battlefield at all, staying at the base until they returned.

But that came with some risks on its own.

"You're taking this better than I thought you would."

That same gleam was in his eyes as he looked you over, his hands making their way around your waist as he pulled you into a tight embrace, inhaling the scent of your not-so-freshly washed hair.

"I suppose I should be nervous. But I always knew this was a risk." He took in a breath, a laugh passing through as he thought it over, "I'm ready for anything. I'm going to destroy this world, but that doesn't mean I can't make my own in the process."

The Tomura before you was different than the one you had fallen in love with. He was different than the one that pulled you off the street and gave you a reason to live— this Tomura was confident, this Tomura had a plan.

This Tomura knew what he wanted.

[gliphyartfan]

@yanderelinkeduniverse @stars-for-thought @imprisioned-in-the-hole @screaming-until-god-hears-me @crestfallenmermaidan @ice-cream-writes-stuff @linked-heroes @eternadreeblissa @justanerd1

Hey! Hi! Hello! How's the weather?

Oh look! I seem to have dropped a part of dear old Warrior's rewrite! What's this? A part two? To think, such a thing was rattling in my drafts!

I had no idea!

...

....

......😀

....Anyways-

The scent of the Great Sea was unique compared to any oceans Warriors passed through.

In the past or in the present.

Such a scent was like any other when visiting the sea. Yet there was a certain level of 'Other' that the Captain tended to notice when near anything connected to that era.

A scent that tended to follow the Hero of the Great Seas in the same way the scent of steel and blood followed Warriors through battle.

So it wasn't hard to catch such a scent through the smoke, steel, and fire as he raced through the Forsaken Fortress.

It didn't take long before Warriors spotted him, no surprise given that the trail of felled monsters left in his wake.

The boy didn't look in his direction, focusing on cutting down the last crowd of monster within the vicinity.

"Hero of Winds." He spoke calmly, his voice echoing across the now empty space between them.

Even from the distance he stood, he could see the way the Sailor's shoulders tensed at the sound of his voice, though quickly recovering.

"Hero of Warriors," The Sea Hero quietly said in reply, turning to greet him as he approached.

It was odd to Warriors, seeing the brightness of the usually cheerful boy so muted, to see his eyes so dimmed and cold. To see his tunic weathered, torn and stained.

But it was no surprise really, give all that they've been burdened with up to this point.

As Warrior watched his sword brother approach as well, he couldn't help a small smile that tugged on his lips. It wasn't a lie when he said he missed him.

He missed all of them, but reuniting with even just one of them was blissful in its own right.

It was only once he was within reach of the Sea Hero did they both stop. Eyeing one another calmly, intently.

Warriors could feel a sense of tension in the air, a weight that seemed to hang over them.

The Sea Hero was the first to break the silence, looking away, his voice low and guarded. "We can speak more later, there is still Gohma to deal with-"

"I killed it. I wonder why it was still alive though, given that we both know you have the strength to kill both it and Helmroc King before I ever showed up," he replied, his voice steady. "You just wanted to see if I would show up like last time."

The Sea Hero inhaled sharply, his head snapping back to him, wide eyes quickly fixating on Warriors.

Warriors could see a storm within his eyes, a hunger that came with the desire for truth. The danger that came should that hunger not be sated.

A look he was sure he himself had many times through this war. Before reuniting with Fi.

"It's been a while...Wind." He reached up and place a hand on the sailor's trembling shoulder. "I didn't expect you to actually leave such an simple enemy alive for as long you have." He smirked softly.

"Losing your touch?"

"...In another life such a 'simple enemy' would have caused both of us severe trouble," he said, his voice low and filled with emotion. "I just wanted to see how you handled it." He smirked, but it was wobbly. "To make up for lost time."

"In annoying me?" He joked. Wind huffed a laugh before bowing his head and clearing his throat.

Warriors nodded, looking away, up at the sky. "I understand what you mean though. I've been wanting to see everyone too." He said quietly.

"It's been so long since we last saw each other."

His gaze snapped down to the younger, smiling while taking a slow step forwards. "I missed you dearly Wind."

They stood in silence for some minutes, simply staring into each others eyes. Neither daring to move further away.

They had been apart for only a few years, for Wind at least, it was luck that Warriors didn't have to suffer long without the knowledge of the others.

He did not envy his pain, nor the pain the others must be suffering right now. All alone without the assurance that Warriors, and now Wind, shared.

That his sword brother remembered everything, just as he did.

In a way, it wasn't something either of them could truly process, not until a moment passed.

In an instant, they pulled each other in a tight embrace.

Neither cared that their hair was coated with soot and monster blood, or their skin had been torn, scraped and burnt as they fought the countless enemies across the battlefield.

In this moment, they were reunited.

"It has been...far too long," Warrior sighed after pulling away a bit, only to rest his forehead against Wind's, looking deeply into those brightening eyes. "How have you been my brother? What has changed for you? Have you met with any of the troops?"

Wind shook his head. "When my era connected to yours, I immediately came here when I saw your troops." he answered, before grinning a bit. "I mean, as you said, I can handle these brutes just fine. So waiting here wasn't much trouble."

His face gained a slightly mischievous look. "Well...it wasn't much trouble for me..."

Warrior snorted. "Of course not, you're a Hero of Courage, what hero doesn't enjoy senseless battle from time to time?" Wind laughed lightly at that, sounding brighter as the conversation continued.

"Well, it seems our Goddess wanted us together again," Warrior grinned, giving the shorter boy an affectionate squeeze. "Though I suppose you'll head home after all this is over, so this reunion is only brief." he sighed.

He knew Wind was aware that he would be forced to wait in the past after the war ended. But it didn't change the fact that it was a cruel punishment.

But at the same time, they both knew it was necessary.

Wind gave him a sad smile. "It would seem so, yes," his face fell, but then he smiled brightly again. "But...for now, we're together again, even if for a little while."

"For a while," Warrior agreed. A smile spreading across his face as he felt a part of him settle peacefully.

Reuniting with Fi made this war far more bearable then he had expected.

But reuniting with Wind, his sword brother, one of the few he trusts with his true self.

That brought a sense of peace that only reuniting with their Goddess could eclipse.

"You know, I noticed certain people still alive that I was sure wouldn't have lived this long" Wind mentioned after they pulled away.

"Mind answering why?" Warriors hummed at that and crossed his arms.

"Well...the official answer is simply that they are my fellow soldiers and it is my duty to protect them." He answered solidly.

Wind raised an eyebrow at that response, "...and the real answer?"

Warriors tilted his head and looked at the sailor directly in the eye.

Wind could see a coldness seep in that only comes when speaking of those who have committed offenses against their beloved.

The unquenchable desire to eliminate all who had offended Her. Regardless of whether they recalled their crimes of another time period or not.

What a familiar and comforting sight it was to the sailor.

"Because what better way to bond with my brothers than working together to eliminate those offenders?"

Wind's smile held amusement, his eyes held anticipation and approval.

"You really waited up for us, didn't you." Warriors shrugged at that with a grin.

"Wanted to see if you specifically kept your skills sharp."

"Sharper than yours!" Wind retorted reflexively.

Warriors threw his head back and laughed freely.

Despite the separation, it was seamless the way they interacted again, as if no time passed at all.

Yes, he had missed this dearly.

[inthehoneymoonwithconnorrk800]

Ronella Arryn (arryn! oc/draft)

Ronella felt the sharp tickle that prompted her to look below. Her mule was climbing the steepest tower after a ride away from home without fear of the fall to her death that had doomed distracted animals. Her throat tightened uncomfortably, a valley lady not afraid of heights.

Her being born and raised in Nido de Águilas along with the blood of the first mountain men in her veins did not seem to be enough to assuage her fear. She sometimes believed because she carried the Tully blood, from the rivers, from the south.

She swallowed after reaching the stone steps. She was greeted by some stable girls who used to admire life in the afternoon. Ronella looked at them and felt that they had a better right to be ladies than she did. They held onto her mule and bid her a fond farewell, Ronella appreciating her gesture. The Arryns were beloved in Eyrie for their sense of honor and bravery.

She steadied herself once more and walked slowly up the narrow staircase, planning each step. "A wise man is always cautious…" she remembered her father's words.

I'm a woman. She wanted to scream. She was three quarters of the way down when she felt her tears fill her eyes. She breathed hard, it was miles up after all and she kept walking. Think, think, think and say nothing was her emblem. "Oh, look what we have here." "Lady Alyssa!" Ser Vardis scolded. His face was serious as always, but her eyes sparkled with sympathy towards her. He knew of her sister's cruelties, but little was done to stop her.

Radiant, in a splendid dress decorated with patterns of sapphires that also simulated eagles, Alyssa was waiting for her with a mocking face. Her straight red hair was styled like she was a queen, she seemed to be… could be.

If she weren't the eldest daughter. "Good afternoon, dear sister," Ronella greeted through gritted teeth, despising her so much, "Ser Vardis."

Respectfully bowed in the easiest way to get out of there. She didn't tolerate Alyssa's comments.

"Why so tired face, little sister? It seems that you have been afraid to come here… to your own home." To her misfortune, Alyssa linked her arm through hers, as if they were old friends who had seen each other for years and not sisters who loathed each other.

" I hoped for a clear path, with the right company." She didn't miss the quiver in her enemy's lip. "You offend me, my presence is the closest thing you will have to…"

"Are you here yet, Ron?" The loving and emotional voice of her mother silenced her. Her mother was radiant and her dimples stood out like stars in the sky, she approached and hugged each one separately. "Little Robin is waiting for you to eat".

Her presence was like the cool, sweet wind. Ronella sensed that her mother knew that, because she always showed up when one of them was fighting over something serious. She walked to go to her bedroom, in Eyrie the place used to be a warm place despite what was believed, even in winter. Only the feeble old men and small children spent it in the little town below. Maybe she did have eagle blood

She had heard from the hands of maesters, from books, from minstrels, and from the lips of her own father about the rebellion of Robert, the king that he raised since he was a child. Those were dark times, the Mad King ordered children to be killed, tearing them from the arms of their mothers, women who begged for mercy, crying, hungry, cold, maddness. There was an affront with the Starks, they imprisoned the heir, and then they killed him along with his father. His brother called the banderizados and the war began. Now she had heard that there were only two dragon children left, with silver hair and monstrosity in their eyes. She terrified by them very much, so much so that she dreamed that they crossed the narrow sea and appeared in the palace, and killed them all. She saw that they burned her father and she screamed to end up dead by suffocation. She'd wake up all sweaty and with her blue eyes so watery she seemed to be the Tully shade. She felt great calm when she found out they were moving...

[adorerdraco]

Healing Heart ✧ Draco x Reader Mini-Series PART 5

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Summary: PART 5 ! of Draco accidentally falling in love with reader during his sixth year (HBP) and figuring out how to survive his new life while finding out a way to keep you in it. 

Warnings: angst, mentions of death, torture, blood, death eater stuff - the usual ! 

Words: 7.8K

A/N: FINDING WAYS TO PROLONG THIS SERIES !!!! 😼 AND SORRY IF THERE ARE ANY MISTAKES ITS VERY LATE AND I NEVER CATCH THEM 😔 but omg my little week long hiatus I took was against my will but i’m back and healthy again and can finally think out sentences again lmao !!! also i DO own gif 

Draco stared at the vast, dark marble ceiling as he lied awake. His black silk sheets were strewn across his king bed in a lofty heap from when he had woken up. There was a sheen layer of sweat across his skin, but his room held no warmth and the draft that was coming in from his open windows was nothing less than freezing.

There wasn’t a moment where he had enough peace to sleep, but when he ultimately did; he always regretted ever drifting off when he felt the hot, ravenous feeling that ran through his body when he would jolt awake from a nightmare with his heart thundering against him and the inability to differentiate reality from a subconscious image. He would lie back down, breathing unevenly, and fixate on a random crack in the ceiling and let his now very tortured conscience remind him, “it all happened, you can't escape it!”

And that little malicious voice in his head was right. The horrible images in his mind weren’t made up or conjured by his brain - they were very real and he had lived through them.

He remembered the agonizing decision he had to make when he left the love of his life, jinxed and in hysterics in an abandoned classroom. He remembered his Headmaster, who he had cornered and disarmed who still offered him genuine help and guidance despite the wand pointed in his face. He remembered his once-favorite Professor, kill his Headmaster who he thought for maybe a second would be able to help him. He remembered bounding down the steps of the astronomy tower, wanting to topple over and vomit while he followed closely behind a billowing cape and several sniggering and smug Death Eaters into the halls of the unsuspecting school. He remembered his aunt wreaking havoc on the Great Hall with pure joy as he could only watch in horror while she shattered the windows in her celebration. He remembered walking through a maze of trees in a dazed stupor towards Hagrid’s hut, Bellatrix giggling maniacally beside him as she skipped past him. He remembered seeing Harry run towards them, hurling any hexes and curses he could think of towards Snape while he scurried off. He remembered meeting his mother at the momentarily failing barrier, her hand wrapping tightly around his arm before she apparated them home. He remembered the cold wooden floors underneath him and the way the Manor’s structure seemed to be crashing down onto him as he tried to catch his breath and collect his thoughts.

When he would finish going over every mistake he had made that night, and every choice he could have made instead, he would turn over in his bed and stare out the large window in his room where he could see the cloudy night sky and the nature swinging around in the wind like it was in a constant state of what seemed like an approaching tornado. He would wonder about you, and what you were doing and what you thought of him. He wondered if you meant what you said - if you would truly never forgive him for leaving you there. He wondered if you thought it was him who killed Dumbledore and how you probably saw him as a killer now. He was in ceaseless disarray of wonder, a painful wonder that he couldn’t escape.

He didn’t dare try to owl you, especially with Bellatrix around the house as a very vigilant guard dog that noticed anything and everything. There were barely any opportunities in which he could leave the Manor, not by foot, by broom, or apparate. He was a prisoner in his own home, just as much as he was in his mind. The increasing amount of Death Eaters that came and went every day made him feel more unsettled than ever, all of them giving him intimidating and sneering looks as if he was a joke while they forcefully turned the Manor into their place of 'work'.

The day Lucius was released from Azkaban, Draco felt a slight hope that things would improve, that his father could somehow find a way to fix things for them as he always had and the young boy could finally step down from the responsibility he felt for his family. But what he saw in the foyer of his home wasn’t Lucius Malfoy; influential, formidable and feared by many - he saw a shell of a man who had lost all sense of who he was and had paid greatly for his failures. He recalled how his father had embraced him in a weak and shuddering hug, clinging onto him as a spew of desperate words incessantly flew from his mouth without making much sense. 

He knew immediately then that his father couldn’t swoop in and fix all his problems, and his mother couldn’t be left alone in all this. He was stuck, whether he liked it or not, and he had to follow through on anything and everything the Dark Lord expected from him or wanted out of his family.

He hated the way his home was defiled with death and wickedness. He hated the way there were lifeless bodies littered around the living room sometimes. He hated the echoing cries and pleas of those who were locked up in the dungeon below. He hated seeing Voldermort use his home as his headquarters, pacing the room in a self-given majesty and humiliating his father every chance he could get. The only reason the Malfoys weren’t killed off yet was, in Draco’s opinion, to be used as an example of what happens when you fail the Dark Lord, to be used as malicious entertainment, and to see just how far someone could be tortured from the inside. Draco did mend the cabinet, but he didn’t kill Dumbledore or die trying as his master had desired. He was always visibly apprehensive of everything he had to do and every order he was given. He wasn’t willingly cruel or vile and hated the idea of actually hurting anyone. His father had failed every mission he was given, and his mother wasn’t a Death Eater, to begin with. They were just there, as pawns and as sadistic pleasure. 

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

It was subsequently, a rare day that the Manor was empty. No one was walking through the halls or running their mucky shoes on the expensive upholstery of the furniture as they relaxed into it. Even his father was out, along with Bellatrix, which left only him and his mother at home.

Narcissa Malfoy was just as arrogant as her husband, valued the pro-pure-blood ideals she grew up with, and always appeared to be very cold and haughty. Yet there was one thing that she valued above most; her family. She was entirely devoted to her son and husband and loved them profoundly. It was for Draco she worried for the most and would do anything for. It was for Draco she would risk everything for and go against the Dark Lord for. 

So on the night she brought her son back home, and he was breaking down in her arms with cries about a girl she had never heard of - it piqued her curiosity more than she wanted to admit. She had asked Draco who you were a handful of times since that night, but he always refused to answer. She even went as far as asking Snape, pulling him aside one night behind a dark pillar in her home as everyone was leaving and whispered secretly to him.

“Severus, I know I’ve asked too much of you already but I need to know this,” she rushed to say in a very hushed and imperceptible tone but she knew he had heard her. He raised an eyebrow, looking at her quizzically. 

“What might that be?”

“On the night Draco came home, he was calling out for someone,” she began, “do you know if he was involved with anyone by the name of Y/N?”

She could have sworn she saw a twinge of muscles move in his cheek, but he only shook his head shortly from side to side.

“I apologize, Narcissa, but I know no student by that name,” he sighed. “Draco spent most of his time mending the vanishing cabinet, I doubt he had time to be venturing out in his love life.”

She wanted to believe him. But she couldn’t brush off the intuition that was beating against her gut, nearly screaming at her that she was being lied to and there was more to the story. It’s not like she wanted the information to hurt you or to judge, she simply wanted to know who had broken through to her son during the year he was the most closed off. Who had impacted him so greatly, that now that it was seemingly over left him in shambles and withdrawn almost completely. If anything, she wanted to help. And if there was a possibility where she could, she would help Draco take it if it meant it would make his life easier. There was nothing more she wanted for him, free of pain and filled with hope, and if a certain individual would help her get him there - she would be willing to see it through.

With the opportunity of everyone gone, Narcissa trailed up to Draco’s room, letting her knuckles fall softly against the wooden double doors three times.

“Draco, dear, would you like to join me on a walk?”

She heard a shuffling from behind the door and a sharp sniffle, taking in a deep breath to prepare herself to see his poorly hidden tears that she knew she would be met with.

As she predicted, the doors opened and the blond stepped out of his room, lowering his red-rimmed eyes to the ground so he wouldn’t have to meet her worried gaze. He looked well-groomed as always, but she took notice that his skin seemed gray and dull. His eye bags were deep and nearly black from all his crying and lack of sleep. When she linked her arm through his, she felt the slight weight he had unwillingly lost in the past month that he’s been home. Her mind was spinning with concern, promising herself there that she was ready to do whatever she could for him, anything she could.

She led them out of their cold and darkened home, stepping out into the gardens that sat behind the Manor in a large vastness of gorgeous flower arrangements of whites, greens, and reds. There was a large marble fountain placed in the middle of the garden, spewing water smoothly from a small bowl that spilled into a larger one beneath it. It was boxed in with stone and surrounded with red amaryllis flowers, giving anyone enough space to sit around it without being splattered by droplets of water. 

It was a gloomy day, but a warm afternoon sun had peaked through the clouds and cast a glowy light around the house that she hadn’t seen in ages. It made her feel hopeful as she walked her and Draco through the garden, thinking of ways on how to approach him. She knew he had shot her down and changed the subject every time she brought up your name, even if it was in privacy, and she pleaded to the stars that this would ultimately be the chance she would get to find out. 

When they reached the fountain, she sat them down and watched as Draco slouched, silent and staring distantly at his shoes.

“Dear, I know you hate for me to bring this up,” she started slowly, shaking her head as she spoke, “but I want to know who she is. I want to be able to help you, and maybe even her. I know you’re in love, I see it in your eyes and I see it now that you’re apart. I know everything else certainly applies to how you’re feeling, but there’s a look for heartbreak, and you have it.”

Draco looked up at her, finally peering into her worried eyes as he contemplated what she said and what she offered. The last time he told someone about you, he was reprimanded and denied any sort of help, only suggestions for abandonment were given. He wanted to tell his mother all about you, but he wished it was under happier circumstances, however. 

He wished it would be him coming home during the summer, no Voldermort or Death Eaters in his life or his family’s, and arriving with you by his side after sending an owl to his parents about the new love in his life he wanted them to meet. He would boast about you and your smarts, care, ambitions, and beauty. He would make sure his parents understood just how important you were to him and just how amazing you truly were. He imagined their inevitable surrender and allowing him to invite you on one of their luxurious trips to somewhere beautiful and expensive. He pictured a yacht ride in Italy, your skin glowing and your smile bright as you gazed at him in delight under a warm summer sun. Or a grandeur trip to France, walking around the Parisian streets with you as he spoiled you with gifts and delicious gourmet food while ending the night under the Eiffel Tower. He wanted to see you leave on shopping trips with his mother, the two of you coming back with heavy bags and new memories while his mother would walk by him and secretly whisper, “I love her!” to him. He wanted to flaunt you, and boast and gloat all about you - but the circumstances now were dreadful, and to talk about how he had failed you made him want to cry all over again. 

His mother waited patiently for his reply, clasping her hands together in her lap as he stayed quiet while he decided. He was so used to sulking and torturing himself on his own in the past month, that seeing a genuine look of concern and desire to help pushed him into making his final resolve.

“I met her around the beginning of last year,” he breathed out finally, “her name is Y/N Y/L/N, we had a Potions class together but I met her in one of the corridors where we accidentally bumped into each other. I sprained a finger trying to catch myself and she healed it without a second thought. She wants to be a Healer at St. Mungo’s after Hogwarts, and she’s very skilled with her wand. She’s one of the smartest people I’ve ever met and the kindest. She always listened to me, and helped me, and encouraged me. She always reassured me when I needed it, and if it weren’t for her I don’t think I would have mended the cabinet or even had the energy to wake up every day. She stayed with me even when I told her the truth about everything. I’ve never met anyone who makes me feel the way she does, I can’t explain it, she makes me feel-”

“Alive?” His mother softly finished for him. “She makes you feel alive.”

“Yes,” he nods fervently, “I love her and I failed her. I don’t think there’s anything I can do now and neither can you.”

“I beg to differ,” she briskly interjects. “It’s never too late for anything, Draco. There’s always an opportunity to make things right, as long as you try. She at least deserves an explanation and an apology, and it will be up to her to decide what she wants to do. She sounds wonderful, and I’m glad you met someone who brings out your best.”

Draco agreed wordlessly, his tears sitting at the brink of his eyelids begging to be released as he mulled over everything that was said. He knew where you lived, having learned the fact somewhere in your relationship when you were talking about your childhood and where you were from. He knew the place you called home and the address that came with it that you constantly reminded him of in hopeful jokes that he would visit you over the summer.

“There’s no one here, no one would know you’re gone,” Narcissa encourages swiftly as if she knew what he was thinking about. “It’ll be a few hours before anyone returns. Go to her.”

“But if I become involved with her again, he’ll find out, won’t he?” He insinuates in distress. “The reason I left her was to keep her safe from him, I don’t want her anywhere near this.”

“He won’t find out,” she promised, “I’ll make sure of it. Go.”

There was a hopeful and elating sensation that ran through his veins as he stood up, turning back to look at his mother as she nodded at him optimistically. He suddenly lunged towards her, giving her a tight hug and muttering thank you’s to her like a broken record before running out of the garden towards the front gate of the Manor.

As soon as he reached his exit, he used his newfound Death Eater ability to half-apparate himself into a thick black cloud of smoke that allowed him to fly over to where you were - not giving a care in the world if he were seen by muggles as he recklessly took every shortcut he knew towards your hometown.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

There was a slight breeze in the cloudy air that brought you comfort. It was cold, but refreshing - a sharp contrast against the burning feeling that never seemed to leave your body. You were back home now, in your small little town in England that held little to no wizards.

You spent a lot of your time wandering around the local stores and cafes nearby, mingling with strangers as you told them fake life stories for fun. There was also the small forest behind your house you regularly enjoyed, and all the small hidden creatures that you encountered along the way. You always brought along your family cat, the chunky orange tabby always finding his way for you outside of the forest when you got too far in, or if he sensed there was nearby danger and would warn you. Sometimes you would talk to him, complain to him about everything that was bothering you and he would respond to you now and then with broken meows and chirps that made you feel like he understood, even though he didn’t. It made you feel less alone.

Of course, you had your family that worried over your changed behaviors. They weren’t oblivious. They noticed the puffy eyes, the sniffles, and the quiet sobs that escaped under the space of your bedroom door when they would pass by in the middle of the night to get a glass of water from the kitchen. They noticed your sudden quietness, and your lack of interest in everything and hardly found you in the house. You were always out and about, trying to find anything and anyone to distract yourself from what was going on in your mind.

 It wasn’t that you didn’t want to talk to your family, even though they had incessantly offered their support, you just knew they wouldn’t understand. They would want to know about Draco, his family, and their beliefs. They would eventually figure out of his involvement with the Dark Lord and the looming second Wizarding war. They wouldn’t approve, and you didn’t want to hear the scolding you would get for ever giving him the time of day. You were bitter enough as it was, and the last thing you wanted to hear was how bad Draco was and how you were better off without him.

But even if you were supposed to be better off without him, a life where he wasn’t in it didn’t feel good at all. It felt empty and lost. You were used to his presence always being around you and how he was always a few minutes away from you. He was always available to you for anything and willingly; for company, affection, comfort, reassurance, love, everything. You hated the fact that you let yourself get attached, especially when you knew deep down the direction the relationship was going in.

There were days when you would wake up okay. Days where your mind blocked out your feelings entirely, including Draco and all the memories that came with him. There were days when you felt like you had finally forced yourself to move on, but always finding it to wear off when you’d clamber into bed at night and your brain started illustrating everything you didn’t want to remember. The silver band bracelet he had gifted you was in constant movement from your wrist and jewelry box, hidden on the days you wanted to forget him or sitting pretty on your skin on the days you missed him the most. As much as it hurt to think about him and remember him, you couldn’t stop the way your whole being drifted towards him.

You were currently stepping over a big fallen tree trunk covered in thick green moss, your cat following closely by your leg as he pranced and jumped over all his obstacles. You walked mindlessly around the greenery, not taking notice in the shape of the leaves of the fern you were placing your hand upon to move out of your way. It wasn’t until you felt the sharpened ends of the leaves dig deep into your skin that made you recoil your hand back in pain, a slight hiss leaving your mouth as a small gash began to form with blood flowing quickly upwards out of the new cut. Your hand was held in the air as you frantically looked around for anything that would stop the bleeding that was now dripping sleekly down your arm.

“Stupid ministry and underage magic,” you mutter under your breath. Your wand was in your pocket, begging to be used, but the idea of being sent a letter from the ministry that was now under the Voldermort's control quickly dispersed any desire you had to use it. “Come on, kitty. Let’s go back home, please.”

'Home' was a word the cat did understand. He bumped your leg with his head before meowing loudly at you as he began trotting off to your right side towards the exit of the forest. He moved stealthily, dodging in and out of everything that was in his path as you attempted to follow in his cleared steps. Every time you would trip or rest briefly, he would stop ahead of you and wait until you would walk towards him again before he started back on the journey.

When you finally saw your house in the distance, you sighed in relief at the thought of your first aid kit waiting patiently for you in the bathroom cupboard. And belatedly, your feet hit the stone path that led home, skipping slightly with your hand in the air before nearly toppling over your cat as he stopped abruptly in your path. You moved out of the way, last minute, and very clumsily before eyeing him suspiciously.

He was looking up at the sky, his ears pulled back and the fur on his back straightening up as his eyes frantically searched around the clouds above him. He wasn’t hissing like he normally did when he felt something dangerous coming, he looked more confused and alert than anything. You searched the sky with him for a minute before concluding he was being too wary so you bent down and pick him up with your uninjured hand, nearly scooping him into your arms until he carefully swiped at your arm.

“You’re being dramatic, there’s nothing there,” you exclaim at him irritably. You were stumped, on one hand, literally, you were still bleeding though it had significantly slowed down and was now just coagulated blood, and on the other hand, you couldn’t leave the cat outside because of the number of dead critters he left in his past outdoor ventures around the yard and his sometimes week-long disappearances that left everyone in the house worried.

In just a few seconds of your thinking, he had sprung forward and rushed towards the large open field that was a few feet away from your house. Although it was summer, it had been rainy and allowed the grassy field to flourish in tall and wild greenery. This did not help as you watched the fluff of orange disappear into the small jungle that lied ahead and you began to sprint after him, spotting his bushy tail in your vision every time he jumped over something. If you could use magic, this little ordeal would have gone much more different - but you couldn’t.

You chased him until the very near end of the field, spotting him sitting calmly as he looked back at you as if he was expecting you. Rolling your eyes, you reached towards him again to pick him up, if he wanted to go back to the house scratching and biting then so be it. You trained your gaze on him, trying your best to grab him as carefully and as slyly as you could. But as soon as your hand landed on the silky fur of his back, you heard a soft whooshing sound a few feet away in front of you and a very audible shuffle of dead grass crunching underneath someone's shoes as they moved slowly. 

You didn’t look up, all of a sudden feeling scared at who could have magically appeared in front of you, and instead, you waited for your cat to hiss and attack, but he sat himself down in a loaf as if he were in the most comfortable place in existence. This is when you looked up, and the sight before you was like an invisible force that knocked you onto your bottom as you jumped back in surprise.

“What are you doing here?”

What was supposed to sound like a concerned question, came out a little ruder than you had intended, almost seething at the boy that was fearfully staring down at you.

“I’m sorry,” Draco ran his hands over his pallid face in distress, “I shouldn’t have come.”

There was an awkwardness that hung in the air. The two of you were finally where you had wanted to be, together, but now that you were face-to-face it couldn’t have been more perplexing. He didn’t know how to begin, and you weren’t sure if you should even listen to him. It was like a weird staring competition, he was taking in everything about you as you were doing the same to him. It was obvious you were both a wreck, and the damage was apparent on him the most as he was dealing with his Death Eater status now more than ever.

“Your hand is bleeding,” he stated suddenly. You didn’t have time to answer before he had cautiously walked over to you and sat down beside you in a flattened patch of grass. “Let me see it.”

Like magnets, your hand instantly fell into his cold grasp without you thinking about it. You eyed him carefully and quietly, observing him as he turned your injured hand over in his and inspected your gash like you had done many times in the past for him. You didn’t stop him when he took his wand out of his pocket and waved it over your wound, murmuring a familiar spell that closed the cut with ease, a small pink scar left in its place. 

“I didn’t know you knew how to do that,” you say lightly. “Thank you.”

“I learned from the best,” he smiles faintly. 

Neither of you moved from your sitting spots, and neither of you said anything. He would meet your eyes now and then and search them with such a pained expression that it took everything in you not to just throw yourself into his arms and cry in relief that he was there.

“I know it was Snape who killed Dumbledore and not you,” you break the silence apprehensively. “Harry told me.”

“Potter told you?” He grimaced, but he let out a breath of relief. “I would’ve thought the git would have loved to throw me under the bus. I didn’t even know he was there, then I see him chasing us down-”

“Draco, why are you here?” You asked him again, gingerly this time and cutting him off from his rambling in hopes that he would just cut to the chase on his unannounced appearance. He sighed, looking down at his now muddy, once expensive dress shoes.

“I needed to see you,” he answers honestly. “And I wanted to apologize for how I left things.”

You peered up at him with a raised eyebrow, bringing your knees up to your chest so you could rest your head against them as you faced him. “Let’s hear it.”

“I’m serious,” he frowned. “I’m sorry I used my wand against you. I’m sorry I shut you out. I’m sorry I left without giving you much of an explanation. I’m sorry I abandoned you and disappeared off the face of the Earth. I’m sorry I broke my promise that I would never leave you again.”

“Draco-”

“No, wait, I need you to understand that I thought leaving you was the only thing that would keep you safe. I would have never forgiven myself if I let you die for trying to help me, even if you say you’re ready to accept whatever fate is in store for you, I’m not. But I don’t want to run anymore, I don’t want to be away from you, I can’t do it and I always think I can let you go for your safety, but I can’t.”

There was a brief period of stillness as you contemplated his apology. Your head moved to fall in between your knees as your hands began to fiddle with the long strands of grass beneath you. You were stripping it and pulling at it, hoping that there would be a hidden message underneath the earth that would give you an answer on what to say or what to do, but it wasn’t possible. The only thing you found was the loose pitiful tears slipping down your face that seeped into spots of dry soil. Draco stayed wordless beside you, the only sound coming from him was uneven breaths as he stressed over your reaction.

You were caught in between wanting to give in, wanting to forgive him, and hug him and kiss him to make up for all the tortuous time lost, but there was also a part of you that was now afraid to trust. You wanted to, so badly, but everything felt so unpredictable. You weren’t sure whether you could handle him leaving again if he had to. And if he were to die at the end of all of this? There was no way you’d be able to recover from a loss like that. He was on an unforeseeable path that held no clear outcome.  

“I’m scared, Dray,” you sniffle, closing your eyes tightly as you began to answer him. “We’re not kids anymore fooling around at school. Everything is getting more real by the day. How am I supposed to be comfortable with the idea that you might-”

You stopped yourself from finishing, a soft sob escaping your throat at the near mention of his possible death. You felt him scoot closer to you, stopping about a few inches away from your shuddering body as he placed a reassuring hand on your lower back.

“You say you can’t accept the decision I made when I said I’m ready for whatever fate lies ahead of me,” you mumble miserably. “Well, I can’t accept yours either.”

“I won’t make any more promises I can’t keep,” he starts warily, “but I can promise you that as long as I’m around, I won’t let anyone hurt you, ever. And as far as my future goes, I promise that I’ll do everything and anything I can to survive this.”

You had unhooked your arms from around your legs, bringing them underneath you as you sat yourself up to face him better. He was staring at you intently, hopeful gray eyes boring into yours with every emotion under the sun flashing through them. He didn’t show it, but he felt like at any moment he was going to faint. He had never seen such uncertainty on your face and it killed him, but he tried to remain stoic as he spoke and kept a brave face at every concern you had. He couldn’t guarantee you anything that lied ahead, but there was also nothing he wouldn’t do for you now.

“Okay,” you agree, finally giving him the consolation he had been woefully praying for. “I believe you, we can get through this together.”

There wasn’t another second spared before you speedily moved out of your sitting position to pounce him with a tight and suffocating hug. It was desperate and smothering, his arms wrapped tightly around your lower back as he pressed you deeply into his body as if you were going to disappear any second.

You didn’t care that you could barely breathe against his chest or that your knee was digging into the mud below you. It was the most relieving feeling in the world, finally being in his arms again with new hopes and possibilities that always found a way to present themselves. It was one of the many reasons that you knew he was the one for you. Everything with him felt easy, even if the world was crashing down around you. He could melt away all your pain and worries with one look, touch, or words. He felt like home and heaven all in one.

It came to you in the middle of your longing hug, that there was always going to be something looming over the two of you in the current state that the wizarding world was in. There’s no point in wasting time when everything could change overnight, just as it had that unforsaken day at Hogwarts before you were dragged home the next day. There was no reason for trying to stay away from him when it was everything you wanted and you knew then that you needed to take advantage of whatever time you had left with him.

“I'm sorry for saying I would never forgive you that night,” you murmur into the crook of his neck. “And for being stubborn.”

“You had all the right to be angry with me,” he laments.

“But it didn’t make it okay,” you nuzzle yourself deeper in his embrace, frowning to yourself as you recalled the night.

He looked down at you, a pang of guilt hitting him when he saw the corners of your lips pulled down in sadness. He leaned down and carefully placed a kiss on your temple, lingering for a bit before moving away and muttering, “nothing about that night was okay.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 

There wasn’t an inkling of an idea how long the two of you were sat outside, holding on tightly to each other as you filled each other in on any news that happened in the last month since you’ve seen each other. The only indication that let the two of you know that time had surely passed was that the sun had begun setting behind the valley in the distance. The moon now had a faint appearance in the purplish evening sky that was for the first time in a while, free of the heavy cloud covers.

You listened attentively as he told you about the Manor and how it was being used as a Death Eater meeting place. He told you about his father being released from Azkaban as a treat for the Malfoy’s since he had fixed the cabinet and disarmed Dumbledore for Snape to finish, unknowing to him that he would. He explained to you how ghostly he felt when he was venturing out of the school that night. He even scarcely described the horror that had gone on in the dead of night, when victims had been brought back to the house for ‘interrogations’ and the way their screams would keep him wide awake for days.

You nearly felt sick to your stomach the longer he went on, empathizing with him delicately when he would sometimes stop talking to take a deep painful shaky breath. The guilt that was eating away at him wasn’t hidden or pushed down, he expressed it very obviously and you couldn’t picture how he managed to hold a straight face in the sea of terrors he had encountered.

“You’re nothing like them,” you whispered tenderly to him when you saw the distant broken look that clouded his eyes. “You are good, Draco. Not once have I ever changed my mind about that.”

He was slipping, far and fast into the depths of his despair. His new life away from school was eating away at him now that he was forced to experience it upfront. He wasn’t cut out for it, nor did he want anything to do with it. It physically pained you that there was nothing you could do except offer him what you’ve always been able to provide; a listening ear and to remind him that he’s not the evil monster he deludes himself to be. 

“I don’t want to talk about me anymore,” he mumbled gloomily, taking your hand into his as he turned to look at you. “I want to hear about you and your summer.”

“It wasn’t pleasant or anything, honestly,” you shrug, “I spent most of it in the village nearby and the forest behind my house with my cat, who by the way knew you were coming somehow.”

You both suddenly turned to look for the orange tabby who had seemingly disappeared without either of you noticing sometime throughout the evening. 

“Where is the little critter so I can thank him for leading you to me,” he chuckled softly as you rolled your eyes.

“He’s probably back at home now but I’ll pass the message,” you bite back a smirk.

Draco felt the familiar fluttering of pixies in his stomach as he looked at you, a sense of exhilaration and delight shocking his body from its usual anguished state. He was so far gone in you and he never wanted to leave the feelings you left him with and with such little effort. He couldn’t count how many times he had the same thought in his head when he was around you, much like your own, he knew with you was where he was at his calmest and his happiest. It was like a chunk of agony being released from him that made him feel like he could breathe again without feeling like he was going to drown. Even if it was just for a few hours, he was always grateful for moments he shared with you and the comfort you brought him.

“I love you,” he said dazed, eyes locking onto yours intimately. “I hope you know that.”

"I love you,” you repeated, a coy smile making its way onto your features. 

“You know,” his thumb began mindlessly running over your knuckles as he spoke, “if it wasn’t for my mother knocking some sense into me earlier, I wouldn’t have had the great idea to show up here.”

He looked over at you when he felt you tense up completely, slightly worried at first before a small amusement quickly replaced his fear when he noticed you were gaping at him with wide wondrous eyes. 

“You told her about me?”

“All about you,” he nods, “I accidentally let your name slip a while back and she’s been asking me about you ever since. I didn’t want to say anything in case someone heard, but everyone was gone today and she got it out of me.”

“What did she say about me?” You asked him timidly as if it was the most important thing in the world for you.

He chortled quietly at your nervousness, “she said she thinks you’re wonderful and she’s glad we met. She pushed me to come and make things right with you and she offered to look out for us.”

There was an intense delight that beat against your chest at his answer. The only other person in his life who’s opinion he valued the most above all had made one about you, and it was one that was better than anything you could have ever hoped for. Narcissa Malfoy had vouched for you before she’s even properly met you and it left you feeling astounded and beyond appreciative.

“When you get home, please send her my regards,” you plead heartily, your hands clutching onto the lapels of his suit jacket as he laughed lightly. 

“I will, I will,” he smiles, “I have to be home soon, so she’ll hear about it within the next half hour.”

Draco pulled you up with him as he stood up, both of you finally stretching out your limbs with groans and sighs of relief from the tension of sitting for so long.

As you peered up at him, you let your hands slide up into the platinum blond strands that looked brighter than ever under the now bright moonlight. He placed a hand over one of your wrists, a smile growing on his face as he noticed the silver band sitting warmly against your skin. He leaned forward to press his forehead against yours, letting himself stay there for a minute as he tried to revel in the last few moments of peace he was going to try and prolong for the rest of his night.

“I’ll be back soon,” he cupped your cheek with one hand, his thumb grazed delicately over your cheekbone as you leaned into his touch. “Right back with you.”

“I’ll be waiting, Malfoy,” you grin.

For the first time that night, he ducked down and pressed his lips soft against yours. The gentleness quickly dissipated into longing and fervor as he kissed you like it was the last thing he was ever going to do, seeking the closeness and union he missed so desperately. Neither of you made any move to pull apart as you melted into each other, basking completely in the feeling of being so close to one another like this again.

If it wasn’t for you worrying about his timely arrival back home before everyone, you would have allowed him to keep you like that forever. But much to your dismay, you tapped him lightly against his chest that let him know it was really time for him to leave if he wanted to keep his secret trip, secret.

You stood there sadly, watching him as he unwillingly backed away from you and whispered one more goodbye to you before he disappeared into the sky in a ghost of black smoke, the aroma of his cologne still lingering in the air and a swollen feeling against your lips that left you feeling fuzzy.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 

The Malfoy Manor was staring eerily back at Draco when he finally arrived back in front of the main gate of the home. It was deathly quiet and dark, only a small light could be seen from the living room as he approached further into the property.

He swiftly ran up the steps, hand falling carefully onto the brass doorknob of the front entrance, stopping in his tracks completely when he heard a mixture of hushed angry voices.

“I told you, Bella,” he heard his mother exclaim fiercely. “He only went out to clear his head.”

“Clear his head of what?” his aunt sneered. “He’s falling weak, Cissy. He should be running around in joy that the Dark Lord has him in his inner circle.”

“My son is not weak, don’t you think this can all be a little overwhelming for someone who hasn’t even finished his schooling?” His mother defended him and he could picture the exact sneer on her face as she spoke.

“I want to know where he went,” Bellatrix says hotly, “he’s been gone too long.”

Draco ran through a list of excuses in his head, swallowing back the lump in his throat when he decided on one and put on a straight face as he turned the doorknob, cautiously stepping into the dimly lit living room where both his parents and aunt were waiting for him.

“Ah, there he is,” his father announced as he was the first one to see the boy clambering inside.

“I’m sorry I went off for so long,” Draco spoke up before anyone could ask. “I remember someone mentioning they had spotted Potter around a village nearby so I tried to go look for him.”

“Did you?” Bellatrix chastised. “And nothing?”

“Nothing,” he shrugged with a feigned annoyance.

“And you were alone?” She added with a raised eyebrow.

“Yes, all by myself.”

Narcissa gave her sister a pointed look as she walked up to Draco, hand gripping tightly onto his arm before leading him away from the surprise interrogation and towards the foot of the stairs where she stopped him hastily.

“How did it go?” She asked almost inaudibly.

“Y/N sends her regards,” he whispered, “thank you.”

He gave his mother a warm hug good night before he hurriedly bounded up the stairs, looking down towards the living room once more where Bellatrix was eyeing him carefully. He decided on giving her a curt nod before vanishing into his bedroom and letting himself fall against the shut double doors, a large exhale of relief slipping past his lips as he was now safe to freely recall the night with a dazed smile he didn’t want to let go of.

PART 6

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APOLOGIES IF I FORGOT ANYONEEE 🥺 BUT I REALLY HOPE EVERYONE ENJOYED THIS CHAPTER EVEN THO IT WASNT TOOO EVENTFUL ❤️❤️❤️❤️ I GOT ACTION FOR THE NEXT PIECES THO JUST WAITTTT

[dorochas]

for the one who stands outside the prison-wall by stanzas

for @camelove day 3: non ship - balinor/uther

written for @princess-of-the-worlds because the thought of writing balinor/uther would otherwise NEVER cross my writing drafts. dear g-d, what have i done...

words: 6.9k

summary: Before he can flee for Ealdor, Balinor is caught escaping from his cell in Camelot. Gaius pays the price for disobedience. Uther is left with a matching set of prisoners; the last dragonlord and his prized dragon. Flowing between the bars of cold iron dividing the king and his dragonlord, there is a storm of old grief and an unending sea of blood running through them.

[calenheniel]

In Fantasy, a frozen fanfic | Chapter 1

Frozen | Alternate Universe | Hans x Elsa | Romance, Drama | G+

In a desperate bid to save their country from political and financial ruin, King Agnarr and Queen Iduna of Arendelle strike a deal with a former foe, King Albert of the Southern Isles. His price? That their firstborn daughter marry his thirteenth son.

Previous installments: Prologue

Follow updates: #InFantasyFrozen

For Helsa Week 2021, Day 1: Parenthood. @helsaweekmasterlist

Author's Note: This is a draft, exclusively available on Tumblr. I have literally the outline for every single chapter following this written, but not fleshed out into readable form yet... so this is all you are going to see for a while. It took me a while to write, as you can probably tell. Enjoy and please leave feedback.

»»————-　❈　————-««

Chapter 1

Snow pattered soundlessly against the arched window of the king’s study as he and his wife sat across from one another at his desk, reviewing the morning’s mail by candlelight. The fire crackled loudly in the hearth a few feet away, bringing a warm glow to the otherwise dim and drab space.

Iduna looked out briefly through the glass panes, the outside world obscured by the total darkness of the winter months. She was just able to make out the snow flurries of white and gray, and beyond that, under the lanterns lining the walkway to the castle gates, she imagined she could see the slow and halting movements of the castle’s servants as they shuttled through the gates and back. The town square, and the fjord beyond it, were entirely hidden from her view.

She shivered, drawing her heavy fur robe closer around her frame, and the small movement was enough to cause her to lose her grip on the letter opener in her other hand. It cut the side of her thumb as it clattered to the desk, and she released a small cry of surprise and pain as droplets of her blood fell on the envelope at the top of the unread stack, staining it red.

“Oh, dear,” Agnarr sighed, pulling a handkerchief from his chest pocket and wrapping it around her open wound. “You must be more careful with that.” He eyed her chattering teeth with concern. “Is the new robe helping even a little bit?”

Iduna looked away. “You know how difficult my… condition has been,” she said, gazing down at her swollen belly. “Even in rooms with the best-tended fires, I’m always cold.” She touched the collar of the robe, shooting him a small glare, and added: “Anyway, it’s not as if you paid for this yourself.”

Agnarr frowned but said nothing, returning his attention to the mail after another sharp look from his wife. His eyes widened as he examined the seal, and he paused, causing Iduna to glance at it with curiosity.

“Who is it from?”

He swallowed and began to open the letter, avoiding Iduna’s still-drying blood splatters. “The Southern Isles,” he said at length, causing her face to darken.

“Speak of the devil,” she grumbled.

He read it in silence to himself at first, but at Iduna’s unnerved expression, he passed the paper to her. She reluctantly accepted it.

Dearest Agnarr and Iduna,

Allow me to pass on my belated congratulations to you both for the auspicious news of your first child’s coming! While I was surprised to hear that the delivery date is so soon, you cannot imagine the happiness this has brought my family and I, and especially to my youngest son, Hans. He is eager to meet his future wife and in-laws. Rest assured that we will be the first guests to arrive for her christening.

I have ordered a small gift for my future daughter-in-law which you should receive in about one month, just in time for her birth. Please accept this as a token of our continued friendship and soon-to-be unbreakable bonds of family. I look forward to hearing what you think of it when we meet again in person soon.

Yours respectfully,

Albert

Iduna scowled and crumpled the letter in her unbandaged hand. “How can he be so sure it will be a girl?” she muttered. “The nerve of that man! We should never have told him that I am with child.”

“He would’ve found out eventually, whether we did or not,” Agnarr pointed out, sighing. “And besides, we did wait a while – probably too long – to write to him about it. Which he obviously picked up on.” He gestured for Iduna to hand him the ball of paper, which she did while sporting a glower. “I’m not sure there’s any need to be so sullen, dear. Nils said it was likely to be a boy.”

Iduna opened her lips as if to speak, but her face suddenly paled, and she collapsed from her seat to the floor, holding herself up on all fours. She groaned with pain as her husband rushed to her side, panic flashing across his eyes.

“Agnarr,” she moaned, “I think—I think it’s time…”

»» —— ««

Agnarr paced outside the bedroom, his features hollow and drawn from sleeplessness. Iduna’s moaning echoed from inside the room out into the hallways, and the sight of various attending ladies scurrying in and out of the room with fresh sheets and bowls of water did little to ease his worried mind.

He had long since dismissed his councilors from the scene, finding their hovering presence unnecessary at best—and unsettling at worst. Their questions about the queen’s health, while infrequent, were regular enough to cause the king to lose his temper and bark that it would not improve just because a gallery of onlookers wished it so. Sympathetic to their young monarch, they had left him in the care of the servants, and so he had waited, alone, for many hours to hear a spot of better news.

The grandfather clock at the end of the hall struck ten just as the door reopened to reveal the royal physician, who wore an equally exhausted expression. His hands, though recently washed, still had specks of the queen’s blood dotting the wrists and under his fingernails.

“Nils! It’s been an age. What’s going on?” he demanded, pulling the older man aside.

The physician stifled a frown. “I don’t have much news to share right now, Your Majesty. She is still in labor, just as before. We are doing everything we can to keep her comfortable.”

Another groan from Iduna resounded in the background, and Agnarr shot Nils a dark look. “You call that ‘comfortable’?”

The noise began to wane as they listened to the head maidservant, Gerda, whisper to the queen inside the room. The king’s expression softened. “Please, Nils,” he began again, “you’ve been here since my father was a young man. I know you’ve seen almost everything in your time.” He placed a hand on the old man’s shoulder. “Just give me your honest assessment of what’s happening. I need to know if she—”

Agnarr broke off, swallowing a sob that threatened to choke him. Nils patted the king’s hand on his shoulder, taking it into his own, and sighed. “It’s difficult when the baby comes this early, Your Majesty. And with Her Majesty being in labor for so long…” He paused, squeezing the king’s hand. “I will do everything I can to keep her and your child alive. That you can rest assured of.”

Agnarr looked back at him with tears straining his vision, his lips just barely forming the beginnings of a grateful smile before a terrible cry erupted from inside the bedroom.

“All of you, out!” Iduna screamed, and then said something else in a voice too quiet to be heard. A flurry of attending ladies rushed out of the room, and the king broke away from Nils to rush to the doorway.

He was met there by a tired, distraught, but somehow still defiant Gerda. “No,” she said, stopping him in his tracks. “She needs to rest for a moment. I’m sorry, Your Majesty.”

Agnarr scowled. “Gerda, for God’s sake, let me in—”

Nils placed his hand on Agnarr’s shoulder, silencing him, and nodded to Gerda. The older woman shot the king a frown, and then sent a grateful look to the physician as she walked away from the door.

Agnarr turned on him. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Fru Gerda is correct, Your Majesty. It is not your place to intervene.” At the king’s heated look, the physician dropped his hand from his shoulder, resting it on the doorknob as he took a step inside the room. “I’ll bring you more news as soon as I have it, but for now… please, try to get some rest.”

Agnarr watched in defeat as the physician closed the door behind him, and finally slumped into an armchair beside the room, his head lolling forward as he began to drift towards slumber.

»» —— ««

“Your Majesty?”

The king awoke to the gentle shaking of his shoulders, and his eyes blinked open slowly. He groaned as his vision finally cleared, seeing Nils. “How long have I been asleep?”

The physician smiled. “Only a few hours.”

Agnarr nodded, placing his aching head in his palms, and then with a suddenness that took Nils aback, it shot up in alarm and stared at the bedroom door. “It’s so quiet—what’s happened?” He stood from the armchair, grabbing the physician by both shoulders. “Is she all right?”

The strange, new sound of an infant’s babbles surfaced from behind the door. The king’s eyes widened as his grip relaxed, and he stared at Nils in wonder.

“Is that…?”

The old man’s smile widened. “Yes, Your Majesty. And Her Majesty is fine now, enjoying a well-deserved rest.” He sighed with contentment. “It truly is a miracle for the child to have been born so healthy, and of normal weight and size, in spite of everything.” He took one of the king’s hands in his own, patting it. “Would you like to meet your newborn daughter?”

Agnarr’s face paled. “Daughter?”

Nils nodded, and looked sheepish. “Yes, Your Majesty. I’m afraid my prediction of her sex was rather inaccurate.”

The king paused, and plastered on a smile, though light droplets of sweat beaded at his forehead. “No matter,” he said, and inhaled as he nodded towards the bedroom. “Lead the way.”

Agnarr entered to find his new daughter in Gerda’s arms, bundled up and half-asleep, a smattering of light blonde hair visible on her soft scalp. Iduna lay in the bed just a few feet away, sleeping quietly, the only visible sign of the previous day’s strain being the pallor of her skin.

The older woman smiled at his coming despite her obvious fatigue, meeting him halfway across the room. “Should I make arrangements to announce the birth of the princess, Your Majesty?” she whispered, looking with fondness down at the infant.

Agnarr shook his head. “Not yet,” he replied after a moment, unable to tear his eyes away from the girl. “At least, not until the queen awakens, and can meet her daughter properly.”

Gerda nodded, casting a pitying glance at Iduna. “Quite right, Your Majesty. The poor woman was barely able to speak a word to the child before drifting off.” She gently handed the baby to its father. “We’ll leave you three alone for a little while. I’ll be back with refreshments for everyone soon.”

At this cue, she and Nils exited the room, closing the door behind them. Agnarr sat in a rocking chair beside the fireplace, his gaze fixed to the sleeping babe in his arms, and his apprehension and fear gave way to a warm, glowing smile.

“Don’t worry, child,” he murmured, and tucked the sleeping bundle closer to his heart. “I’ll protect you.”

»» —— ««

The queen awoke to the same darkness that had greeted her the morning before, but also to the sound of creaking wood. She squinted and saw, with delighted surprise, her husband and daughter sitting together by the hearth.

“Agnarr?” she called in a soft, weary voice.

He looked up with dark circles under his eyes, but his expression was radiant as he walked to her bedside. “My dearest, you’re finally awake!” He handed her their child with infinite tenderness, sitting next to her. “I think she looks like you,” he remarked.

Iduna gazed down at the still-sleeping infant with some bittersweetness, and then back up at her husband. “Has the birth been announced yet?” she asked, unable to hide the anxiousness from her voice.

He shook his head. “No. I wanted to hold off until you were awake.”

“Good,” Iduna sighed with relief, brushing stray strands of the white-golden locks from the child’s eyes. Her nose wrinkled. “I can’t believe that old bastard was right all along,” she muttered. “How did he know?”

Agnarr wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “Don’t think of such things now,” he chided her, and returned his attention to the baby. “What shall we name her?”

Iduna frowned. “I hadn’t thought of any names for a girl.”

“I know, but…” He paused. “What about Elsa?”

Iduna blinked. “Elsa?”

He nodded. “Yes. It was the name of my favorite cousin. She died when I was still a boy—fell through ice while skating. This could be a good way to honor her memory.”

His wife frowned. “Agnarr!” she protested. “That’s far too morbid. Can’t you think of anything else?”

Before the king could reply, the infant nuzzled up against her mother’s breast and hiccuped, drawing her parents’ attention away from their dispute. Agnarr glanced at his wife with a cheeky smile. “I think she approves of her name.”

Iduna sighed, and could not help but smile in return. “Fine. Elsa it is, then,” she agreed.

They watched her for a while longer before Agnarr glanced up at the clock on the bedside table. “I should have Nils check on her, and make sure everything’s all right,” he said, and stood.

Iduna grabbed his hand and brought him back to his seat. “Not yet,” she said. “I want to enjoy this time we have with her, before all the hullabaloo starts up.” She patted his hand before letting it go. “But do fetch us something to eat. I’m famished.”

He bowed his head. “Of course, dear.”

She nodded her thanks. As he opened the door, he looked back on the blissful sight of his wife and daughter together, perfectly content, and smiled.

»» —— ««

Agnarr carried the tray of biscuits and tea with deliberate and careful steps as he made his way down the hallway from the kitchens back to the bedroom, chastened after nearly dropping the whole set a few minutes before in his unfamiliarity with the task.

Gerda, walking behind him, fretted over his apparent clumsiness. “Your Majesty, please, won’t you let me bring it to the queen?”

“It’s fine, Gerda,” he refused, trying to wear a reassuring smile even as it was clear he was concentrating intently in order not to trip. “I won’t break anything, I promise.”

The older woman muttered under her breath, following him despite his protests until they were a few paces from the bedroom door. At that point, after a sharp glance from the king, she relented and left him to his own devices.

Alone again, he sighed, placing the set down gingerly on the armchair by the door. “I’m coming in!” he called to Iduna, resting his hand on the doorknob.

A shriek from the queen, followed by the sound of their baby’s wailing, almost made the king fall back in surprise. He rushed into the room in alarm—only to find himself frozen in place by the sight that greeted him.

Their child lay crying on its back on the bed, a swirl of snow surrounding its tiny body. The queen was pressed up against the wall beside it, her entire frame shaking as she stared at the girl in open terror.

Agnarr regained his bearings long enough to close and lock the door behind him, drowning out the distant cries of worry from Gerda down the hall, and then sprinted towards his daughter. He gathered her up and pressed her into his chest even as a cold wind and snow whipped around them both, making him shiver.

As his warmth slowly enveloped her, however, so too did the strange elemental effects dissipate, until finally the baby was quiet again.

He sighed as he sat on the bed in exhaustion, and nodded for Iduna to join him. “Everything’s all right now,” he assured her. The baby whined a little. “She just needs to be fed.”

The queen returned to his side with caution, her face still drawn, and eventually took the child back into her arms. With a trembling hand, she unbuttoned and pulled aside a flap of her nightgown, pressing the infant to her exposed breast.

To both parents’ surprise – and relief – the child suckled without further dramatics, and Iduna released a long, shuddering sigh.

»» —— ««

Several minutes and harried exchanges with Gerda later, the child was asleep again in her mother’s arms. Her innocent, peaceful face gave no indication that she was aware of the fuss that had just taken place around her.

Once she was sure that the child would not stir, Iduna placed her on the bed, nestling her among the pillows and fresh sheets that Gerda had insisted upon providing (even though she had been disallowed from setting them up within the room herself, much to the woman’s displeasure). She remained sat on the edge of the bed, silent, taking little comfort in their temporary respite.

Agnarr had been quiet since the baby’s extraordinary display, pacing between the hearth to warm himself, and the door to shoo any interruptions away from the room.

She swallowed, and spoke at length. “It’s because of me,” she whispered, looking at the ground with shame. “It is my blood that has caused this.”

The king paused in his nervous walk to look at his wife, perplexed. “What do you mean?”

She would not meet his stare. “Do you remember how we first met?” she asked.

His head cocked to the side as he walked towards her, stopping just short of the bed. “Of course,” he replied. “I was sixteen, making the rounds with my father meeting townsfolk, and you were selling bread at market… but what does that have to do with anything?”

She hesitated at the question. “That… wasn’t actually the first time we met.”

He frowned, crossing his arms. “What are you talking about, Iduna?”

The queen pressed her hands together in front of her, her brows stitched in thought, and finally met her husband’s gaze. “It was during the battle in the Enchanted Forest. You were knocked unconscious when some large rock came loose, and I…” She reddened. “I got us out of there before the forest was sealed off, and left you with some soldiers who had managed to escape. They brought you back home, and I fled into the mountains.”

Her vision misted over as the memories returned to her. “Luckily, I was found by a kindly older woman and her husband there. They were never able to have children of their own, if you remember,” she said, “so they took me in, without question, and taught me their trade.”

The king stared at her in dumbstruck silence; after a time, his arms uncrossed, and he pulled over the rocking chair from the fireplace towards the bed, sitting down again. “When we met at market,” he drawled, “I asked you if I’d seen you before. Do you remember?”

She blinked in surprise, and then nodded. “You denied it at the time,” Agnarr noted, one eyebrow raised.

Iduna grimaced. “I was afraid you would find out the truth.”

He connected the threads with sudden clarity. “That you were one of them,” he said, his eyes wide. “One of the Northuldrans.”

Her face grew hot. “Yes,” she admitted. “I never told you before, because I know the history between our peoples. Because of what happened to your—”

At Agnarr’s darkening expression, she stopped, curling her fingers around the cloth of her nightgown in her lap. At length, the king turned his stare on the sleeping child in the bed next to her. “And what of our child’s powers?” he asked. He eyed Iduna with suspicion. “Did you know she would be born with such abilities?”

Iduna sighed, shaking her head. “No,” she said. “It was just as much a surprise to me as it was to you. None of the Northuldrans have had such powers—not for several generations, at least.” Her brow grew furrowed. “In the old days, it is said that some of my people gained them through their relationship with the spirits of the Forest. I don’t know how, but it seems as if Elsa has inherited some of this magic.”

The king said nothing, and stared blankly at the painted blue wall behind the bed.

Iduna trembled. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, tears trickling down her cheeks. “I should never have kept this hidden from you.” Her eyes were full of fear as he remained silent. “Please, Agnarr, say something, lest I lose all hope.”

Her husband’s frame was taut, and his expression betrayed nothing even as he began to speak. “Do you know what happened to my mother—Queen Rita?”

Iduna was taken aback by the question at first, pausing to collect her thoughts. “Only that she disappeared when you were still a child, never to be seen again,” she recalled, eyeing Agnarr with a growing sense of dread. “Your father blamed it on evil spirits, if I remember correctly.”

Agnarr’s lips were pressed together in a thin line. “He was already a superstitious man before that happened, and afterwards…” The king sighed, and slumped forward in the chair. “He considered the mere existence of an ‘enchanted’ forest anywhere within his realm to be a personal insult, even if its inhabitants exhibited no special powers.” He looked at her morosely. “And you know how that ended.”

Iduna swallowed, and made no reply.

The king looked pained by his memories. “I still don’t know what really happened to her,” he said, “though I think I understand why she left. My father thought that buying her trinkets was enough to demonstrate his affections, but… she missed home, and her family. And he never grasped that.” He frowned. “In fact, he took offense at it. Which only made her more miserable.”

Agnarr paused for a while, and weariness overwhelmed his previously stern countenance. “My father was wretched with grief and anger for years after she left, and I cannot blame him for that. I imagine I would feel much the same if I lost you.”

Iduna stared at her husband in surprise, and then her lip quivered as she threw herself into his embrace, burying her weeping face in the crook of his shoulder. He held her shuddering body tightly, his eyes closed as he kissed her exposed cheek.

“Oh, Agnarr,” she said through muffled sobs, “I’m so sorry.”

He held her as he waited for her crying to subside, and then asked in a gentler manner: “Do you know anything about our daughter’s magic, Iduna? Are there any stories about such powers among the Northul—your people?”

His self-correction made Iduna smile, and she glanced back at their child. “I’ve forgotten most of those stories, truth be told,” she said. “I’ve been in Arendelle too long, I think.”

Agnarr nodded in understanding. “That’s all right, dear, I was only wondering—”

“Wait,” Iduna interrupted, sitting up in her husband’s lap with a start. “There was one old Northuldran legend, about a Snow Queen… she was said to have frozen over entire kingdoms that refused to obey her will.”

At the king’s paling expression, Iduna nervously added: “It was probably just a fairytale made up to scare children, and teach us right from wrong. I doubt our little Elsa would ever be so powerful as to do such fantastical things.”

Agnarr’s lips twisted into a frown, and he raised Iduna off his lap and onto the bed as he stood, pacing again. “We cannot be sure,” he said, his hands clasping behind him. He stared at Elsa with concern. “My father did a fine job of scaring the wits out of everyone in the kingdom with his tales of the evils of magic, and inculcating the same prejudices in them which he held himself. Even if her powers never reached such heights as the stories describe, the fact that she has them at all is—” He shook his head, his troubles mounting. “We’ve only just forged a hard-won peace with Weselton, and secured some new trade routes that had previously been closed to us, no thanks to my father. And all of that would be at risk if they knew, let alone…”

Iduna caught his meaning as he stopped in his tracks, and the two exchanged a long, uncomfortable look.

“Albert,” she finished for him, her mouth dry. “He cannot know about this, Agnarr.”

The king’s expression was bleak. “No,” he agreed, “he cannot.”

Iduna trembled. “Well, that settles it,” she said, trying to sound resolute. “We’ll teach Elsa how to conceal her powers, so that no one ever finds out about them. That way—”

“It’s impossible, Iduna,” Agnarr cut in, pressing a hand to his forehead. “We cannot keep such magic in check forever. And besides, it… would be too cruel to ask that of her. She will not understand.”

“It’s the only way, Agnarr,” his wife insisted, though her lips quivered. She bit them to keep them still. “If we explain to her why it’s necessary, and keep her safe within the castle, away from the town—” Iduna broke off, unable even to convince herself of the workability of her plan, and tears began to collect in her eyes once more.

Agnarr could not keep the despair from his own voice. “Even if we could manage it, and keep her hidden away until she comes of age,” he murmured, resting a hand on her shoulder, “how, then, could we ensure that she would not reveal her powers to her future husband?” He frowned. “If that boy is anything like his father, he would no doubt try to manipulate her, and use this great power to suit his and Albert’s purposes.” He shuddered. “I cannot allow that to happen.”

Iduna stared at the child, her brow bearing the weight of defeat. “But what can we do, Agnarr?”

The king stood stock-still in contemplation, relying on every fiber of his remaining self-composure not to collapse back into the chair. A creeping shadow of gloom crawled across his face, darkening his brow. “There may be a way,” he said, swallowing.

At Iduna’s forlorn, questioning look, he continued: “Before my mother left, when she was at the height of her suffering, she would talk sometimes about a magical race of creatures that had the power to ‘heal’ her.” He paused, and clarified: “Trolls, apparently, living in a valley somewhere in the mountains above Arendelle. She said they could perform all manner of spells, and I heard her talk in her sleep once or twice about wanting to go see them.”

Iduna stared at her husband in disbelief. “Trolls.”

He reddened. “Yes, well,” he said, “I realize how absurd this sounds, Iduna, but…” He glanced at Elsa. “Now that I’ve seen what our child is capable of, the idea of magical trolls doesn’t seem so farfetched.”

“What are you saying, Agnarr?” Iduna snapped, shaking her head. “That your mother went to see them? That they helped her… ‘disappear’?”

His shoulders raised in defensiveness. “I don’t know,” he conceded, “but what if that were the case? What if…” He sat back down in the rocking chair suddenly, staring at Iduna with clear eyes. “They erased her memory.”

Iduna frowned. “How can you be sure?”

“I’m not,” Agnarr admitted, “but if the trolls are as powerful as she said, then… it might explain where she ran off to, and why she never came back.” He sulked. “I wonder if father knew.”

Iduna took in this speculation with confusion and annoyance, pressing a hand to her right temple as she sighed. “Even if that is what happened,” she began, trying to keep the impatience from her voice, “what does any of this have to do with Elsa?”

Agnarr struggled to answer for a time, unable to articulate his thoughts. At his wife’s expectant stare, he offered: “We could take her to them, and ask them to… remove her powers.”

The queen shot up in alarm. “Have you gone mad?” she hissed. “Do you have any idea how sacred and special her magic is?” Fury alit in her blue irises. “It is a gift, Agnarr. No matter what your father – or anyone else – thinks or says, it is a part of her eternal soul. To take it away from her would be akin to spitting in the eye of God himself.”

“Then what do you suggest?” the king retorted, exasperated. “What other choice do we have?”

Iduna’s anger faded as she contemplated the question, and her expression grew melancholic. Agnarr, sensing the shift in her mood, placed one hand on hers. He noted that it had gone cold.

“What is it, Iduna?”

She stared at him in quiet desperation, and before she could stop herself, her face sunk into her hands, and she wept.

»» —— ««

“Is everything alright, Your Majesty?”

The question weighed on Agnarr more than the physician expected, and the latter exchanged a glance with Gerda as the doors to the king’s private study were closed behind them by a guard. The dark, windowless room seemed impossibly small, lit up only by a candelabra on the desk between the king and his guests, though a keen observer could notice its impressive depth and height through the flames.

Agnarr’s head was bowed for a moment, and when the silence grew too difficult to bear, he released a shaky exhale. When his gaze met theirs, they were stunned to find it fresh with tears.

“The child passed this morning, in the queen’s arms,” he said, his voice tremulous from grief. “Just after we named her—Elsa.”

Gerda’s hands flew to her mouth to suppress a cry, though she began to sob into her handkerchief soon after. Nils entered a state of shock, staring at the king in utter bemusement.

“But, Your Majesty… how is this possible? I saw the princess just a few hours ago, healthy as a newborn could be.” He shook his head. “How could her condition deteriorate so suddenly? Why…” He frowned deeply. “Why did you not call for me sooner, if she was—”

Agnarr rose his hand, quieting the physician. “It all happened very suddenly, I assure you,” he murmured. “It seems you were right after all, Nils, about the dangers of premature birth.” He closed his eyes, and his lips trembled. “I only wish we had not glimpsed what could have been, before the end.”

Nils’s frown eased, but only slightly. “Your Majesty,” he began more gently, “please, let me see the child. It will help me to better ascertain what happened, and be sure of Her Majesty’s health as well…”

The physician trailed off as he realized that the cold determination in the king’s eyes would not allow for further argument. “She needs time alone with the child – with Elsa – to grieve, in her own way,” Agnarr said. “Then, we will relinquish it and make preparations for the funeral.”

“But sire,” Gerda mustered the strength to speak through her tears, “it’s not proper. The child’s body, it will—” The woman gave in to a fitful sob at the thought before continuing. “It will cause Her Majesty great sorrow to see the princess that way.”

Nils did not speak, but his grim expression indicated his agreement with the maidservant.

Agnarr’s mouth pressed into a thin, firm line. “These are the queen’s wishes,” he stated, “and it would only cause her greater sorrow to take the child from her so soon.”

Gerda hid her moan of anguish in her handkerchief, and Nils patted her on the back, his frown etched into his wizened features as he stared at the king. “Very well,” he relented, bowing his head. “We will wait until Her Majesty’s mourning period is over.”

Agnarr gave a faint nod of thanks. “I appreciate both of you – your service, and your care – through all of this,” he said. Turning to Gerda, he added: “Leave any meals outside of the room for the evening. I will bring them to her myself.”

The older woman managed a nod in return, the cloth in her hands barely stifling her constant sniffles.

He turned his back on them, his hands clasped behind him. “You may go,” he said.

Agnarr waited until he was sure that they had left to release a deep, shaking sigh. He gripped the edge of the desk until his knuckles turned white, and then exhaled again, turning his attention to the tiered bookshelves which lined either side of the room, stretching out into the darkness of the far wall.

With sudden and frantic energy, the king began to rifle through the books, coughing and sneezing through the clouds of dust and cobwebs which greeted him as he pulled them off the shelves with little regard for their long-undisturbed state. His initial, methodical skimming of the first shelf was quickly replaced by mere glances as he ripped books from the successive ones, clearing out rung after rung, unsure even of what he was seeking.

Long minutes that felt like hours passed in this way, and by the time Agnarr reached the far end of the room – though he was only halfway through the stacks – he leaned back against it, spent of his energies and despairing of the futility of his quest, resting the candle in his hand down on the floor.

He sat there in the gloom of his father’s former study, now his own, caught in a state of bewildered insomnia when he brushed his hand against the candle, causing it to tip over to the ground. Luckily, he reacted fast enough to put out the flame that began to catch on a nearby loose sheaf of paper, and turn the candle back upright. As the remaining smoke tendrils rose from the burnt page, he sighed, accepting even this small bit of relief.

Agnarr.

The king’s back was rigid at the familiar voice, and he stared out into the darkness with terror in his eyes.

“Who—who’s there?” he whispered, looking to and fro. When nothing answered him, he curled his hand around the candleholder at his side, though he dared not move from his seat. His lip quivered. “Show yourself!” he demanded, unnerved.

A sighing wisp of a sound encircled him, causing the flame of his candle to flicker and dance, and then seemed to disappear into a corner of the room to his left. Agnarr followed its path with wide eyes, seeing it end somewhere at the very bottom shelf on the other, untouched side of the room. He grabbed his candle, ignoring the burn of hot wax as it dripped onto his bare hands, and held it towards the spot where the voice had led him.

There, nestled between inconspicuous volumes bound in the same, dark brown leather as most of the other tomes in the room, was a slightly larger and red-colored spine. He pulled it out with greater care than he had for any other book in the study, surprised by its heft, and gently laid it down on the wooden floor below. He blew away the dust that obscured the text on its cover.

Even when it became legible, however, the king found that it was comprised of ancient runes in which he had no education or training, and so he could make little sense of what its contents might be. When he opened it to the first few pages, paragraphs upon paragraphs of the same, unreadable runes greeted him.

“Very helpful,” he muttered to himself, glaring at the candle’s steady flame in his hand. “I must be going mad,” he said, sighing, and moved to place it back on the shelf.

Forgetting its weight, the book fell from Agnarr’s hands as if in protest, and as it banged onto the hard floor, it opened to a section that he had not yet seen. He held the candle with trepidation and curiosity over the pages, careful not to drip any wax onto them, and his eyes widened as he got a better look at their contents.

On the left was a page of runic script, but on the right was a faded illustration of a mysterious, dark creature with narrow, yellow eyes, its hands raised to the sky. Below it lay the sleeping body of a man on a carved stone bench – a nobleman, or perhaps even a king, Agnarr thought, from the looks of his fine raiment and armor – and from the man’s head, extending into the sky, were swirls of smoke and clouds of fantastic colors, all intermingling to create a stark and foreboding image.

The king shuddered at the sight even as he was unsure of its meaning, and he ran his hand over the lines of the drawing. He paused over the head of the sleeping king, feeling an unusual groove on the surface of the page; smoothing his fingers down, he realized it ran all the way to the bottom, and he quickly turned to the next page.

Folded and tucked into the centerfold of the book was a loose paper, sandwiched between another page of text and what looked like an illustration of a white stag. Agnarr ignored the picture, and busied himself with unfolding the paper. Flattening it out against the other pages with one hand, he felt his jaw go slack in surprise, and he had to hold tightly onto the candle to keep it from falling over again.

It was a map, with the fjord and castle of Arendelle drawn prominently in the bottom left corner, encircled on all sides by nondescript forests and mountains colored beige, brown, and dark green. From the castle was demarcated a clear path in red dashes through the mountains, to a spot at the top right corner of the page marked with a large “X.” Next to it was, Agnarr assumed, the name of the location; and though it was written in the same runes as the rest of the book within which the map had been hidden, the first two letters gave him some clue as to what – or who – could be found at the final destination.

“Trolls,” he murmured. The candle flickered, seemingly in agreement. He eyed it with wonder, and then looked up at the ceiling, seeing nothing more than total darkness… but sensing much more beyond it.

Collecting his wits, Agnarr folded the map back up and slid it into his breast pocket, and then closed the red book and slid it back onto the shelf. Standing with newfound strength from the floor, he walked back with brisk purpose towards the entrance. Once there, he lingered in the doorway to look back with a sad smile, disregarding the disarray his manic search had caused in the room.

“Thank you, mother,” he whispered, and left.

»» —— ««

The path to the stables was as shrouded in December’s eternal nightfall as every other part of the kingdom, and Agnarr was thankful for having traveled there enough times in daylight to know his way in the dark. He adjusted the sling against his chest so that it faced more towards him, and the deep, royal blue color of its cloth was well-disguised beneath his plain brown riding cloak.

His steward followed close behind with a lantern, though the light did little to illuminate their path. When they reached their destination, the older man gave a sigh of relief, holding aloft the light so that the king might better see the harness and gates guarding his prized horse, Sigurd. He eyed the king’s costume questioningly, but Agnarr would not answer the look as he untied his steed, leading it out of its stall with the trained hands of a horseman.

After carefully laying the saddle atop its broad back, he nodded to the steward, who waited expectantly, bracing himself. The king grabbed the older man’s shoulder, using the leverage to slide his foot into the stirrup and mount Sigurd.

A small, babbling sound escaped the bundle slung across Agnarr’s chest; the older man stared at it for a moment, but said nothing. The king almost sighed with relief, but elected instead to nod at the gesture of discretion in thanks.

The steward could not help but demonstrate some concern. “Are you sure about this, Your Majesty? There have been reports of brigands in the mountains as of late, and I can easily send one of the guards to go with you—”

“There are some sensitive matters I must discuss with the tradesmen there—too sensitive for company,” Agnarr interrupted in an authoritative tone, though his face reddened with embarrassment at his own vagueness. He adjusted the sling again, and continued in a more conciliatory way: “I will return before sunrise, Kai.”

The steward’s skeptical expression was obvious even in the dim lighting, but he did not press the king further on the matter, and stepped back from the horse.

The king could not bring himself to address the man’s suspicion, and whispered into Sigurd’s ear. The horse gave a whinny of comprehension, and the two set off down the path to the gates at a quick pace, disappearing into the night.

»» —— ««

Agnarr arrived at the location marked on the map – or where he thought it should be, based on his knowledge of the mountains – with a weariness etched into his brow that made him appear far older than his twenty-one years.

He had come upon a clearing in the forest resembling a Roman amphitheater, and the full moon above shone on the stage and surrounding theatron, which were covered in moss as if from long disuse. From his vantage point at the edge of the forest path leading into it, he could also make out countless stone orbs of various shapes and sizes, all draped with moss that matched their surroundings, scattered throughout the rows.

The king eyed this warily, clutching the bundle across his chest close to him as he dismounted Sigurd. He tied the horse to a tree nearby, and proceeded with caution into the center of the arena. “Hello?” he called out.

When nothing answered him, he swallowed, and made a second attempt in a more confident voice. “I am King Agnarr of Arendelle,” he announced, “and I have come seeking help.”

His statement was met with another bout of silence, and sweat beaded at his forehead as the bundle across his chest started to wriggle, making small mewling noises.

“Please,” he said, looking around at the empty valley in desperation, his eyes growing misty from the threat of tears, “I have no one else to turn to. The very fate of Arendelle is at stake.”

Finally, at this plea, Agnarr began to hear – and feel – a series of rumblings all around him, the very earth quaking beneath his feet. He looked down to plant them more firmly and keep himself from tripping, and in the background Sigurd whinnied with fright, bucking against his restraints. When the king lifted his gaze again, he was shocked to find that the same static, stone orbs he had observed before were rolling down the theatron of their own accord, until they were completely encircling him.

No sooner had he adjusted to the notion of self-propelling rocks than they began to take the forms of living beings, one by one uncurling into equally circular, stocky trolls.

At first, they seemed all alike in their terrifying newness to Agnarr: a small mop of bedraggled hair atop their heads, smocks or tunics made of moss covering their small bodies, jewelry containing precious minerals and stones strung around their necks and wrists, and impossibly large eyes that stared at him and caused him to shrink under their scrutiny. Sigurd’s incessant, fearful whinnying in the background did nothing to dispel his own fear, and he stood stock-still, unable to move.

After a minute or so, however, the king found their collection of eyes more curious than threatening, and was slowly able to differentiate the creatures from one another by the color of their necklaces, or the particular partings of their mossy hair. This calmed him, and as his breathing returned to a more normal rhythm, so too did his steed quiet in the background.

The trolls began to clear a path amongst themselves, and through it, one approached Agnarr with a slow, deliberate gait. Judging by the length of its mane, its long moss cloak, and the ostentatious, heavy decorations of green baubles strung about its chest, the king guessed that it was their elder.

“Your Majesty,” it said, bowing as much as its age would allow. Agnarr nodded in return. “I am known as Grand Pabbie among our folk. It is a pleasure to meet the son of Her Majesty, Queen Rita, after so many years.” The troll paused, registering the surprise on the king’s face at the mention of his mother. “But tell me, what brings you to the Valley of the Living Rock?”

Agnarr hesitated, but soon found himself pulling back his cloak and drawing down the top of the blue cloth to reveal his daughter’s waking features. Her bright blue eyes and soft coos were met with a chorus of “ooh”s and “aah”s from the crowd, who gathered in closer around the king to catch a glimpse of the newborn.

He was both comforted and unsettled by the attention, and unconsciously stepped back with Elsa. Pabbie, sensing this, gave him an encouraging nod to continue. “It’s all right, Your Majesty,” he reassured the king.

Agnarr swallowed. “I’ve come with a difficult – unthinkable – request,” he corrected himself, his voice shaking. “I only make it out of desperation, for the safety and life of the princess.”

At the encouraging and concerned looks of the trolls, he looked down at his child, and laid out the account of his coming to the valley in detail: how he met the queen; her true heritage, and the magic present amongst her folk; the conflict between her people and his father; the fear of magic in Arendelle; the unusual and difficult pregnancy, as well as the premature birth of the princess; and, finally, how Elsa’s powers had manifested earlier that same day.

When he finished, Pabbie asked: “May I take a look, Your Majesty?”

Before Agnarr could inquire as to what he meant, the elder troll conjured a cloud of fine, purple dust that seemed to seep out of the king’s forehead into the air above them, recalling to him the illustration he had seen in the red book. The cloud began to take shape, revealing Agnarr’s memory of seeing Elsa’s powers for the first time. The trolls tittered in astonishment at the magic, and the king watched the scene replay with the same dread and awe as he had just a few hours before.

As the spell came to a close and the cloud faded away, Pabbie looked with wonder upon the babe in the king’s arms. “Truly remarkable,” he murmured.

Agnarr shifted uncomfortably at the remark, and continued: “Yes. And Iduna and I could have borne all of these difficulties, but for one: Elsa has been betrothed to a prince from the Southern Isles since before her birth, as this was the price named by its king for his support in rebuilding Arendelle after the war.” He shook his head. “And that is not one we are willing to pay, after discovering her powers.”

The elder’s brows furrowed. “Why do you fear this king, sire?”

Agnarr frowned. “He is cruel, Grand Pabbie, prone to exploiting whatever unsavory opportunities he can to give himself the greatest advantage over others. While I know my father’s flaws full well, his mistrust of Albert was not one of them. That man…” He sucked in a breath. “He had his own brother killed to hold onto the throne, and has had the audacity to claim the death was a ‘tragic accident’ ever since.”

The trolls murmured to each other with wide eyes at this revelation, but Pabbie’s brow merely rose while he otherwise remained calm. “And you fear that he would bring the same harm to the princess, or otherwise seek to use her to bad ends,” he surmised.

Agnarr nodded. “Yes. We’re quite certain he would, which is why…” He trailed off, staring down at his child through a veil of mourning, and then looked back up at the troll with unspeakable grief. “We do not have the means to conceal her powers forever, nor would we even know how to do so.” His eyes closed, and he trembled. “It was by the queen’s request that I come here, and ask that you look after Elsa in our place. I had hoped we could ask you to remove her powers instead, but my wife forbid it.”

The trolls gave a collective gasp at this admission, with consternated whispers traveling through the crowd. Pabbie raised his hand, quieting the ruckus. “And Her Majesty was right to do so,” he affirmed. “Though, truth be told, it would’ve been impossible for me to fulfill such a request, even if you had asked it of me. There exists no such power in this world.” He paused, glancing at the child. “Does anyone else know that you’ve brought her here?”

“No,” Agnarr replied. “Her birth had not been announced, and I told the physician and servants that the princess died shortly after her birth.” He reddened. “Truthfully, I’m not sure they believed it.”

The elder was quiet for a while at this, and stared with sympathy at the child, who continued to flitter between sleep and wakefulness. “Her power will only grow with time,” he said. “There is beauty in her magic, but also great danger.” He gazed up at the king. “You did the right thing in bringing her to us, Your Majesty. We can raise her as one of our own, and teach her to use this great power for good. But…” The troll’s eyes softened. “Are you sure you want to do this? For if you do, she will never know you as her father, nor the queen as her mother—nor will you be able to see her again, lest you risk raising suspicions about her parentage.”

With tears trickling down his cheeks, Agnarr assented with a tiny nod. “Yes,” he murmured.

Pabbie bowed his head. “So be it.”

The trolls watched in silence, waiting; Agnarr, shaking, held onto his child for as long as he could, and then knelt down, his tears falling onto her cheek. He removed one riding glove to wipe it away, and then pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. Removing the scarf from around his neck, he wrapped it around the princess as he drew her up from the sling, and whispered:

“Goodbye, my sweet Elsa.”

With weak hands, he handed her to an older, matronly troll who had stepped forward from the crowd to stand beside Pabbie. As the exchange was completed, the king stifled his sobs, as did the trolls surrounding him, who watched the scene with oddly human tears streaming down their stony features.

Pabbie placed a surprisingly warm hand on his shoulder. “It will be all right, Your Majesty. Rest assured that she will live well and happily in the Valley, in harmony with nature and her magic.”

The gesture was of little comfort to Agnarr, who continued to cry. At length, Pabbie took the king’s ungloved hand in his, and with the other he removed one of the jewels from his necklace. He chanted a brief incantation under his breath that turned the mineral from green to purple, and then pressed it into Agnarr’s palm.

“Crush this gem into fine powder when you return to the castle,” he instructed, “and mix just a few grains of that into the drink or food of anyone who saw the princess alive. It will ensure that their memories of her are erased, and confirm your story about the queen’s miscarriage.”

Agnarr wiped his tears away with the heel of his gloved palm. “I will,” he nodded. “Thank you.” After a moment, he felt his lips quivering again. “Grand Pabbie…”

The troll was attentive, holding the king’s hand. “Yes, Your Majesty?”

The king swallowed uneasily. “I hate to ask this, or even think of it yet, but… if Iduna and I have another child, will it also—”

“Have powers?” Pabbie finished. Agnarr nodded, red-faced. “No, sire,” the troll assured him. “It is highly unlikely. Such magic only comes along once in a generation, if at all.”

“You’re sure of this?” Agnarr asked.

“Yes,” the troll repeated, and added in a kinder tone: “You needn’t worry.”

The king could not help but release a small sigh of relief, though it was soon replaced by a deep look of regret as he heard the princess gurgle from within the scarf with which she had been wrapped.

He stood, turning away. “I should go, now, before my presence is missed,” he murmured, and the trolls parted to clear a path for him back to Sigurd. The horse watched his return with impatience, knocking the ground beneath him with one hoof for emphasis, and Agnarr quickly untied him.

As the king slotted one foot into a spur, he was surprised to find Pabbie before him again, staring with understanding and warmth so pure that it caused him to shudder.

“Your Majesty,” the troll said softly, “I promise that we will keep her safe.”

Agnarr paused for a moment, staring down at the elder. The dried tracks of his tears were still visible on his face under the moonlight.

“Tell me, Pabbie,” he murmured, “did my mother hesitate, before you erased her memories?”

The troll’s expression lifted in surprise, and then turned wistful. “She loved you very much, sire,” he said. “Were it not for her fear of your father’s reprisal, she would have taken you with her.”

Fresh tears brimmed in Agnarr’s eyes. “Answer the question, Pabbie.”

The old troll sighed. “Of course she did. To give up a child… it is the most difficult decision in the world. But she knew you would suffer more, if she raised you in her condition.” He gazed up at the king with a knowing expression. “I know it probably never made much sense to you before, though perhaps it does now.”

Agnarr’s lip quivered, and he found he could not challenge the assertion. Without speaking another word, he swung onto Sigurd’s saddle in one swift, practiced motion, and allowed himself one last glance at his daughter.

“Tell her we loved her,” he said at last, turning away. “Tell her we’ll never forget her.”

Pabbie bowed his head, and the king threw his hood back over his head. Guiding his steed towards the path into the forest, the two set off towards Arendelle at a clip.

In the distance, the child began to cry.

[needcake]

day 4: cardverse

Arthur/Teo, PG-15 (for some violence), 2k.

@engportevents

Three times the Queen of Spades almost caught the Diamond Bandit, and one time he did (sort of)

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There had been talk – rumors – of a band of bandits roaming the borders between the four kingdoms for months. Their usual targets were trains loaded with gold and silver and the occasional rich traveler going from one kingdom to the other.

Arthur, currently, was the latter.

“Can’t you make the horses go faster?!” he shouted at the conductor who yelled back something he didn’t quite catch over the noise of the fighting in the carriages behind them where the rest of his security detail was being held back instead of doing their job of protecting him!

He shut the small partition between him and the conductor with a violent shove and noticed the inside of the cabin now smelled of lavender.

When he turned back on his seat, the Diamond Bandit was smiling at him, sitting with far too familiarity with his arms spread open over the back of the cushions and his legs crossed.

“My, so you’re the next Queen of Spades?”

Arthur breathed deeply. His powers had not fully developed yet and the masked man he had seen in the wanted posters all over the towns in the Diamonds Kingdom was very much not a rumor.

“What of it?” he asked, trying to buy himself some time while summoning enough energy in his hand to blast the damn smile off the man’s face.

The bandit shrugged, that idiot smile still plastered on his partially covered face.

“Does your future husband know?” he asked and Arthur could feel the small ball of pure energy in his hand growing even smaller and denser. It needed to be as small as the head of a pin before he could cast it and cause any real damage.

“Know what?” He needed more time, just a little more time and concentration.

The bandit leaped onto his lap and pressed a dagger to his throat. His smile turned wicked. “That you’re no longer a virgin,” he whispered in his ear and Arthur’s concentration evaporated, the energy in his hand expanding until it blew up like a firecracker and blinding white smoke filled the cabin.

The pressure of another body over his was gone. Along with his engagement ring.

When the smoke cleared, the conductor announced the bandits had retreated and they were safe now. Arthur nodded and pressed a hand to his chest. How had he known…?

-

Next he saw him was during a ball in the Clubs Kingdom to celebrate the Queen’s birthday. Clubs was a Northern kingdom with a long and proud tradition of horseback fighting and hunting, and Arthur was trying very hard not to look directly at the animals’ heads hung on the walls around the room.

The music changed and his dancing partner – an older gentleman and high-ranking noble, probably belonging to the House of 8 – was shoved out of the way to make room for a younger and more vigorous partner who strode across the ballroom with Arthur in his arms, barely giving him time to keep up.

“Watch it!” he scolded when his feet almost stepped over his.

“Are you going to throw another feeble spark at me?” the man laughed and Arthur only had time to catch a glimpse of pale green eyes and a dark mole beneath the right eye before the entire room went dark and a myriad of gasps and faint exclamations of fright and surprise replaced the music.

“It’s you!” Arthur hissed and felt strong hands hold him tighter against a firm chest.

“Does anyone in this room know, dear Queen?” the bandit asked in a whisper and Arthur felt his entire body shiver with the proximity and the smell of lavender. “Have you told anyone that you used to be just another one of the butcher’s kids until you began manifesting the powers of a Queen?”

Arthur’s anger grew white and hot and powerful, and when he shoved him away and flicked his wrists the entire room exploded in searing light.

He had to blink several times before the room had regained color again, the servants hurrying to light the candles again. Nobles and monarchs were looking at each other with surprise and astonishment. A lady clutched at her neck only to find it bare.

Her scream pierced through the night, followed by many others like hers.

-

The situation had to be dealt with. The Diamond Bandit could not just steal from under their noses and be allowed to go unpunished. After what happened in the ball, the King of Clubs raised the reward on the Bandit’s head and the Queen of Hearts volunteered to bring the man and the rest of his band to justice.

Arthur approached Kiku afterwards and asked to be a part of the task force. Kiku only looked him over once before acquiescing silently.

It took them a month to gather the information that led them to the humble stone house where the bandits were hiding deep in the Diamond countryside near the border with Spades. Kiku and his men went after the larger group while Arthur was left alone to chase their leader into the forest.

He aimed a single arrow at him when he had him in his sight and the Diamond Bandit fell to the forest ground, clutching at his shoulder and crying out in pain.

Arthur approached him slowly and balled up magical energy in his hand. He had trained for this moment. He was now so much better at it than when they first met.

The bandit smiled through the pain, writhing on the ground beneath him. His mask was slipping; the shape of his nose oddly familiar.

“Is your mother still the best seamstress in Spades?” he asked, grinding his teeth as blood flowed down between his fingers. “Does she still bake the most awful scones?”

Arthur stepped on his hand and he screamed. The ball of energy in his palm shrunk to an impossible miniature size, no bigger than an ant, more lethal than any weapon.

“How do you know that?” he hissed.

Green eyes looked up at him. “Have you forgotten about her too?”

Kiku’s horse distracted him as it rode with its master into the space they were in, and when Arthur looked back at him there was only a small pool of blood seeping into the earth in his place. Kiku dismounted and came closer, inspecting the blood.

“He has some sort of magic,” Arthur tried to explain even if he himself didn’t entirely understand. “He disappears.”

“Not disappear,” Kiku corrected him lightly. “He changes. A tanuki.”

He pointed at a small trail of blood, droplets that went further into the forest. Arthur looked at his friend. “Only Diamond high nobility can shape shift.”

Kiku nodded. “You should pay Francis a visit.”

-

It was not hard to convince his husband to send a letter to the King of Diamonds. It was hard, however, to sit at his table and pretend to enjoy the dinner when all he wanted to do was to strangle Francis’ neck between his hands.

“I see you have a new Jack,” Alfred said politely, raising his glass at the man on the other side of the long table and Basch raised his own politely in return. “What happened to the last one?” he asked Francis beside him.

“He died,” Arthur supplied in a dry tone and Alfred looked between him and Francis, noticing Arthur’s glare and Francis’ cold demeanor.

“His ship sank during the war,” Francis said and took a sip of his wine. “What kind of a Jack would he be if he hadn’t been willing to sacrifice himself for King and country?”

Arthur got up. His hands shook beside him with uncontrolled energy that seeped light between his clenched fingers. He stormed out of the dinning hall before he lost control. He left and did not come back, forgoing what he had come all this way for.

“Did you know the guy that died in the war?” Alfred asked him late that night after Arthur had forced them to pack up their things and take their carriage back to their kingdom.

“I did,” he said, staring out at the dark through the carriage window. “He was my best friend.”

-

Arthur woke up with a draft coming into his room through the open windows.

“You’re not too heavily guarded for a Queen,” the Diamond Bandit said, smiling at him under the moonlight.

He sat up on the bed and clutched the sheets to his chest. “What do you want from me?”

The man took a step forward in his direction and froze on the spot. A circle of light with intricate runes glowed beneath his feet.

“I see you’ve gotten better at magic.”

Arthur threw the sheets aside to reveal himself fully clothed and stood in front of him. He could already hear the guards coming closer, alerted by his spell. “Who are you?”

“Do you still remember when we first kissed?” he asked, still smiling despite having been caught. “Behind the house while my mother tried on dresses in your living room?”

The guards came into the room and took him away. Arthur prided himself for not collapsing to the ground until he heard their steps on the far end of the corridor. It was where Alfred found him minutes later, when he held him until he stopped crying, not understanding why since they were safe now. The bad guy had been caught.

-

The rest of the group had been hanged in the early hours in a secluded location as not to distract the people from the main event. Only the Diamond Bandit was to be given a public execution under the eyes of the four monarchs and the people gathered at the central square in the Spades capital.

Arthur had to give out a few golden coins, but he did manage to have the room alone with the Bandit before they took him to the gallows. Teo had his head down, his shirt had been removed along with his mask and his long hair hung over his shoulders, barely concealing the fresh bruises and cuts the guards had given him since he had been brought to their care.

“Did your companions know that you cheat at cards and that you once spilled black tea on your mother’s new dress and blamed your little brother?” he asked and Teo laughed, coughed, spat out blood. Arthur came closer to the bars separating them. “How did you survive?”

“The sea didn’t want me,” he said, his shoulders rising and falling as he spoke. “I floated to the surface with the debris and the enemy ship rescued me.”

“Francis would have paid the ransom.”

Teo laughed again, wet and raspy. “They tried that.” He looked up at him, green eyes almost swollen shut and Arthur felt his chin tremble at the sight of his mangled face. “He said he didn’t negotiate with barbarians.”

He curled his hands around the bars, pressed his face between them. “Then why? Why come back?”

Teo smiled. “You know why.”

-

Arthur sat beside his King and they watched as the Diamond Bandit was brought out. The crowd watched in silence. No cheering, no murmurs.

They put a sack over his head and a noose around his neck.

When the trap door opened, Arthur shut his eyes and flicked his wrist. Something small, smaller than a grain of sand, shot out from his palm.

The crowd gasped, someone screamed. When he looked again, the Bandit had disappeared.

-

Arthur came into his room followed by a chambermaid who was frantically trying to undress him while he gave her no attention and went on talking to his secretary about the seating arrangements for the banquet next week. The other kingdoms’ delegations should be arriving soon and their rooms and accommodations had to be prepared ahead of time, there was no time to waste.

He stopped when he noticed the open window over his desk.

On top of his books, there was a single stalk of lavender.

He smiled.

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[nazyalenskyism]

Shadows in My Mind

Summary: It wasn't supposed to happen like this, not yet. A/N: I really don't know how to tag this fic but it's been sitting in my drafts for a few months and I hope you like it! As always feedback appreciated, and thanks for taking the time to read! <3 The rest of the fic is under the cut!

Ao3: Shadows in My Mind

        “No,” she hissed, pressing all of her weight into her hands but the pallor of his skin kept worsening despite her efforts. “No. Hey. Stay awake!” Zoya snapped, tapping his cheek with her blood stained fingers. She fought back a wince as she left scarlet prints on his face, his unfocused eyes fluttering open at the sharp pain she’d dealt him. “I won’t let you leave me, you idiot. You’re not allowed to leave.” Zoya couldn’t even summon the horror that would usually wash over her when tears rose in her eyes. She rarely let them fall, but now, they streamed down her face as her best efforts yielded no results. She continued pushing down on the wound, feeling Nikolai’s weary gaze on her when she paused for a moment, using her Squallers’ abilities to throw her voice, calling for someone, anyone, even though she knew there would be no answer. ‘This can’t be how this ends,’  Zoya let herself despair for a moment before turning back to Nikolai,  ‘he was supposed to have more time.’ She steeled herself, ripping off a sleeve of her bloodied and torn shirt, pressing it into the wound. Her bones were tired, her powers screaming, she wanted nothing more than to curl up on the ground and close her eyes, but she couldn’t afford that-- not until she’d saved Nikolai. ‘If I save him, then everything will be fine.’ 

        “Okay,” she whispered, “okay, we can do this. I just have to reapply pressure before I get you onto your feet.” She reached out, faltering when warm fingers wrapped around her wrist. Nikolai looked up at her, pale, bloodied and beaten, but his eyes were still bright. “Nikolai you need to stand up, if you can walk, we’ll do that, or I’ll carry you.” ‘Whatever it takes,’ she thought, trying to pull herself from his grip, but he was surprisingly strong. 

        “Zoya,” he said hoarsely, “it’s no use, dear.”

        “No,” she snapped, looking at him incredulously, “you’re always the one babbling on about hope and optimism, you do not get to tell me it’s futile. Not now,” but in her heart, she realized that she was at yet another funeral, being left behind again. He was going to leave her. He had promised that he would come back. He was leaving her.

        “Nazyalensky,” Nikolai muttered, fingers brushing away the tears that had spilled from her eyes. “Don’t shed tears for me, I don’t like seeing you cry.”

        “Well I don’t like seeing you--” she broke off, she couldn’t do this. 

        “Hey,” he said softly, “I need you to go back to the others, there’s a document with the finance minister, and another with Tolya. I need you to put them into action immediately, don’t give anyone a chance to hurt our country.”

        ‘Our country’. “You’re not thinking about Ravka, not right now.” 

        “I’m running low on moments,” he replied, and to her horror his eyes were shining too. 

        “We can try,” she insisted, “we can’t be too far from the others.” 

        “No,” he said firmly, “I’m fine where I am. I need you to do something for me.” She nodded without hesitation and he continued, “let’s pretend we’re an old married couple.” 

        “What?” Zoya croaked.

        “Tell me a lie. Tell me it will be alright,” his eyes were wide, imploring.

        She pulled on her best guise, what he’d taught her, how to play the part. “Don’t be daft, of course you’ll be fine. You think that your best general would let you d--” she choked back a sob. “That she would let you die? No, you’re going to make it back to the camp, and the healers will patch you up perfectly, or else they’ll have me to deal with. You’ll ride back to a capital on your favourite horse in your best coat, the victorious king of a resilient country.”

        “Will there be a ball in my honour?” the corners of his lips pulled up, “I would’ve loved to dance with every lady in the country.”

        “Of course,” she replied, clinging on to the moment, this moment that was just them as if nothing was wrong, as if this was not their last moment like this. “They’ll write ballads in your honour, and perform hours into the night, the festivities will last for weeks, until you can’t stomach any more parties. All the ladies will be fawning over a chance to dance with their handsome king” 

        “Handsome?” he let out a laugh, wincing immediately, clutching at the wound in his side. Zoya carefully peeled his hand back, replacing it with her own over the injury. She tried not to think about how feverish his skin was under her hand, how his blood had soaked through the fabric of her balled shirt sleeve. ‘I need to remember everything about this moment.’

        “Yes. Handsome.”

        His eyes found hers, a steadfast sincerity behind them. “You’re forgetting how the king may dance with every woman in the country, but the entire evening, his eyes will only be on one.”

“You will meet a nice girl, fall hopelessly in love, have too many children to inherit your throne, and you will grow old with a family and country that love you as you deserve, ” Zoya continued, attempting to ignore his words, the look in his eyes. 

        “The woman whose name the wind whispers in his dreams.”

        She pushed on, “you will be a fantastic king, you will--”

        “And if he never summoned the courage to follow his heart, he would spend every day of the rest of his life wondering what could have been if he had been able to make a queen out of his ruthless general.” 

        “Nikolai--”

        “Zoya,” he whispered, “I fear that I don’t have much time left. Can I ask of one more favour from you?”

        “I thought kings never begged.” She bit out as Nikolai pushed aside new tears, his hand warm against her cheek.

        He gave her a sad smile, “is it truly begging when asking something of a queen? If not, then it will be our secret.” His voice was growing fainter with each word and Zoya felt her heart lurching. She was not ready. ‘Help me’ she implored to the dragon inside her, but the Saints were quiet, like they always were. No one would be coming to save her, they never did.

        She nodded resolutely, “what do you need?” 

        “Will you kiss me sweetly? In my dreams you always do, and this seems like nothing if not a dream of mine.” 

        “Nikolai you--”

        “Nazyalensky, humour me please. I know you don’t share my sentiments but--” 

        He was cut off as Zoya dipped down, pressing her lips against his fiercely with years worth of longing, hope, desperation combined with her heart’s mournful goodbye to a future they would never see. His arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her closer, kissing her harder until she felt like she couldn’t breathe. 

        She pulled back slightly, her forehead resting against his. “That was sweeter than I ever dreamed,” he said quietly. 

        Zoya took his hand in hers, “don’t go.” 

        “I have to,” his voice was barely there now. She drew back, his fluttering eyelids racking another sob from her chest. “I’ll see you again one day, I hope.” He pushed open his eyes, gazing at her intently, as if struggling to commit each detail to memory, to hold onto the picture for a moment longer. “Don’t forget me.” Nikolai drew their intertwined hands towards him, pressing a brief kiss against her knuckles. 

        “I won’t.” 

        “I know,” he smiled up at her, before closing his eyes. “I’m only going to take a short nap, Zoya dear. Wake me up when our friends are here.”

        She was fully weeping now, “I will, Nikolai. I will.” 

        The world was quiet for a few moments, Nikolai’s slowing breaths the only sound. 

        Then, as quick as sleep, he was gone. 

        For a shining moment, she didn’t believe it, but it shattered all too quickly when she pressed her fingers to his neck. Nothing. He was truly gone.

        “No, no, no,” she murmured, throwing herself over his warm body, crying out as she felt the wind knock out of her chest, her lungs aching from impact. A searing bright light and stars engulfed her vision and she fell back, breathless, cold, smooth tile delivering another blow to her battered body. 

        She blinked rapidly, attempting to right herself, her surroundings only just beginning to register in her mind. She was in a secret cell hidden behind the Darkling’s, now Nikolai’s war room in the Little Palace. It was the place that they were keeping the Darkling— or at least had been— until he had escaped, wreaking havoc and delivering the fatal blow to Nikolai.

        ‘Nikolai,’ Zoya thought, scrambling to her feet despite the pain. How had she gotten here? She had been in the middle of a barren battlefield, her body thrown over her king’s lifeless one… had she been captured? Where was his body? Zoya glanced down at the broken skin on her hands that had braced her fall backwards. They were clean, no trace blood. She frowned, her shirt was whole, her kefta clasped overtop of it. Last she’d remembered, it had been torn off her back as she fought in battle. Looking up, Zoya found a chair that had toppled over laying at her feet, and a metal table before her, and behind it, was the Darkling, a predatory smile playing at his lips.

        “Did you like that little dream?” his voice was as smooth as glass, his hands bound together before him. “All those tears for your little boy king, did you cry like that for me, Zoya?”

        She said nothing, her head still fuzzy. ‘What was happening?’

        “No,” he continued, his eyes fixed on her, trying to gauge her emotions. She knew this game, he found the gaps in your armor and twisted the knife until you were writhing on the floor and he was satisfied with his work. “I don’t suppose you did, you were pretending to hate me at the time, what with the way that you turned against me,” he sneered, raising an eyebrow at her unflinching demeanor. So it had all been fake? Then why did it feel so real? She could feel Nikolai’s lifeless presence over her like an enormous weight, even now. 

        “What was that?” Zoya asked, pushing to make her tone as even as possible. Her fingers dug into her crossed arms, forcing herself to stay in place. She needed answers, she couldn’t afford to run out of the room and make sure that Nikolai was actually okay. As her head cleared, she began to remember what had happened. She’d volunteered to try to get the Darkling to talk, she hadn’t wanted anyone else to have to deal with him. It was her fault that he was back and she refused to let him hurt her friends again. Nikolai had been hesitant, and the look he’d given her at the meeting was puzzling. She had assumed it was because of the story she’d told him that night in the Fold, about what the Darkling had said to her. But now, after whatever she had just experienced, she wasn’t so sure.

        “That,” the Darkling began, pulling Zoya’s attention back to him. “That was a little glimpse into your future.”

        Zoya rolled her eyes, unable to help herself, “let me guess, that’s what’ll happen if I don’t let you go?” 

        “No,” he leaned back in his chair, “it’s inevitable now, that’s the only outcome left after what you and your prince did in the fold.”

        “King,” she replied absently. She didn’t believe him for a second, but the vision had been so real-- she could still feel Nikolai’s blood on her hands, his lips pressing against hers, his lack of a pulse under her frantic fingers. It wasn’t real, and it wasn’t her future. The Saints hadn’t been able to determine this for her and she sure as hell wasn’t going to let the man in front of her try to. 

        “So it can’t be stopped then?” 

        He looked up at her, “oh noble Zoya, so desperate to save everyone. First it was those cubs, then your aunt, Juris, and now the Lantsov pup. As much as you try, they all die in the end. The sooner you learn that, the easier it will be.”

        ‘No. No. You don’t let him play these games.’  Her inner thoughts were echoed by the dragon inside of her, and it took everything to stop herself from slamming the Darkling’s face into the table. As she took a step towards him, planning her next move with blood roaring in her ears, the door behind her flung open. 

        “Zoya, we need you.”

        She frowned, she needed answers. “ Give me a minute,” she called.

        “Now, Commander.” 

        “Ask your little king how he felt about that vision.”

        Zoya spun around on him, unable to hide her shock. “You showed it to him?

        “Why don’t you ask him what it felt like to die? He should remember that feeling, it’s going to happen again sooner than later.”

        Zoya forced her feet out the door, slamming it behind her as she followed Tolya into the viewing room, where a mirror looked out at their prisoner. 

        “What is it?”

        “What happened in there? You froze, and the next thing I knew you were crashing to the ground.”

        She waved him off impatiently, her heart still racing from the Darkling’s parting words, “where’s Nikolai?”

        “He’s with Ehri in the gardens, why?”

        “Go check,” she said, her chest tightening, “go check on them now.”

        “What’s wrong?” he asked, briefly touching her arm. His face was full of concern and Zoya couldn’t take anymore heartbreak now. She couldn’t imagine the possibility that anything might take her friends from her.

        “I’m fine,” she snapped. “Go now, and check on David and Genya and Tamar too, that’s an order.”

        He shot her another puzzled look before leaving her alone in the observation room, while the quiet slowly began to consume her. She didn’t order her friends around, not like that, but with every passing second she felt more of her control slip away. Her heart was full of pain, she couldn’t see anything but red.

        He’s fine, it’s alright. They’re all unharmed. But it wasn’t enough. She sank to the floor, knees drawn to her chest, numb as the dream repeated itself again and again in her mind. All the while her king strolled through the gardens, entertaining his future queen at his side, unaware that all she could feel was his lifeless body under her, as she watched him die over and over again.

[sparklygoblin]

I've been really into the concept of past lives recently, and I thought it would be really fun to post my take on the Haikyuu pairs, and past lives/historical au's. So here is some steamy, self indulgent T R A S H! This is going to be pretty flawed and there is definetly some movie references in here as well as some historical inaccuracies but I did my best. Also there are no happy endings because I thought that might be pretty unrealistic based on treatment of actual gay men in history.

TW: Suicide, Hate Crimes, Gun Violence

Iwaioi is obviously reminiscent of Alexander the Great and his "best bro"😏 Hephastion. Oikawa was the Grand King, destined for greatness from the moment he was born. Iwaizumi was born among corpses and dirt, exiled to Oikawa's kingdom, a twelfth son, useless. He lived as a lonely peasant, starving, until he joined the king's guard. He liked to tell himself he trained with Oikawa because he admired Oikawa's hard earned skill, and he believed that right up until he died at the end of the prodigy, Kageyama's blade. After intercepting a strike that would've inevitably killed the Great King. He falls, looking into Oikawa's shocked eyes, bright, and full of tears as he cradled Iwa to his chest. Iwaizumi merely sighed, still unable to touch the man he loved, lest he ruin his life by exposing his feelings. He dies to the violent, primal screams of his love, and he becomes distantly aware of a missed opportunity, as Oikawa's reciprocation of Iwaizumi's feelings becomes more obvious with each throat tearing wail. It's clear that he will die without Iwaizumi, but everyone already knew that.

Daisuga has just graduated in the summer of 1967, and they've been stealing moments with each other from the moment Suga transferred to Daichi's school sophomore year. And Daichi hated himself for it, he was quarterback, and he had the prettiest girl in school. So why was he so smitten with this nerd? This delicate pretty boy made his blood run hot and his heart skip. He was in love, and damn it if Suga hadn't made it obvious that he felt the same. Daichi had to put a stop to this before someone found out and it ruined his life. Suga heard it from a freshman, the handsome senior, Daichi was going to marry his girlfriend, Michimiya Yui. It made it so much easier to go to Vietnam when he won the draft lottery system. Daichi came to apologize only to find that Suga was gone. Forever. He wrote. Suga ignored it all. Daichi talked with Suga's mother every weekend hoping to collect any information he could, until the news finally broke, Koushi wasn't coming back from 'Nam. Daichi married Michimiya with an empty heart and dead eyes, the fact that they found Suga's corpse clutching one of Daichi's letters replaying in his mind as Michimiya read her vows. They had three kids, Daichi killed himself on what would've been Suga's fifty first birthday.

Kuroken has been side by side for years, Kenma serving as prohibition criminal Kuroo's right hand man. Kuroo has never shown interest in a woman, the rest of the gang doesn't say a word though their suspicious glances between him and Kenma speak volumes. And they're absolutely right, Kenma is everything short of a mob wife. All pretty hair and violent tendencies, Kenma values no one's life, not even his own, but he can't help but value Kuroo in a such a loving way. They die together, when everything falls apart and the feds are chasing them, bullets shatter the car, ripping everything but their hands apart. Those will stay intertwined forever.

Ushijima was okay with his job, he lived such a sparse simple life, and it was enough for him, the life of a holy man. Until he saw Satori, a young man no older than him, residing in a dark hole of the desolate mental facility he was blessing. The sisters merely dismissed him when he inquired as to why the man was in there in the first place. So he took upon himself to talk to the boy and get to the bottom of this. He didn't mean to fall in love with the beautiful, unhinged and unholy Tendo. He didn't mean to commit the ultimate sin, to forsake his faith, but he couldn't bring himself to regret feeling what he felt for Tendo. The only thing he actually regretted was never protecting Satori the way he wanted to. Never scooping his love in his arms and running away from that foul life. The tears that caught in his throat when he came to Tendo only to find him bald, scarred, and permanently empty, shook him to his core. They dug in his brain and ripped out everything dear to Ushijima, they tore a part that beautiful mind all because they couldn't understand it. Ushijima swallowed his tears, and mustered his courage, he was going to save Tendo now, even if it would cost him his soul. His big hands wrapped around Tendo's throat, and didn't release until Tendo's empty eyes went out. He died years later in a prison cell. Maybe he and Tendo could have each other, in the next life.

The village did not like Nishinoya, nor did his family. He for the life of him, could not be modest and quiet like the rest of the puritans. He did not go to church, nor did he read the gospel, he ran about in the woods, tricky and mysterious. The governor's son, Asahi, can't help but be entranced, he is a scholar after all. And he only follows Noya into the dark wood for "scholarly" purposes, he definetly wasn't thrilled when Noya pinned his large body against one of the dark twisty tree trunks deep within the wood. Asahi comes to two very troubling conclusions that night, the village was wrong, Noya was not a witch at all, and Azumane would never be able to keep himself away from Noya not matter the cost. It was over for them the moment they were discovered, Noya wrapped in Asahi's arms. The villagers convinced themselves that Asahi had been put under a curse by Yuu, despite Asahi's violent objections, and surprisingly brave declaration of love. Noya smiled softly as they touched the torch to his feet, and as the flames ate the innocent man up, Asahi screamed begging the whole village to burn him instead, Yuu was innocent take him instead. Asahi stayed only long enough to press a gentle kiss to Yuu's now burnt face, just to show the villagers their love was true and deep, not the by product of some cheap curse. While they were all in shock, he slipped into the dark wood, and never was heard from again.

Hinata considered it an insane stroke of luck when he secured a third class ticket aboard the ship of dreams, the Titanic. He bid his mother and Natsu farewell, hoping to secure a job in the new world, and make enough funds to secure them a passage to America one day. His shipmate is horrible though, all cold blue eyes and pompous attitude, until one night when Kageyama surprisingly offers Hinata a drink. Not wanting to refuse, they obviously get smashed drunk, and with pretty pink cheeks, Kageyama grabs Hinata's face gently. " i jus' think no guy should be so damn beautiful" kageyama whispers sleepily, and maybe it's the liquor, but Hinata doesn't hesitate to lean in and initiate a kiss. When Kageyama doesn't pull away, Hinata crawls into his lap. They fit like puzzle pieces and now Kageyama can't even imagine wanting to kiss anyone else. They make plans to take the new world on, learning fairly quick that they are stronger together. And then there's water and panic and Kageyama and Hinata are trying to rush a gate because Jesus, there are kids down there. Just because they are poor doesn't mean they deserve to die, but unfortunately someone seems to think otherwise, because the gate remains in place. They finally stop when the water is up to their waists, and a sad looking elderly woman tells them they've done what they could. Tearful children and somber mothers nod in agreement, and it is unsaid that they would go to their respective beds and try to rest so that they might go in their sleep. They lay together on the top bunk and even as the water slips above their heads and they begin to die, their arms hold tight, and Kageyama mouths one last "I love you" Hinata's fingers in his hair the last thing he feels.

Bokuto is in love with an heiress across the lake, he's never met her but is sure she is made for him. Akaashi is in love with a rich man right next to him, but that man sees Akaashi as no more than his lowley servant. Akaashi is in love with Bokuto, maybe that is why he involved himself in that horrible mess. He was always getting involved in horrible messes for Bokuto's sake. It was the height of Gatsby era glamor, and Bokuto, though he never did really like parties, was always throwing them, insisting Akaashi rather than work the parties, served as his right hand man. Akaashi always knew Bokuto was hoping he would meet his heiress at one of his parties, and if it made Bokuto happy, Akaashi hoped she would show up too, no matter how much it would hurt. And eventually she did, along with her husband, and she broke Bokuto's heart after a very miserable and short lived affair, for her it was nothing, but Bokuto always fell so hard and fast, he was distraught. Akaashi acted on instinct, pulling Bokuto into his arms no matter what line he was crossing, and smoothing his hair in attempt to sooth the crying man. Things became clear to Bokuto then. His tears ceased as he breathed in Akaashi's soft scent, wrapping his arm around the beautiful man's waist. They were in love then, finally on the same page for a blissful few months, until Bokuto's affair was made public, and he was found beaten to death in an alley. Despite all of his generosity and glamor in the past years, Akaashi and Kuroo were the only guests at Bokuto's funeral. Akaashi never recovered from the loss, he knew Bokuto wouldn't have wanted him to do it, but that didn't stop the smile on his face as he smashed the heiress beneath his tires.

Tsukishima had been protecting Yamaguchi for as long as he could remember, always getting in fights and taking beatings to protect his beautiful best friend. He knew boys weren't supposed to be pretty, he knew what happened to boys like Yamaguchi in the eighties, but that didn't ever stop him. Not even when Yamaguchi worked up all his courage and told Tsukki he loved him during their freshman year. Tsukki was angry at Yamaguchi for saying that, because he felt the same and he knew that he had to hide it if he wanted to survive. His controlled slipped for a second when Yamaguchi pressed their lips together gently, Tsukki allowed himself to dream one last time before he yanked himself away. He immediately began hurling slurs and abuse at Yamaguchi, things he knew would send the other boy running. And it did. But soon Kei felt an unexplainable urge to go after him, a sinking feeling that something horrible was gonna happen. Yamaguchi did not cry, he held his chin high, no matter how hard the boys hit him or cut him. He didn't care if he died but he wasn't gonna do it staring at his feet like a kicked puppy. Kei found him like that, full of fire and courage as he stared down his abusers. The love he felt made Kei's legs shake, and he knew he'd do whatever he could to save Yamaguchi. Yamaguchi smiled with too much glee for a dead man as Tsukki forced his way to his side, gripping his hand. There were eight of them, with murder in their eyes, Tsukki knew before he even got to Yamaguchi that they weren't making it out of this one.

Lev and Yaku find each other in 1700s France, Lev is a soft pretty boy, living a luxurious life in the aristocracy. Until he is thrown to the wolves after the loss of his parents, he is ten when he spends his first night on the street. He is nearly taken by a brothel right away, until he is saved by a particularly feisty thirteen year old street rat, Yaku is half his height but serves as his protector nonetheless. They pass the years protecting each other, growing to love each other, but never daring to hope for more than that. As many people in France were at the time disease riddled and starving, so were Yaku and Lev. Of course Yaku went first, he made it all the way to eighteen before he succumbed to his disease, clutching a crying Lev, comforting him even on his death bed. After that, Lev made the mistake of having hope, he joined the revolution in honor of Yaku. He just wanted to make the world a better place, a place where Yaku could've survived. He died bleeding from a soldier's bullet on a barricade, but he was warm, all he saw was Yaku, holding him, carrying him into their next life.

Yahaba always talks and Kyoutani might be always listening, but it's hard to tell. Until Kyoutani murders his whole family in 1978. He shows up at the gas station him and Yahaba always have their one sided coversations at to find Yahaba working the counter like he always is. He ignores Yahaba's greeting and begins frantically explaing his situation and motive, all while Yahaba looks on in shock, this is the first time Kyoutani has ever spoken to him. When he asks why Kyoutani is telling him all this, he simply sighs dismissively and says "you're my bestfriend", and that's enough for Yahaba. Clearly he's crazy, a cute boy he's never spoken with is in the back of his car and they're leaving the country. All because Kyoutani actually was listening and not only that, he viewed Yahaba as the most important person in his life. They had been in love from the first one sided conversation they had, and that was becoming clear now. They get caught, sent to different facilities, Kyoutani gets life, Yahaba gets a lighter sentence for being an accomplice. Though they never see each other again, Yahaba always writes letters, and for once, Kyoutani writes back. They spend their lives finally having a two sided conversation, their love never even flickers, and for them, that's enough.

[merlinemrys]

ARTHUR LEGALISING MAGIC: DRABBLE

prompt : (gen) alternate s4 ending where arthur drops the bomb on morgana that he’s repealing the ban on magic

══════════════════

“I will not raise my sword against you, Morgana,” Arthur said, back firm and voice unbearably soft. His hands were held loosely at his sides. He had enough of pain, of anger and wrath and vengeance. All he wanted was peace. Morgana’s eyes widened, shocked, and the flame in her hand lessened its intensity. 

“Not even for my crime, brother?” she asked, spitting the last word out like blood. Arthur could do nothing but stare at her, unyielding, even while his heart ached for the familiarity of their banter, of the days past. “Your own sister is a witch and yet you will not uphold Camelot’s laws. Father must be rolling in his grave. And his body hasn’t even gotten cold yet.”

She casted her fire away, but her eyes were still dark. 

“Morgana,” he started and didn’t flinch as Morgana walked towards him until they were a foot away from one another. “For all you’ve done… for all you’ve done, you are still my sister and I don’t wish to see you harmed.”

Her jaw tightened imperceptibly. She said, “Then you’re a spineless coward.”

“Then I am,” he agreed. He was so tired, tired of it all that he wished for a different life, one where he wasn’t king. Maybe one where he wasn’t even human. He wondered what it would feel like to be one with Earth. 

His father’s rage fueled by grief had slaughtered innocents, and perhaps some were dangers to society, but even Arthur knew mere children — dear God, infants — shouldn’t have been caught in the crossfire. And Arthur even raised his own hand against them, their blood staining his clothes, the screams still ringing in his ears. His deepest regrets and they would never be forgiven. Arthur remembered, years ago when he had barely seen his fifteenth winter, his father had ordered a raid on a Druid camp within their borders. After everything, Arthur didn’t eat well for weeks. And now Morgana seemed to have inherited the Pendragon rage, her own twisted sense of justice killing innocents just like their father did. 

And despite it all, Arthur had loved them so deeply, every death of their doing was a lethal blow to his heart because they were wrong, so wrong, yet Arthur still did nothing. Still couldn’t kill them. 

So he was a coward, but peace could not be achieved through blood alone. His father’s reign was a well-tested example of that. 

He would be different. He had to be. 

“Magic will no longer be outlawed in Camelot,” he said. Merlin would help him draft the laws. Of course, he would. The idiot had been hiding his magic so terribly it was truly a wonder no one in the kingdom knew about it. “Under my word as king, no person shall be persecuted for the act of using magic.”

“Arthur?” Morgana said, utterly confused. 

He continued, looking into her eyes. “Of course, those who use magic with harmful intent will be prosecuted rightly.” Arthur stepped forward and placed a hand on her shoulder. She was stock-still, a childish thrill ran through him. He never usually got to surprise her anymore. Not that he did back then. “Come home, Morgana.”

[mcfreakin-bxtch]

Be Yours - Chapter One Option 2 (Knight AU)

Hey guys!

So I created this part a while ago (like it was one of my first drafts) and the only difference really is that there’s no OC, just ‘You’. 

So since there wasn’t a lot of hits with the OC so far (huge thank you that have!) but I could also be speaking way too soon. 

But either way, I wanted to get this out there and let me know which one you’d prefer if you wanted this to continue!

Be safe

Din Djarin x Reader

Rating: Explicit (Smut, Mild Dark Themes, Slow Burn, Violence, Death)

Warnings: Drinking, Pining, Mild violence

Word Count: 4k

Summary: As Princess of Riverheart, you’re thrusted into the world of dark forces that will threatened to destroy the very life you know in the midst of war and, worst of all, love. 

Be Yours Masterlist

You could smell the blood. 

It was coated all around you, in the small patch of meadow around the fields you grew up around. You looked down and saw it was on your hands as well. The stickiness and heaviness of it was distinct, dripping slowly between the cracks of your fingers. 

You heard your name being called but couldn’t decipher who it was. Everything was slow and sluggish as you started to turn around. But whatever or whomever it was, it was peace, it was home, it was – 

You awoke with a gasp, clutching your blanket. Your heart pounded heavily against your ribcage, mouth dry and temple pulsing. You frantically looked down at your hands, afraid to see them crimson.

Pale as the day you were born. 

With a sigh of relief, you inspected your room, morbidly expecting blood to be seeping from the plain dark walls. Your nightgown was sticking to you uncomfortably, hair frizzled and eyes shifting from every corner of your room. You were sure you looked utterly mad. 

The sun shined brightly through the curtains of your light blue room, rays of gold splaying across the wooden floor. Dust laid still in the air through the sun’s rays, and you could briefly taste it on your tongue. 

“Princess?” 

You jumped, still gripping the top of your blanket, knuckles white. Jules peered through, closing the door behind her and giving you a look. 

“Another nightmare?”

A nightmare. Yes, yes that’s what that was.

“Yes,” you finally croaked. You cleared your throat before continuing. “But it is nothing to fret over.”

Jules snorted as she pulled back the curtains, laughing at your grimace as you shielded your face from the blinding sun. 

“You have been having nightmares for many a night now. It is a sign.”

Jules, with her light brown, straight hair, blue eyes and slender form was not only a loyal servant, but a dear friend as well. Just at the tender age of thirteen Jules was appointed to you, who was only a year older than yourself. It was the picking of her father, Bringham, that brought the two of you together. 

“It is through my mother that I know you now,” Jules had told you once. “And I am fortunate to be here, with you and the King.”

You knew she’d rather be anywhere but under a Royal’s thumb. Jules was too kind to say it aloud, but you knew. 

But despite the position, Jules had the voice of a singer, soft and sweet and pleasing to the ears of those around her, even now in the early sets of morning. You often found yourself jealous of her gift.

“No sign,” you argued. “Foolish to dwell on when there’s wars and sickness to worry about.”

It was the same excuse every time. You had a duty to fulfill, a title to fill if your father failed to do so before his death. 

So you were the only one next in line for the crown, the responsibilities of your people, and you could not afford to waste it on pointless dreams. 

“Well the joust is today,” Jules chimed your name, throwing a gown at you. You huffed as it hit you in the face, glaring at the grinning girl. “And that guard of yours is the ever brooding Dark Knight.”

You tried to bite back the smile that wanted to desperately graze your lips. “He’s barely a friend, Jules.”

And you didn’t know what he looked like. 

“And I’m the queen,” Jules quipped back with a roll of her eyes. “Your father expects you to be in the halls after you are dressed. Please don’t keep him waiting.”

You grumbled as you stood up, shedding off your damp nightgown and throwing on the beautiful and elegant blue gown; simple with your family's crescent, a river and a lively tree, laced around the edges and forearm.

You poked at your face, grimacing at the light grey under your eyes. You would need it covered soon. 

For some odd reason, it had you thinking of your late mother. 

Your mother, who many said that you practically wore her face. 

“Take it from Adriana, and you have yourself right there.” They would follow with. 

It made your father bristle at the mention of your mother, and more so when he would study you; watching from afar with careful eyes. 

But today was not the day to dwell on such horrors and sadness. Today was a day of celebration, a day to bring everyone together. 

“Ah!” Your father, Bringham, greeted you with a warm smile. “Please, sit next to me dear.”

King Bringham of Riverhearth was still a handsome man even in his middle age, with his dark hair - turning grey with age - and crinkled brown eyes. You could never see this, but you heard the whispers among the crowds in the marketplace, all young and old and in between gushing over the widowed king. It bothered you at a young age, but you grew to just simply ignore them as you got older; you didn’t need to waste your time on their helpless dreams anyway. 

Because despite every desirable, participating and willing woman flooding the courts for one chance at his hand in marriage, Bringham would turn them away each time with a soft, apologizing smile.

“You do not need to worry of such things,” Bringham had told you.

“Of course I do,” you argued. “You’re my father, and you deserve love just as the rest of us. Why have you not given it a second chance?”

“And why not you give it a chance at all? You’re no better than I when it comes to suitors.”

You chewed on the inside of your cheek, mulling over his words. 

They indeed held truth to them, but you refused to give him an answer when this night was supposed to be about him. 

“This isn’t about me,” you voiced.

He gave you a small, closed lip smile. It was in that smile that you saw that he wasn’t going to explain his reasoning's to you You liked to think that he just could not fathom or form the words left unsaid between them; the loss of you mother, the beautiful queen and a loving wife, it was too much to bear on his still heavy and sore heart.  

But never did he ever make you or anyone else believe that you were the reasoning behind Queen Adriana’s death. 

“She gave life, and she saw that as a blessing on her own.” Bringham told you. 

That night was peculiar in your memories, just only a week ago. It was warm, a slight, comfortable breeze enveloping through the ports. Your father had been drinking, and you thought do indulge yourself as well.

You weren’t queen yet. 

You did not stop until your mind and body felt sluggish, and you also felt overly bubbly and bold. You skipped through the halls of her home quietly, soft as feathers. 

You had been looking for Jules but could not find her in sight. You found this as unusual of your friend, but it was quickly dismissed when you bumped into a hard barrier, nearly falling back onto your rump when a pair of hard, strong arms caught you. 

You struggled to recall your previous lectures of etiquettes when you saw him. 

“Oh!” You gasped. “I’m t-terribly sorry.”

Din was… a complete enigma. 

Appointed at a very young age as a knight and soldier in training to one of your own guards, he had been loyal to your family since you were a teenager. You had no knowledge of his upbringings and where he originated from at all. He rarely spoke unless needed, and even then it was short and to the point. But he was a very skilled fighter and was valued by all and every in times of wars and miscellaneous, dirty jobs. He always complied with no questions, no quarrels. That’s why he was the perfect soldier. 

And in a world, in a kingdom where all royal knights could never show their faces after their creed, you were never able to see his face. 

The logic behind these oaths were always questioned, yourself included. 

“Dignity. Loyal. These men and women need to be the perfect soldiers in order to protect our people. It has worked for many years, and will continue to do so.”

You weren’t so sure of that. 

The helmet, silver with a slit for him to see through, that was staring back at you with intensity.  

“Princess,” he said gruffly. His voice, hard and yet soft even covered, never failed to send shivers through your body, and for your heart to skip several beats. “It’s late. What are you doing running about?”

His stare bore deep into your orbs, and you found herself giggling at the seemingly silly question. 

“Looking for you, my knight,” you said with a childish glee. 

“You need to be asleep. I’m sure your father is.”

You could not help it, but you rolled your eyes at him with a quirky smile. 

“Please, Din.” You sighed. “He will not be woken up. He’s had himself a few too much tonight.”

He grunted. “It seems as though you have as well, Princess.”

This caused you to frown. “Please, call me by my name. We have this talk at least once or twice a week.”

You heard the shift of his silver armor - painted with your Royal’s crescent and doing little to hide the protruding build of the man - as he twitched, moving slightly away from you. You saw this as a nervous tick, a means to hide back behind his tower and go back to silence.

You immediately regretted saying anything when you missed the warmth of his arms against you, despite the cold bite of his armor. 

He said your name cautiously. “It would be unprofessional of me to not call you by your title.”

You didn’t know why, but you found yourself giggling again, twirling around the halls as you continued to laugh. 

“Right. You’re one of the fiercest knights of Riverhearth.” Your voice grew louder as your giddiness did, and you could barely hear Din’s shushes over the rushing waves in your ears. 

“Brave, strong, healthy, and dangerous. Din Djarin of… of Nowhere’s Land! Where are you from, my precious guard? Just who are you? What is under all that armor?”

You had never seen Din freeze like he had that night. It was a guilty memory added to the growing list. 

But Din quickly shook it off, and you hated how remarkably good he was at keeping his composure, whereas you sometimes let your emotions get the best of you. 

“You do not need to know such things, Princess,” he said, walking towards you now that you had stopped moving from him. “You know enough about me to go on.”

“But I ought to know something more,” you pouted. Then you straightened up with a set jaw. “And as Princess of this court, I demand you tell me this instance!”

You swore you could hear his smile, but before you could tease him about it he sighed heavily through his nose and, again, you were sure, narrowed his eyes at you. You started to smile triumphantly before you were abruptly turned around in the spot, being pushed - gently although, like he was afraid to touch you - towards the direction of her bedroom. 

“Unfair,” you whined.

“Princesses don’t always get what they want,” he quipped. “You should start learning that.”

You should have felt a little offended by his words, but you found it to be humorous in nature. 

“I think that’s the first time you’ve ever spoken to me like that, Din.”

He must have just realized it as well, because he stopped for a millisecond before continuing his path to your door, making sure you didn’t trip or stumble along the way; it proved a lot harder than he predicted, but thank goodness you were not completely over the rails. 

“You better get used to it then if you continue this way.”

You giggled. “Aw why? Am I -” You crossed your arms over your heart, gasping in exceragation and leaning heavily against him. “A bother to you, good knight?”

He shook his head at you and eased you into your bedroom without making too much noise, helping you lie down on your bed with a gentle flop. 

“It must be a very lonely life,” you found herself rambling. “When you’re as dedicated to the Court as yourself.”

There was nothing but the rustling of your sheets as you settled into your bed, eyes already closed and feeling dizzy from your previous excursions. 

You did not expect him to respond, and he did, but not with what you wanted to hear. 

“Rest. You will feel like roadkill in the morning, and I do not want to explain to the King on why his daughter was running around drunk at such witching hours.”

Witching hours, Din worrying about you getting a pinch on the wrist by your father, the luck of trying to find Jules leading to this conversation, it all was funny to you and you actually were able to let out a tiny giggle before succumbing to sleep. 

The next morning, as Din had told you, you did in fact feel like roadkill. Your brain thrummed against her skull, and you had to pretend that everything was okay and that you could still perform your royal duties without puking your guts out. 

Just like Din had pretended that the night before never happened. You had expected at least a polite hello or a joke about your splitting headache, but all you received was an order passed through him by your father while you were in the gardens that surrounded your pretty castle, poised and stoic. 

It made your heart lurch in defeat, but you respected him enough to let it be and to move on your days without the normal teasing and failed attempts at getting him to hold a conversation with you. It hurt greatly, but the sting of it eased when he visibly grew more relaxed around you as you calmed your efforts. 

“Patience,” your instructor had taught you. “Is a virtue, and it is a hardship you must grow accustomed to if you want to do anything in this world. Especially for a future queen as yourself.”

It was a lot more easier said than done. Even at the tender age of just twenty-one, you still had such a hard time grasping the ethics of it. 

“You will be a fine queen one day,” Jules once told you. “But they are right about one thing: you are incredibly stubborn and reckless for a title.”

So what if you were. You respected and held knowledge for the duties of your kingdom, but why should you completely erase the person you were for what was rightfully yours?

“You’ll see it one day,” Jules promised you. “Once you start acting like an adult.”

“I do!” You argued. “It is not my fault that no one sees me.”

She snorted. “I’m sure you’ll be looking back at this shaking your head at your annoying, stubborn self.”

Maybe, but you didn’t see that anytime soon in your future. 

“Dear?”

The sound of your father’s voice broke you out of your thoughts, shaking your head to clear them away. 

“Sorry, in a bit of a daydream.” You murmured to Bringham. 

He chuckled. “You wouldn’t be my daughter if you weren’t.”

You let out her own forced chuckle at his jest, and you sat in comfortable silence as you broke your fast, talking occasionally about the day’s festivities. 

“And how are the ports?” You asked through a sip of your broth. 

“Good,” he nodded his head. “Shipments arrived last night on time. We have more coming in from Colefiend, and another set out for Point Valley in the morning.”

Riverhearth was one of the closest and affordable ports in the North. Surrounded by mountains of spring and summer, there lied an ocean in between. It certainly was not the wealthiest of surrounding kingdoms, but they made well with what they had, and the people were happy and taken care of as King Bringham and the people of the Court attuned to. 

“May I please be excused?”

Bringham gave you a quizzical look. “You may. What are your plans?”

You gave your father a smirk and a tap on the tip of your nose. He made a noise of affirmation and grinned. 

“Ah, I see. Well be sure to be back for the joust, and be careful.”

Your grin grew wider. “Of course, aren’t I always?”

Jules was in the kitchens, helping the cooks and other maidens clean up and prepare varieties of desserts for the upcoming feasts. 

“Hello, Princess,” one of the cooks, Peter, greeted you. “Would you like a taste of my new recipe?”

You hummed. “As always Peter. No need to ask of me.”

He laughed. “As you wish.”

Peter held a wooden spoon over an open palm, bringing up to you for you to taste. The sauce was rich with exotic spices, and was smooth on your taste buds. 

“It’s delicious!” You exclaimed. “Just add a pinch of salt and it’s perfection.”

He grinned and nodded, going back to hover over his new creation. “Always a keen one, Princess.”

You bounced through until you found Jules, and immediately grabbed her hand. You turned to Peter, hugging Jules close to you as she giggled and you lightly scrunched her cheeks in your hand. 

“May I borrow this lovely, beautiful, elegant, and most gullible being until the festivities?” You asked through a fit of laughter and a smack against the shoulder from your dear friend as you smiled. 

Peter laughed. “Yes, your highness. Do not wander off too far!”

You and Jules agreed and ran out of the gray but pleasant castle. You ran through the gardens, through the maze and fields of flowers blooming, and through the forest that littered by. 

The forest was peculiar in its nature. Twisted vines that protruded from dead trees - though surrounded by live ones, a little confusing to you by the oddity and spratics of it - with little weeds littering along the trail. 

The trail itself was wide enough for two people to walk through without the curves of the forest's slopes. Despite its initial darkness to it, the woods was nothing but life; it was the type of beauty You appreciated greatly. 

By the time You and Jules reached it they were out of breath, giggling and rushing towards the edge of the cliff that gave one of the most beautiful views of the waters. A tall, blossom tree hung above you as you plopped down onto the grass, careful not to ruin your blue gown. 

“The joust is going to start soon,” Jules said. 

You could hear the music from there, faint but distinctive all the same. Din would be preparing right now, polishing and sharpening his sword and putting on the heavy armor he wore every day and night. It all sounded exhausting to you. 

“Hmm.”

You basked in the sun, the salty smell of the water, blue and all. This is where you truly felt at peace, like you could strip naked without a care in the world and be free, in whatever sense you needed to be. You were sure Jules felt the same way, with the glazed look in her eyes and the longing. It made you ridden with guilt each time you saw it. 

It was when the music became louder you spotted a ship rounding the corner.

“I didn’t know we were expecting visitors,” Jules said quizzically. 

“We weren’t.” You said quietly, eyebrows furrowed. “And we’re not due for another shipment either.”

You both looked to each other, confusion etched on your faces. 

“It is time to head back anyways,” Jules told you, getting up and helping you to your feet. “We shall find out there.”

The way back was quicker. You departed when they reached the stands, hugging before you went to sit next to your father, smiling and greeting anyone who looked towards you. 

“Little late,” your father chastised. 

You ignored his remark, pausing as you saw something small sitting in your chair. At closer inspection, you realized it was a flower, a lily flower at that; it was your favorite.

“Not my gift I’m afraid,” Bringham answered before you could ask. “And I have no idea on who could’ve left it there either.”

You picked it up delicately, curling a hand over it as if you were going to pet it. Whoever had left this for you, they paid enough attention to know your flower of choice; the flower your mother had nearly named you after. 

“Do we have guests coming our way?” 

He tensed slightly, but was quick to brush it off. “Nothing to worry about my dear girl.”

You chewed on your lip, a nervous habit of hers; another inheritance from her mother her father would tell her. 

“And you’d tell me if I needed to know.”

“Of course.”

It was fruitless to press in front of the village people. You turned back to the stables, where the knights were preparing with their horses. But your scowl was still visible on your face, and your father sighed softly at the sight of it, knowing he was going to have to answer for it later. 

Everyone started to grow silent as the drums signalled the official start of the joust. Your eyes searched keenly for your knight, grinning when he saw him appear. 

You found it funny when Jules occasionally called Din the ‘Dark’ Knight. His armor was everything but, all silver, chain mail glittering in the sun. You supposed your friend was right in the sense that it certainly didn’t match his personality. 

And with all the horror stories that echoed across lands and valleys of his victories?

You could see why he was anything but innocent; light. 

You barely heard the announcements over the pounding of your heart as you watched the two knights mount their horses. Din’s was a white mare, and gentle despite its size. Sometimes you’d hear him talk to his horse, as if the horse understood the language; he probably wasn’t aware he was doing it anymore. 

Your heart thudded against your chest, watching the Black Knight, a swordsmith you believed to be an appointer of the Royal Guard named Robert. 

They readied their spears, sitting on their respectable sides. You unconsciously leaned in, flower still in hand. 

Din’s horse kicked at the ground, huffing as it prepared itself. You held your breath, as were the others. 

The horn blared and their horses took off, galloping at a furious speed towards each other. 

Robert was a decent fighter, that much you had seen in person. But Din, in your opinion, was better. 

The crowd cheered as a flurry of white and black clashed against each other. The scraping of metal against metal was prominent in the summer air, loud and aggravating. 

“Looks like I made the right choice in guard,” Bringham said. 

Din sat triumphantly as his horse ran back around, Robert laying on the ground next to him. Robert eventually got back up, and he without a doubt held a glare towards his opponent; Din sat back on his side of the stables, still and patient like a hunter with its prey. 

But Robert was also known for his temper, and threw his spear on the ground, pointing a finger at the White Knight. 

“You just tread carefully, churl.”

Anyone would have already been set off, brawling until knuckles were bruised and bloody. You never had any patience for these kinds of pettiness, and it seemed as though Din didn’t either, because he trudged back to his respective area on his horse, not giving Robert a second glance. 

“Yes,” You murmured. “You did.”

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[youngster-monster]

Fire knocking at the heart

(Commission for my dear friend @/eguinerve on ao3)

 “Swift fire spread through her veins, knock’d at her heart, Met the fire smouldering there And overbore its lesser flame;”

  — Goblin Market by Christina Rossetti

-

The first time Arthur saw Maleagan was… difficult to put into words, even after the fact. Perhaps even more so. Hard to describe but impossible to forget. The way he moved, not quite a man as much as a man-shaped shadow... Even in a crowd of knights, all shiny and wonderful in their novelty and in the envy they awoke in Arthur, his eyes kept drifting to him and him alone. Something about the line of his shoulders, the pale brightness of his eyes glowing like moonlit silver —

Mesmerizing. That’s the word. He was mesmerizing. 

Now that they face each other again — as enemies, this time, rather than mere adversaries in a tourney — those strange feelings return to him tenfold. He’s never been more distracted in a fight than he is now, eyes inexorably drawn to the other man as he twists and spins out of the way of Arthur’s attacks before retaliating. He’s swift, almost dancing rather than fighting, but his strikes betray a strength greater than his lithe form would suggest. It’s all Arthur can do to parry his head-on attacks, as blocking them outright leaves his arms shaking from the shock.

It’s obvious from the grin he bears that he takes some twisted enjoyment from the fight. He’s like a cat with a mouse, kicking Arthur this way and that, keeping him off balance when he had ample opportunities to gravely wound him. God knows Arthur is distracted enough to leave himself unguarded.

Then, eventually, Maleagant tires of these games. He surges forward almost too quickly for the eyes to follow, brings his sword down in a wide arc. Arthur hisses in pain as Maleagant’s sword bites into his flesh. He stumbles, falls on his back, and only narrowly avoids a fatal blow by rolling to the side.

He’s beautiful even like this, hair wild and the edge of his blade inches from Arthur’s throat. Mesmerizing indeed.

Arthur lurches to his feet, his grip on his weapon sure despite the lancing pain. His hand, when it comes away from the wound, is red and slick with blood. Maleagant stops, cold, cold eyes sharpening to a sword’s edge as they settle first on Arthur’s hand, then the tip of his sword, gleaming softly under the setting sun even though it’s stained crimson.

It’s a slight distraction, just enough to leave him surprised by Arthur’s next attack. He blocks the downward strike on sheer instinct, eyes widening slightly before narrowing in predatory concentration. This time, when he pushes back, Arthur is ready for it. He ducks down at the last possible second and catches the wrist of his sword arm, twisting it so Maleagant can’t struggle out of the hold without hurting himself. His opponent is quick as a snake to strike back, blocking his arm in the same way. They stay locked together for a moment, staring into each other’s eyes—

Arthur would lose himself in them if not for the pain pulsing in his side. Stuck like this, unable to move or get away or strike back, the animal fear rising in his chest makes him panic-blind. Each heartbeat is echoed by a thrum that sends fire in his veins. Short of breath, vision swimming, he’s acutely aware of his life running between his fingers in rivulets of blood, and eager to finish the fight before the wound finishes him. 

He throws his knee up, slamming it into Maleagant’s side once, twice, until he feels something crack and Maleagant’s hold slackens, allowing Arthur to throw him back and to the ground. His sword clatters to the ground, out of reach, and he can’t get to his feet in time before Arthur is above him, Excalibur hovering above his chest.

“Do you yield?” He asks, wheezing, his arm tight against his still bleeding stomach.

Maleagant stares up, teeth bared in a snarl, but the threat is empty and he soon drops his eyes away from Arthur’s face, silently conceding defeat.

“I yield,” he spits out. It sounds as if the words are being pulled out his throat right through the barrier of his clenched teeth.

For an instant the air seems to… hum, almost, in the wake of those words. Something halfway between the heaviness before a storm and the faint, distant ringing of a bell, more vibration than sound. He can’t seem to tell it apart from his own heartbeat, deafening in his ears, or the weight of exhaustion settling over his shoulders like a mantle.

One more thing, and he can rest. He just has to make it through this.

“The Gods don’t want your sacrifice, and I don’t want your death,” he says, words clear despite the haze he feels settling over him. He almost misses Maleagant scoffing at the mention of gods. “But you are a knight-” Stumbling forward slightly, Arthur offers Maleagant his sword, hilt first. Excalibur is so heavy, more than a sword has any right to be, and he can’t tell if it’s the blood loss making him think so or some greater, intangible burden, like the crown and the weight of Maleagant’s cold, cold eyes following his every move. “Rise, then, and make me your equal.”

Their fingers brush as Maleagant takes Excalibur. His touch is cold, a balm on Arthur’s feverish skin. He doesn’t kneel so much as he falls to his knees: he couldn’t get back to his feet even if Maleagant turned his own sword against him. Arthur knows he won’t though. There’s something honorable about the dark knight, despite everything.

He can barely make out Maleagant’s words through the buzzing in his ears but the touch of Excalibur on each of his shoulders is unmistakable. He exhales a sigh of relief. His arms drop limp to his side. It’s done. He’s a knight. Finally.

Tradition demands he rise to accept his title on his feet. He almost manages it, but as soon as he stands nausea and pain overwhelms him, and he collapses almost immediately.

Arthur is unconscious before he hits the ground. All he takes with him into oblivion is the image of Maleagant’s self-satisfied smirk.

-

There is little time to think about Maleagant once he wakes up. First he must heal, and the pulsing pain of his wounds is enough to make him forget about the one who inflicted them. Then there is Guinevere, who does an admirable job at keeping him distracted from the pain. By the time he can finally stand on his own two feet without aid they are already betrothed, her father eager to cement an alliance between him and the new king of Camelot.

Arthur watches it all happen with a sense of bemused confusion. He never knew marriage could happen so fast, and with so little input from either of the participants.

Technically, he could say no. He’s king, after all. But Merlin pins him with a look that tells him it would be unwise to do so, and Guinevere is beautiful and sweet, giving him little reasons to go against the decision that was made in his stead.

Still it weighs down on him. Not so much the betrothal itself — it has always been an uncomfortable certainty that he would have little to no say as to whom he’ll marry — as much as what comes with it. Drafting a marriage contract that will strengthen and satisfy both parties takes time. So do the preparations for the ceremony. He’s grateful for the chance to keep busy while his body heals. Less so once he’s strong enough to hold a sword and still doesn’t have the opportunity to sneak away to spar with his knights. He went through all this trouble to become one of them, and all he has to show for it is another scar.

It’s all the more infuriating that putting together a wedding ceremony worthy of royalty doesn’t demand any more input from him than the original betrothal. All he does is sit in meetings and nod at the right time. So much time wasted in boredom when he could be learning how to be the king they already expect him to be.

Fortunately Guinevere sits at his right, looking just as weary of the proceedings as he is. 

He surprises himself the first time he has to stifle a laugh at something she said. She steals a glance at her father, then at him, and smiles in response to his mirth. He was afraid she might resent the situation — being wed to a man who is barely more than a stranger — but so far she has only offered him kindness and friendship, and he’s endlessly glad for it.

Given time, he hopes they will become true friends.

The situation is not ideal, but he is genuinely grateful for Guinevere’s presence. She is more than he ever hoped for in a queen. She is soft and light, like silk and other precious things, but her mind and sense of humor are as sharp as his blade. He looks at her and feels a certain kind of awe and fondness, as well as the boyish anxiety he’s never been able to shake off when in presence of a beautiful woman. 

Maybe one day he could fall in love with her.

But today he looks at her and his mind fills with images he had nearly forgotten since the fight that led him here. Memories half-blurred by blood loss and adrenaline of a shadow, or a man, the flash of a sword and silver eyes—

His heart beats faster and he knows, deep down, that it’s not because of Guinevere. He lifts a hand to his side, fingers brushing lightly over the cloth, following the unseen line of his nearly-healed wound.

That’s when he realizes, somewhat belatedly, that he still knows nothing of the man who knighted him — and nearly killed him. Spurred by this strange feeling churning in his guts and this new sense of camaraderie with Guinevere, he turns to the woman and lowers his voice to a whisper.

Her brows furrow when he asks her about Maleagant, mouth twisting in an uncomfortable grimace.

“He is one of the Tylwyth Teg,” she eventually says. “A faerie playing at human affairs.”

“He is- a changeling, then?”

She shakes her head. “No. He hails directly from the Winter Court, though why he left it to settle in Gore is a mystery to all but him.”

Arthur reels back. Maleagant had seemed strange, yes, but he would never have expected him to be one of the fair folk. To think he had fought him and won—

His victory was fair. But when has this ever stopped one of the Unseelie from coming for revenge?

-

Despite his newfound fears, the preparations continue without a hitch. Maleagant seems to have disappeared, which leaves Arthur both relieved and disappointed in a way he doesn’t dare to think about.

Despite the many weeks spent talking about it, the day of the wedding — the Winter Solstice, to bring some light into the darkest day of the year — comes almost out of the blue. He can’t say he is any more ready for it than he was months ago — but he hadn’t been ready for the crown either. Fate seems to have a habit of dropping responsibilities in his lap whether he can handle them or not.

Arthur breathes deeply and tries to keep his smile from wavering as he stands in the chapel. He shifts on his feet, glances at the people assembled in the pews. Their eyes follow his every movement, which does little to calm his nerves. He wonders if they can tell his fear is more than a new groom’s nerves, if they can see the bags under his eyes from a sleepless night. Even the lack of rest can't numb his anxieties completely as he stands ready to be wed to a woman who is nearly a stranger to him.

Already his mind wanders far from the chapel, heedless of the murmuring crowd. The interior of the building isn't entirely safe from the icy winter air and his side aches from it. The injury inflicted by Maleagant has healed into an ugly scar, yet in the cold it still hurts as if it were fresh rather than with the dull ache of old wounds in bad weather. He rubs it through layers of clothing, almost unconsciously, and knows that if he were to touch it with bare skin it would be noticeably colder than the rest of him.

Injuries from faerie silver do not heal easily. It serves as a reminder – both of his unexpected survival and the man responsible for that pain. He's come to haunt Arthur's thoughts as of late. That first discussion with Guinevere about Maleagant seemed to summon him, and Arthur has had few dreams that were not shadowed by his otherworldly presence. The imminent wedding has not helped any. Now even in the waking world he finds himself obsessing over the other man, one part child-like fascination over his nature, two parts curiosity about the man himself. 

When he closes his eyes he sees the sharp edge of a smile, eyes that shine like twin stars, and it feels like standing over a frozen lake. A single wrong move and he would plunge into the dark, never to be seen again. This darkness in his mind feels entirely foreign, like something that was placed there by someone else, and he wonders if he has been bewitched. How many stories about the Fair Folk also tell of mortals who got too close and were forever changed by it? Longing for another touch, another taste, wasting away from a hunger larger than them, lovesick–

Not that Arthur is in love. But his scar throbs and he thinks about the bite of silver, the taste of blood on his tongue, and wonders if it might have changed him as surely as if he had sunk his teeth into a goblin fruit.

He bites his tongue, instead, and musters up a smile as the bells ring and Guinevere is ushered in. 

She is beautiful — she has never been anything but. Her fair head gleams golden under the candlelight and her eyes, when they settle on him, are warmed by her smile. And yet, he looks at her and wishes for black hair and hard eyes, a smirk like a wolf’s gaping maw. 

Arthur flinches, feels his smile waver as she steps to his side, leaning slightly towards him in silent comfort. The priest begins to speak, but his words struggle to reach Arthur as blood rushes in his ears. It must be a spell, he thinks, or a curse. A fae’s last revenge on the mortal who bested him. Why else would he feel this… this longing for his one-time foe? He was no more than a beautiful curiosity, an interesting adversary, nothing he ought to obsess over — nothing like Guinevere.

Or perhaps it is less longing than envy. Perhaps it isn’t Maleagant he wants but the freedom inherent to his Seelie blood, the wildness no one could ever hope to strip away. Kingship weighs on Arthur at the most unexpected times, and he always finds himself wishing for simpler times, when his biggest worry was his brother’s petulant behavior rather than war and political alliances.

(Is it so selfish to want to marry for love? With the crown heavy on his head, he must accept that the answer is yes.)

He forces himself to listen more intently as the priest drones on and on, swallowing back the dread that threatens to overcome him. For this land he’ll do anything; anyway, he’s sure Guinevere will be easy to love, in time. Once the bittersweetness of victory over Maleagant has faded from memory. Once he has fooled himself into believing this is what he’s always wanted.

“Should anyone here present know of any reason that this couple should not be joined in holy matrimony—”

Arthur catches himself hoping that someone would. A coward’s way out, to be sure, but an easy one. Unfortunately the pause is more traditional than practical: of the few who’d dare to doubt the lawfulness of this union, none are present.

“— Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

(But this time, and many more besides, fate listens.)

The audience only has time to hold their breath for the customary few seconds of wait before the doors of the chapel crash open, breaking the quiet atmosphere as surely as if it were made of glass.

Arthur whirls around, hand falling to the pommel of his sword, and swears when he grasps nothing but air.

The sight in front of him steals all desire for a weapon. 

It’s Maleagant, striding into the chapel with all the confidence befitting of a creature which has never considered a place might not belong to him. He looks—

(Even more beautiful than he did in battle—)

—Different. His pitch-black cloak flares behind him, glinting like the night sky as candlelight catches on the minuscule gemstones embroidered in the fabric. His long, elegantly braided hair, his fur mantle and the polished silver of his decorated armor — he is a crown short of looking regal, and instead falls squarely in enchanting.

Shadows rush after him, howling like the northern wind, clinging to the walls and dimming the lights until his eyes become the brightest thing in the room.

Maleagant stops abruptly, a few feet down the aisle from Arthur, and his eyes sweep over the silent audience before he settles his full attention on the king. It’s only for a moment, but the intensity of it freezes his breath in his lungs. There’s hunger there — it’s both terror and elation that awaken in Arthur’s heart when he realizes it’s for him.

He then turns his attention to the priest, dismissing Guinevere with a glance as he takes in the holy man’s attire and raises a single, mocking eyebrow.

“I object,” he drawls. He doesn’t show any emotion but Arthur still gets the strong impression of a smirk, as if his face was a porcelain mask behind which his lips had just quirked in quiet amusement.

The priest gapes at him. It’s an obvious struggle for him to speak with the respect that Maleagant is due. Whether it’s fear or disdain, Arthur can’t tell. “On what ground?” 

“The groom is already promised to another.”

(And here is where the other shoe drops.)

The gathered people gasp nearly as one at the revelation. Faeries cannot lie: that much is true. To learn their king would break a contract to marry another is all the more shocking when you can be sure that the bearer of bad news is speaking, if not absolute truth, at least not a falsehood.

Still, Arthur wishes he knew what prior engagement the fae lord is talking about.

“And who, pray tell, may that other be?”

The sudden apparition of Merlin’s voice makes Arthur flinch. It’s hard to tell if the druid’s presence is a comfort or a hindrance. He’s been the reason behind most of the greatest changes in Arthur’s life — both positive and not. Who knows which way the balance of fate will tip tonight.

This time Maleagant does smile, slight and sharp as a fox-grin.

“Me.”

All the air leaves the room, such is the shock of the people assembled there. Arthur can barely make sense of the words even as a part of him flares with wicked relief at the news, against all logic.

“I am Maleagant, King of Gore, heir presumptive to the Winter Court.” At this he bows, too deeply not to be mocking. “I have come for Arthur Pendragon’s hand, as is my right by law.”

“What laws give you this right?” Merlin bites. His fingers tighten around his staff. Magic fills the air like static — he expects a fight, because he knows the answer and doesn’t see a way out that doesn’t end in failure or battle.

Maleagant, on the other hand, looks more outraged than angry.

“He gave up his blade willingly, to be knighted by my hand.” A knighting is hardly a betrothal, but it is a declaration of intent, of ownership, especially if he has been planning this from the moment he was handed Excalibur by Arthur himself. He speaks the truth, and that gives his words a power that rings clear and true. “By law of the Courts and the Old Magic itself, he is mine.”

By those same laws, Arthur or Leodagan, father of the slighted bride, would be in their right to fight the claim in single combat. But not only is Maleagant one of the best fighters in the realm of men — he is of the Winter Court. Theirs are the Wild Hunt and the silver roads that course through the woods, taking away trespassers and fools who stray off the beaten path. They are not known for their mercy or their forgiveness. The few who dare take oath to them find themselves forever bound in blood, and oathbreakers are hunted beyond death until their souls are nothing but scraps to feed to their ghostly hounds.

Going against him would be madness. Leodagan still seems inclined to try it, if not for Arthur’s sake then for his own. He almost saved his daughter from the interest of an Unseelie Lord, only for this fate to fall on his king instead — there’s a bitter irony in that turn of events.

What would he think, Arthur wonders, if he knew Arthur doesn’t even entertain the idea of fighting the claim?

“You can’t use Arthur as a pawn in your petty little games,” Merlin hisses. He steps forward to put himself more fully between Maleagant and Arthur, hackles rising. “His fate—”

“You think I care about fate?” Maleagant’s voice tolls in the heavy silence. “The Norns themselves couldn’t force my hand. If I wanted a pawn, I would take it, and damn their machinations.”

He turns slightly to face Arthur head-on and everything else— falls away. The full attention of his icy eyes is almost too much to bear. Maleagant’s eyes won’t leave him as he says, “Yet it is not a pawn I seek, but an equal, in battle and outside of it. Something only your king here has proven capable of being.”

It’s a miracle in and on itself that there is no riot at the sound of that. It is, after all, a ludicrous statement. 

“What would you have, then? You in Guinevere’s stead, binding you to him today?” Merlin asks, tone too close to a challenge for comfort or propriety.

This makes Maleagant scowl, although not for long. The bitter expression fades as he doesn’t look away from Arthur’s face. “And shackle myself to a man I might want to kill a week into our marriage? No.” Quieter, softer, as if the words are meant for Arthur only, he says, “What I demand is a courtship — and the time from now to the next Winter Solstice to do it properly. A year, not a day more and not a day less, after which you will be free to make a choice.”

Arthur swallows his anxiety, breathes in slowly and asks, “And if, after a year’s courting, I say no?”

“Then I will leave, and you will be free to marry whoever you see fit.” Maleagant tilts his head, the movement more reminiscent of a bird of prey than a man. His silver eyes strained on Arthur feels like the tip of a blade under his chin. “But something tells me this is not what will happen.”

His low voice carries a dark promise that Arthur desperately wants him to keep.

“Arthur, you don’t have to do this,” Merlin says.

“And what kind of king would it make me, to disregard the very laws I am supposed to uphold?”

The bitter twist on Merlin’s mouth is mirrored by Maleagant’s satisfied smirk. His eyes crinkle at the corner, the first sign of a sincere smile since Arthur met him. “You’ve come to a decision, then?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s hear it.”

Arthur draws himself to his full height and casts his eyes on the audience to this strange situation. The wary muttering that had been rising as they spoke fades into silence as their attention focuses on him. He pulls his kingship to him like an armor, makes himself appear more sure of himself than he feels.

“Maleagant of Gore,” he says, returning his eyes to the fae prince, “I accept your demand of courtship.”

(There will be troubles, later, ruffled feathers to smooth, political alliances to mend. But now, as Maleagant smiles slow and wicked and true, he can’t bring himself to feel dread. 

Only relief.)

[inkribbon796]

A Little Pink One

Summary: Madness is usually Wil’s specialty, but every once in a while Dark becomes a less of a demon.

Theme: Balloons/Flowers

Warning: None, only angst.

A/N: Guess what? It’s the DAMIEN anniversary, guess what that means? Angst!

Today was already an odd day. Usually, on a normal day, King and Iplier were up first. Iplier because his shifts were usually early in the morning so he could tend to the Host’s injuries later on in the day. Google was up next, followed by Dark who was usually awake first but it took some time to show his face around the other Egos.

Today was different. Mostly because when Iplier walked down he found that there was an unexpected draft. Thankfully because of the spring air it wasn’t too bad, but when he found that all the downstairs windows and doors were all open, the doctor got concerned. Even more so by the pool of blood on the ground under the balcony to the second floor landing.

“Doc, where’s Wil?” King shouted as he ran in.

“Did he open everything?” Iplier asked, getting more and more worried as he looked around. “I’ll go get Dark.”

“No,” King cautioned, motioning for the Doctor to follow him. “It’s Dark, he’s outside.”

“What’s he doing outside?” Iplier was already following King, pausing a bit as King led him into the woods.

“Celine!” Dark’s voice called out into the woods, his voice echoing off every tree.

The two egos got lost, literally slamming into Wil who was calmly strolling through the woods.

“There you are!” Iplier shouted. “What did you do?”

“What’da ya mean? Wilford slurred, looking confused.

“The house is a mess, and Dark is out here screaming like a maniac,” Iplier listed off.

Wil, whether he was purposefully oblivious or honestly distracted, he bent down and picked a pink flower off the ground. “Oooh, what pretty little thing.”

Iplier glared at him, “Did you hear a word I said?”

“Phish posh,” Wil dismissed, starting to pick the five-petalled pink flowers and assemble them into a simple but elegant bouquet. “I’m going to bring these little things to Darky.”

The Doctor felt like slamming his head on a tree, he turned to look at King, “Go get the Host.”

King ran off and Dr. Iplier stayed with Wil, the reporter picking the flowers until he had a bouquet of them, using the long stems to hold them all together.

As they walked Iplier realized how cold it felt, almost like the late spring was instead turning into the dead of winter. “Wil?” Iplier tried to interrupt Wil’s chatting, “we need to find Dark, it’s getting cold.”

“I know exactly where he is,” Wil promised. “Come on, I know a shortcut.”

He tugged Iplier off in a random direction, wandering further into the forest.

Damien was hopelessly lost in the woods again, a feeling of urgency clawing at his soul. “Celine!” He screamed out, desperate to find her. It was getting cold, and a badass attitude and a hunting rifle could only keep you so warm.

It was so cold, Damien felt freezing cold, his teeth were chattering. “Celine! Where the devil are you‽ It’s fucking cold out here!”

His chest hurt, like something was twisting and constricting his heart. “Celine!”

“Dark?”

“Celine!” Damien called out. “Where are you?”

A hand lightly touched Damien’s shoulder, “Dark, are you okay? I’ve never seen you this out of sorts. Are you okay old sport?”

“Wil, I don’t have time for this!” Damien slapped William’s hand away. He turned around and something was wrong with William. He was dressed more than a little strange. “What— . . . What did you do to your mustache?”

William looked confused, scrunching up his nose and upper lip, pointing to the bright pink curled mustache. “My mustache has always been like this.”

Then he shook his head and held up a bouquet of pink flowers. “For you, my dear, I saw them and thought of you.”

Damien had a thousand conflicting thoughts buzzing through his head. That it wasn’t proper for William to give him flowers, that someone would see them like this. That when someone saw the flowers both his and Wil’s careers would be over, if they were lucky that would be all they would lose. Celine was still out there . . . but they were such little, silly things . . . they . . .

Dark shook his head, confused and started. He looked down at the axe in his hand. “Wilford, where am I?”

The reporter looked more than a little concerned for a second before he gave Dark a huge smile. “Well, I don’t know, Darky, but I brought you these flowers. Aren’t they nice?”

Delicately Dark took them and to his amazement the color held up against his aura, his aura trying to strip all the colors and devour them, but especially the pink color stubbornly stayed as bright and vibrant as before.

It hauntingly reminded Dark about something, Dark gently turned the bouquet around so he could inspect the flowers.

“Thank you,” Dark told him. The two exchanging a kiss.

Dark pulled around, only then realizing that Iplier was standing there. “Doctor, how long have you been there?”

Iplier looked like he was deciding what to say for a bit, shaking a bit from the cold, “Why don’t we get home? You two can talk there.”

Wil rolled his eyes, clapping his hands and they were standing in the entrance hall of the Manor, Iplier looking disorientated. “Hoo boy, is it drafty in here or what?”

Dark snapped his fingers and the Manor began to right itself, walking towards the stairs, “Well if the party’s over, I’m going back to work.”

Wil smiled, practically spinning on the spot. “Work on what? Can I help?”

Dark rolled his eyes, gesturing to the reporter with the bouquet, starting to walk up the stairs, “If you’re quiet and you let me work.”

There was a twinkle in Wil’s eyes, he gestured to himself, “What sort of ruffian do you take me for?”

One of Dark’s eyebrows arched up before he kept walking up the stairs, Wilford slowly following him, hands clasped behind his back, still smiling. The Manor righted in its twisted glory once again.

[atariince]

What do you think would have happened if Fingolfin had arrived un Hithlum and found his brother still living?

Hi and thank you for your very interesting question! I assume it is for the mun, but if it was for the muse, feel free to ask again – in any case here are the mun’s long considerations on that subject (enjoy), based on what we know of the characters, the situation, and of course on my headcanons.

[Usual disclaimer: Blahblah those assumptions are based on my reading of the texts, my interpretation and my headcanons  - therefore it’s totally okay to disagree (and I’d love to have your opinion), just don’t be a dick about it blahblah]

So what do we know? What does the published Silmarillion tell us about Fingolfin at that point?

First of all, at the end of chapter 9  “The flight of the Noldor”, we learn about Fingolfin’s (legitimate) “bitterness”, but also that the main motive behind his decision to cross the Helcaraxë is precisely this bitterness against Fëanor:

“Then Fingolfin seeing that Fëanor had left him to perish in Araman or return in shame to Valinor was filled with bitterness; but he desired now as ever before to come by some way to Middle-earth and meet Fëanor again.”

Now the question would be : Why? What exactly does he have to say to Fëanor? What would he do to him? Fight a duel? Kill him in cold blood? Yell at him? Or does Fingolfin just want to prove his half-brother that he and his people would not surrender so easily? That he and his people are stronger, nobler and much more resistant than Fëanor might have thought? (when you think of the pride of the Noldorin princes that would make real sense, tbh). 

And yet. 

What is the first thing Fingolfin did when he set foot upon Middle-earth?

He marched on fucking Angband.

When you come to think about it, it is quite surprising, right? He crossed the Ice to meet Fëanor, but although he doesn’t know yet that Fëanor’s dead (unless he met some Sindar before he reached Mithrim – aaaaaaaaand I’ll come back to that bit later), he first decides to knock on Morgoth’s gates. I did find it surprising for quite a long time. But, now I think I’ve come to understand it; Let’s return to this dear Noldorin pride, shall we? Fingolfin and his people have just accomplished a deed unprecedented in terms of resistance, survival, strength and determination. They’re to be admired. And Fingolfin must know it. How could he not acknowledge their own courage, how could he not be proud of their accomplishment?

And how do you think he would feel about the idea of showing up in front of Fëanor crowned not only with that exceptional accomplishment in the Helcaraxë… but also with the Silmarils?

Doesn’t it sound like a good way to avenge himself and his people?

It does make sense if he actually wanted to prove Fëanor that “Loook, I’m so much worthier than you’ll ever be. You might have left us to die, but in the end we found a way, and we didn’t only survive,  we also kicked Morgoth’s ass and recovered your stones. Suck my entire cock. bitch.” Well maybe he wouldn’t say it like this, but you see what I mean. Honestly, that’s just one of the ways to analyse his motives, and do you know what makes me think that’s part of his initial plan? This:

“Fingolfin unfurled his blue and silver banners and blew his horns (…) and the Elves smote upon the gates of Angband, and the challenge of their trumpets shook the towers of Thangorodrim.”

Obviously, it’s not like they try to pass quietly through the lands. Obviously they’re not betting on a surprise attack; Fingolfin and his people want to be heard, they want to be seen and acknowledged, they’re showing up as fuck and I do believe that they don’t simply want to challenge and impress Morgoth; the challenge and the impressive display is also a warning (?) for the Fëanorians. (Did it work? Spoilers: Pretty much.)

But Fingolfin eventually withdraws and goes to Mithrim because “he had heard tidings that there he should find the sons of Fëanor”… 

[in “The Grey Annals“ (The War of Jewels) Fingolfin learns about Fëanor’s death when he meets his sons in Mithrim. Nevermind.]

So, according to the Silm, when he marched on Angband he already knew Fëanor was dead. maybe that’s why he didn’t instantly try to find his nephews, and walked to Angband instead. Maybe not. Maybe the information about Fëanor’s demise increased his bitterness because:

1. His half brother died. I mean yes he thinks Fëanor’s a dick but STILL.

2. Morgoth’s troops must be freaking powerful if they managed to kill Fëanor - “Must see!”

3. “Who the fuck am I going to yell at if Fëanor is dead?”

So instead of drowning into his bitterness, he attacks. Not the Fëanorians, but Melkor. Best way to express your rightful anger, right? And of course, it’s also a strategic move: he needs to see by himself and test the defence of Angband.

In any case, he was prepared to deal with the sons of Fëanor since According to the Silmarillion, he didn’t learn about Fëanor’s death the moment he met Maglor, but long before. And that point doesn’t invalidate what I said: Since “Fingolfin held the sons the accomplices of their father”, they can also suck his entire cock. And it would still have been AWESOMe to show up with the Silmarils in one hand and Morgoth’s head in the other. YES. Even if Fëanor isn’t here to see it. It’s not as fun but it’s still fun. bitch. 

Aaaaand since he judged the sons “the accomplices of their father” I’m pretty sure he dealt with them more or less like he would have dealt with Fëanor. Therefore, with Fëanor alive, the situation at this point would have been pretty much the same ON FINGOLFIN’S SIDE, and probably his followers; “no love was there in the hearts of those that followed Fingolfin for the House of Fëanor”-> Fëanor, the sons, their people… I believe the presence of Fëanor in Mithrim wouldn’t have changed much of their reaction at this point.

But Fëanor’s reaction to his half-brother showing up would have probably led to a very interesting and tragic situation… which I can but try to imagine. 

Obviously, when Fingolfin marched forth against Angband with his trumpets and banners, the Fëanorians must have been quite impressed, completely dumbfounded and relatively horrified. That was something they had never expected. I’m certain Fëanor wouldn’t have been less impressed. And quite honestly, I also think he would have been very much admiring. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if Fëanor would have reconsidered his judgement and came up with much more respect for Fingolfin and his people (“maybe he’s not that useless after all.”) (I’m exaggerating, yes. But you get it.)

On the other hand, the presence of Fëanor in Mithrim wouldn’t have helped alleviate the tensions between the hosts. We know that “many of Fëanor’s people indeed repented of the burning at Losgar and were filled with amazement at the valour that had brought the friends whom they had abandoned over the Ice of the North”. Would they openly repent with Fëanor around? I’m not so sure. Moreover, “they would have welcomed them [Fingolfin’s people], but they dared not, for shame”. With Fëanor alive, it is not only shame which would have hindered them. As for Fëanor himself, if he repented (which he probably did, somehow. Maybe.), shame and pride and fear of treachery and his claim of the crown would have mingled into something pretty ugly and I’m fairly certain that he wouldn’t have even accepted to withdraw to the other side of the lake. Which would have obviously increased the tensions. Because remember: it’s not only about Fëanor and Fingolfin, but also about their respective followers… which were, well, numerous. And angry. And bitter.

Now, if you ask me: would Fingolfin have killed Fëanor? Attacked his people? I think not. Because if that was his plan he would have attacked the Fëanorians no matter what. And he would have done it with Fëanor dead. But he didn’t. He gave them a chance to repent and to make things better. 

But I believe that if Fëanor had been alive, the situation would have eventually escalated into an actual strife, if not war, but only after a moment, an accumulation of tensions. Little by little. Fingolfin would have done the exact same things, yes, but I doubt Fëanor would have had his sons’ reactions as they are depicted in the canon. Not only because Fëanor is Fëanor, but also because of the emotional state of the Fëanorians: in the canon, at this point, the Fëanorians are not only outnumbered, they’re also mourning. Their father is dead. Their brother, if he’s not dead, is being tortured. They’re not in a psychological position to challenge Fingolfin’s host. But with Fëanor alive (and Maedhros still with them), this very situation would have been different precisely because they would have felt stronger. More hopeful, somehow.

Now we must also keep in mind the intradiegetic bias ; Fingolfin is a revered king and most often he’s portrayed as the “good guy” in comparison to Fëanor who is the son of Finwë always associated with wrath. Therefore, the elven chroniclers would not portray Fingolfin as wrathful, if only for a question of relevant narratives rules (one character = one main personality trait -> I oversimplify the thing, but you see my point, right?). What I’m trying to say is that Fingolfin will always be portrayed as noble. We ought to see him as wise, and even when dealing with the worst (i.e.  the face to face combat with Morgoth) he must not be depicted like his wrathful half-brother (check the difference of treatment between the last fight of Fëanor and that of Fingolfin and you’ll see my point). And when you have that in mind, you can question most of the elements I’ve expressed so far.

Yup. That’s what unreliable narrations do. I love them.

Actually I do believe that there might have been some use of euphemisms in the depiction of the situation in the Quenta Silmarillion as we know it, and you just have to look at some older drafts to detect some hints; In The Grey Annals, it is not a peril of “strife” between the princes, but of ”war”, a semantic difference which is relevant, if you want my opinion… In the pre-LOTR Quenta Silmarillion, not only “there was little love between those that followed Fingolfin and the house ofFëanor”, but here again “their hearts were filled with bitterness”. The same bitterness that led Fingolfin through the Helcaraxë precisely to find Fëanor…? Maybe. And you know bitterness is a double-edged motive, right?

Besides, if the main reason Fingolfin crossed the Grinding Ice was to find Fëanor, you can be sure that the feud around the lake doesn’t only rely on bitterness. There must be anger, dismay, wrath and a little wish for revenge. And honestly, if it took the rescue of Maedhros +  the surrender of the crown by the Fëanorians (that is a complete humiliation) + the gift of their best horses to assuage the feud, then the latter must have been driven by something much heavier, much more dreadful than bitterness. It is not simply a political disagreement, they left them to FUCKING DIE. So thank you for the noble portrait of Fingolfin, but the guy must have felt much more revengeful than the narrator wants us to believe (and honestly, Fingolfin is probably one of the most interesting character to look at through the perspective of narrative bias).

But those are pure assumptions and I wouldn’t base my arguments on that… I just believe it is important to keep it mind. 

Another element that is essential (and that will be my last point), is that this episode exists from the very first draft of the Silmarillion (see the “Earliest Silmarillion” in The Shaping of Middle-earth, in which the main difference is that Fingolfin doesn’t march on Angrand after his arrival and goes directly to meet the House of Fëanor). This early existence implies that Fëanor’s death is crucial for the unfolding of the story, and it is crucial for it to happen at this point of the timeline – and when you come to think about it, it makes sense ; if Fëanor doesn’t die, Maedhros would have hardly been taken by Morgoth, so no rescue by Fingon, which is by essence, the tool that healed the feud between the two Noldorin hosts. Without Fingon’s rescue of Maedhros, you can be pretty sure the “peril of strife between the hosts” would have ended in an actual strife, with or without Fëanor - but with Fëanor, Maedhros would haven’t been captured, sooooooo…. No rescue, no peace. QED 

After all, don’t forget that “Morgoth arose from thought, and seeing the division of his foes he laughed” and the old pre-LOTR Quenta Silmarillion reminds us that “they achieved nothing” while the feud lasted, although Melkor was hesitating and thus was vulnerable… can you imagine the rest of the story if the Noldor couldn’t have put their bitterness and resentment aside to cooperate?  

Basically:

Fëanor survives -> no ambush -> no capture of Maedhros -> no rescue -> no healing of the feud -> no cooperation between the Noldorin princes -> no agreement as to who would be the king -> more tensions (war?) -> victory of Morgoth through the Noldors’ own incapacity to work together…

[whydoyouwantmyname]

Imagine everyone realizing...

A/N: all the italics are lyrics from the song Tear in my Heart by Twenty One Pilots

My heart is my armor She’s the tear in my heart The songs on the radio are okay,

But my taste of music is your face,

Sam didn’t realize Dean was in love with you until he was sitting in the back of the impala, driving to the first case they had ever taken you on. It was easy, a simple salt and burn, one that Dean thought the researcher would love to go on.

A normal car ride consisted of two things, snacks and rock n roll. And while there were plenty of snacks in the car, the speakers were dead. Not a single musical note filled the space, however it wasn’t silence that met the boys ears, rather your laughter as you and Dean just talked the whole way. Sam would chime in on occasion but he more enjoyed watching the way Dean would glance at you ever so often, or how he would smile when you would, or how he never once went to turn on the radio. He seemed completely content with the fact that your voice was the sole thing radiating throughout the small enclosed area of the impala.

You fell asleep in my car I drove the whole time

But that’s okay I’ll just avoid the holes so you sleep fine

I’m driving here I sit

Cursing my government

For not using my taxes to fill holes with more cement

Castiel didn’t realize Dean was in love with you either until you were all in the Impala, in front were the Winchester boys, in the back a wide awake Castiel and you. You, however, were fast asleep, your head rested against the window, your breathing shallow, and your eyelids fluttering. Every few minutes Cas would catch Dean continuously glancing up into the rearview mirror and his lips would grow wide in a smile at the site of your sleeping form leaning against the window.

However his smile soon turned into curses once he hit a bumpy patch of road, “ what the fuck is with this town! Wouldn’t you think if the road was this bad the town workers or somebody would invest in fixing it!?”

“Dean, we have driven on much worse...” Sam started however his statement was cut short at the sound of your head bouncing off of the glass and slight groan exiting your perfectly pouted lips.

“You okay Sunshine?” Dean asked as you slowly sat up straight, sleep still present in your eyes as you replied.

“I was until this dumbass road made my head bounce of the window.”

“Well we will be the Motel soon, then you can take the perfect nap.” He smiled in reply, before Cas whispered, “If you would like you can sleep upon my shoulder, I saw it in a movie once.”

“Thanks Cas.” You smiled before you leaned down, sleep taking you back over in seconds as Cas continued to look at the sky. However he couldn’t help but notice in the corner of his eye the look Dean was giving him in the Rearview. And it was then that it all made sense.

Sometimes you gotta bleed to know That you’re alive and have a soul But it takes someone to come around To show you how

Crowley sat in the bar, his drink in hand, and his brand new knight of Hell at his side. He watched the knight battle against the local village idiots in a game of darts, each victim falling prey to Dean’s hard eyes and devilish grin. Even the woman were not safe from the harsh, care free attitude of Dean, being a demon suited him, or at least Crowley thought so. That was until Dean’s phone came to life, and this time Crowley wasn’t there to press ignore, cause just by the way Dean’s harsh features softened, and he began to look as he did before the black eyes, he knew it was you.

Dean withdrew from the game, leaving a twenty on the table as the reward for beating him at his own game. His finger lingered over the talk button for a second, but soon the callused pad of his thumb suffocated the button, and the phone was to his ear. 

“Hello Beautiful.” He said, his voice not as gruff, he appeared to be calming, as he slowly sat beside the king.

“I told ya, I don’t want you...”

“I know, but....”

The king could tell you were arguing with him about finding him, wanting to know where he was so that you could infect his veins with purified blood. As you argued though, Crowley took note of how Dean’s temper was, if any other citizen of the bar acted that way with him, that citizen, male or female, would have been thrown, or at least tasted the sharp tongue of the eldest Winchester. However with you, he was calm, and almost smiling just at the sound of your voice, demanding he come back to you and his brother.

“Listen [Y/N],” Crowley heard him whisper over the sound of his own thoughts, “You know I would come back to ya if I could, but we both have seen what this mark can do, and I refuse to have you get hurt from it.”

Then Crowley remembered the way Dean behaved when Sam called, he screamed, and fought and was not as calm and loving as he was right now. It almost seemed like he was talking to just some stranger when Sam called, but with you it was like he was talking to some long lost.....

And that was when Crowley Realized......

My heart is my armor She’s the tear in my heart 

Dean didn’t realize until it was too late.....

Amara was in full swing, her power was growing, along with her obsession with the one and only Dean Winchester. 

Dean might have been fighting his feelings towards you, but Amara could see that he was losing that battle, and so were you, she could see that you both were meant for each other, the perfect balance for one another, true Soulmates, and even though you both denied the urges to move forward, Amara could see that if she truly wanted to be Dean’s sole obsession, she would have to rid of you.

It was a basic hunt, some vengeful spirits were creating havoc in a local hotel. You and the boys figured it would be a nice break from the whole Amara mess, since not even Chuck could figure out how to stop her. 

“We split up, Dean take the ground floor, Sammy takes second, Cas takes the top, and I’ll take the basement. We find anything, we radio in on these.” You instructed as you handed out the walkie talkies you bought. 

“And why do we need these?” Cas asked, “Why can we not just use our cellular devices. or our voices?”

“Because, I think they will make us look cool.” You smiled

“Or like those freaks on Ghost Facers.” Sam joked as you shot him a look

“Well sweetheart, I think they look amazing.” Dean chimed in, thinking it was very cute how you were taking charge of this case, and how much you have grown as a person since they had first met you. 

“Thank you Dean, now let’s go find some ghosties.” You smiled before entering the empty hotel, each of you going to your assigned floor. 

The basement was dark, and a cold breeze drafted through the small, damp space, as you swept over the darkness with your small beam of yellow-orange light. You slowly moved across the concrete floor, making sure not to disrupt anything in case...

“Hello [Y/N].” A light voice sounded, the darkness completely surrounding the source of it, but you knew exactly whom it belonged to.

“Amara.” You replied, “Always a pleasure to hear from you, tell me will you be smiting any angels today?”

“No, but after this I will be making love to the Eldest when I am done here.” She taunted, before lifting her hand, and using every force of power she had to throw you against the wall, several metal pieces falling from the shelf above you, clanging against the flooring. You tried with all you might to move, yet she was pinning you to the wall and floor, as she strolled towards you, her dress trailing behind her as she raised her fingers to her chin. 

“How upsetting, I don’t see what Dean ever saw in you, I am not even using all of my powers and yet you still can’t get out of my hold. Face it [Y/N] you are weak.”

“And you are a bitch.” You spewed.

“Well see, I wouldn’t have to be a bitch if you had just stayed away from the Winchester boys, and I wouldn’t have had to make this fake story of ghosts in  a hotel to lure you all here. But this moment was inevitable, since your soul and Dean’s soul have always been bonded, longing for each other, as the flesh denies their needs. Tell me, when did you first realize you were weak in the knees for my emerald eyed prince?”

“He is not yours, and he will NEVER be yours.” You hissed, “Not while Sammy and I are...”

“And that my dear is why I am here. You are the only rock in my path, and in order to clear my path to world domination, and to Dean’s heart I must remove you, which is a shame. I think if the story line was different we could have been great friends.” 

“Go to Hell.” You hissed, before your whole vision went dark, and though you could no longer hear her, after the echo of the crack died away Amara whispered, “No darling, you go to hell.”

“Third is clear.”

“Second is clear.”

“First is clear.” 

The three men’s voices one at a time came over their walkie before they all gathered on the first floor, sitting among the stairs to discuss where the spirits could be, and waiting for the one feminine voice to echo out of the old speakers. Dean’s gut twisting as though he already knew something was wrong, every second bringing another knot to his fear and worry, and after 120 seconds, he took off toward the basement door without a word, the other two trying to protest as he raced down the creaking wooden stairs.

“[Y/N]” He shouted once he hit the hard concrete, not caring what came for him. He swung his own yellow beam around the darkness, until it reflected back at him when it hit upon a out of place copper vase. He slowly approached as his light remained fixated on it, and once it had been reached he slowly trailed his light forward, until his light illuminated a single, light brown, leather, lace up boot, which looked identical to the pair you were wearing when you left the bunker with the guys that morning. Dean’s feet moved faster then before, his knees hitting the ground as his flashlight dropped beside him. His hands met your face as the tears began to pool, the panic in his body swelling up as he softly pleaded for you to wake up, to move, to do anything. 

He was so consumed in his own mind, that he failed to notice the light of the other flashlights, or the fact that your eyes weren’t closed, but just cloudy, or that your neck had been broken. All he knew was that you weren’t waking up, and the core of his soul shattered at the fact that the love of his life never got to hear him confess his love.

PART TWO!!!!

[secretlyafrogman]

Title: Eight Legged Freak

Characters: Crowley, Reader

Pairings: None

Genre: Comedy

Synopsis: When a spider invades your room, it’s up to Crowley to save you. But what if he gives you more than you asked for?

A/N: I’ve had this in my drafts for over a year and I had to write the ending today since I never finished it. My Crowley muse has kind of disappeared since I haven’t even watched Supernatural in almost 8 months, but I gave it my best shot since so many people wanted me to post it. 

This will probably be my last Supernatural fic for quite some time. But I hope it’s a good way to go out. 

I should also warn there are some gifs of spiders underneath the cut. One that might scare some people. I just wanna give a heads up. 

Hope you enjoy! 

Of all the places that you could be, being locked in the bathroom while being home by yourself wasn’t exactly an ideal one. 

Of course, this isn’t where you wanted to be. You wanted to be out binge watching your favorite show on Netflix while curled up in your nice and warm bed eating ice cream and drinking a soda. In fact, that’s exactly what you had been doing five minutes ago. But then that giant spider had crawled up your wall and decided to hang right on your ceiling right above your bed. And judging from the looks of him, you knew he was out to get you the moment you laid eyes on him. 

Just to be clear, you hated spiders. Hated them with every fiber of your being. You would never be willing to sell your soul to a demon, but if you did your one wish is that all spiders would burn in eternal hell fire. You knew how silly that sounded in your head, but dammit, you didn’t care. Spiders were the bane of your existence. And it seemed that every spider knew it because they would always pop in at the worst times the scare the hell out of you. Case and point: the eight legged monster that was now on your ceiling probably waiting for you to come back out so it could drop down on you and murder you in cold blood. 

So now here you were, locked in the bathroom and sitting on the edge of your bathtub with your cell phone in your hands. Oh, how you didn’t want to make the call that you were about to make. How you didn’t want to admit to the one person who would never let you live it down that you needed his help more than ever right now. But seeing as he was out of the house and you refused to  leave the bathroom until the spider situation was resolved, you truly didn’t have much of a choice. 

Letting out a sigh of defeat, you scrolled through your contacts and called Crowley’s cell phone. Placing it to your ear, you heard it ring once... twice... and for a moment you weren’t sure if he was going to answer at all. But then you heard the other end connect. 

“This is the King of Hell.”

“I know who you are.” You muttered through gritted teeth as you glanced at the crack of the door to make sure that the little fucker wasn’t trying to crawl under it. 

���Y/N, darling. You sound stressed. Whatever could be the problem and why am I not causing it?” 

“Now is not the time to mock me!” You nearly yelled as you let out a deep breath to try and calm your escalating nerves. “I need your help.”

Silence for a few moments and if you knew Crowley well enough, he was probably smirking to himself. 

“So the big, bad huntress needs MY help. The King of Hell. I never thought this day would come.” 

“Don’t get used to it.” Getting up from the tub, you made your way over to the bathroom door. You barely cracked it and glanced up at the ceiling, still seeing the spider in exactly the same spot as before. Shuddering, you closed the door back and locked it tightly. “Can you teleport to my bathroom really quickly?”

“Y/N, who knew that you yearned for me that much. If I knew you needed that kind of help I would have worn a much nicer suit. No matter. I’ll make sure to be nice and gentle. But I must warn you, love. Are you sure you can take my rod?”

“CROWLEY!” You screamed into the phone as a few seconds later he appeared by the bathroom door. “You’re such an ass!”

“That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” Brushing off his suit, he looked around the bathroom in utter disgust. 

“Really, love. So many bright colors. I should help you in redecorating.”

“I don’t complain about your interior decorating and you’re not going to complain about mine.” You grumbled as you walked past him and went to the door. You opened it wider this time and looked up, noticing the spider was now gone. Your voice jumped a few octaves as you opened your mouth in shock. “Fuck... It’s gone...”

Your eyes began to scan the room frantically as you tried to find where the spider had wandered off to. Little fucker. Probably knew that it’s fate was sealed as soon as Crowley appeared and ran away because of it. But it would be back. You knew it would. And that’s why until it was, you were going to make sure Crowley stayed to ensure that it was dead and gone. But how to make Crowley stay? Now that was the million dollar question...

“Y/N?”

Your thoughts were shattered as you jumped and turned to face Crowley who has a scowl on his face. 

“You know that I don’t like being called away when I’m torturing Abaddon supporters.”

“That’s what you’ve been doing?” You asked in bewilderment. “Really, Crowley. Is that what gets you off?”

“I was actually hoping that since you needed my help in your bathroom that you would be the one doing that.” He mocked with a sick smirk on his face. 

You rolled your eyes. “First off: Ew. Second: I really did need you. But there’s an issue.”

“And what might that be.”

“The little demon is gone.”

“Demon?” Crowley questioned as he raised an eyebrow. “There’s no demon here except I. I would be able to sense them if they were nearby.”

“No, not an actual demon.” You sighed, reaching up and running a hand through your hair. “It’s more like a...”

“Spit it out or I’m leaving.”

“There’s a damn giant ass spider in my room who’s trying to kill me and I need it dead...”

Crowley was silent for a long moment. You gave him a weak smile to try and judge how he was feeling, but all he did was narrow his eyes at you.

“You pulled me away from a torture session to take care of a spider?”

“... Yep.”

“You know that if you and I were not friends right now that I would snap you out of existence.”

“Crowley, I...”

Crowley raised a finger to silence you. Walking out into your bedroom, you watched him raise his hand and snap his fingers. A small puff of ash escaped from under your bed as the spider that was was now no more. 

A large sigh of relief left your mouth as you walked out of the bathroom while raising your arms above your head to stretch, only now realizing just how tense the entire situation had left you. “Thanks, Crowley.”

“I wouldn’t thank me just yet.” He responded with annoyance and frustration dripping from the tone of his voice. “Did you really think I would just let you get away with calling me for something so childish and stupid?”

“Crowley, it wasn’t childish OR stupid! I would have been stuck in the bathroom had you not come. I...”

Your words seemed to fall on deaf ears. Before you could finish explaining yourself, Crowley had snapped his fingers and disappeared. 

‘Great.’ You thought as you crawled back into bed. Who knew what Crowley had in store for you...

---

The sound of repetitive tapping woke you up later that night. Opening your eyes groggily, you flipped on your bedside table and began to scan the room for whatever it was making the sound. Then your eyes fell on it. 

A terrarium. Or at least that’s what you assumed it to be. It was rather large with some leafs and branches thrown about inside as well as a hollow log that sat in the corner. You could vaguely see what appeared to be crickets jumping about inside, but nothing more. 

Grumbling to yourself, you threw the covers off of you and wandered over to inspect it. 

‘Is this Crowley’s idea of a joke? What the hell is he getting at getting me a terrarium full of crickets? How is this supposed to... wait... what the hell is that large thing in the corner...’

A scream. A blood curdling scream exited your mouth and you backed away from the terrarium faster than you ever thought you could move. 

From downstairs, you could hear Crowley call up to you in a singsong voice that sounded too pleased for your panicked self. 

“No worries, love. Annabelle isn’t venomous. I’ve had her for some time now. I just thought that maybe you would like to take care of her.”

“Bullshit!” You screamed at the top of your lungs. “Is this some kind of fucking joke!? You know I can’t stand spiders and you give me a tarantula!?”

“You can’t stand them? Oh, dear. It seems that I had forgotten about that. How could I be so insensitive?” 

You could hear the sarcasm dripping from each word. 

“Crowley, get this damn thing out of here! I don’t want it!”

“Well, if you can’t stand them maybe this will help you conquer your fear. I am your friend, after all. And what friend doesn’t help others with their problems?”

“I fucking hate you!”

“Love you too, darling.”